The Paris Library(9)

I wanted to say I was sorry, but he rushed off, not waiting for a response.





CHAPTER 3

Odile




PARIS, FEBRUARY 1939

THE SHADOW OF Saint-Augustin church loomed over Maman, Rémy, and me as we set forth from yet another dull Sunday service. Released from the oppressive grasp of incense, I sucked in icy gales of air, relieved to be away from the priest and his gloomy sermon. Maman prodded us along the sidewalk, past Rémy’s second favorite bookshop, past the boulangerie with the broken-hearted baker who burned the bread, through the threshold of our building.

“Which one is it today, Pierre or Paul?” she fretted. “Whoever he is, he’ll be here any minute. Odile, don’t you dare scowl. Of course, Papa wants to get to know these men.… Not all of them work at his precinct. One might be a perfect suitor for you.”

Another lunch with an unsuspecting policeman. It was awkward when a man showed an interest in me, mortifying when he showed none.

“And change into your blouse! I can’t believe you wore that faded smock to church. What will people think?” she said before rushing to the kitchen to check on the roast.

In the foyer, at the mirror with the chipped gilding, I re-braided my auburn hair; Rémy ran a dab of barber cream through his unruly curls. In French families, Sunday lunch was a ritual every bit as sacred as Mass, and Maman insisted that we look our best.

“How would Dewey classify this lunch?” Rémy asked.

“That’s easy—841. A Season in Hell.”

He laughed.

“How many underlings has Papa invited so far?”

“Fourteen,” he said. “I bet they’re afraid to tell him no.”

“Why don’t you have to go through this torture?”

“Because no one cares when men get married.” With an impish grin, he snatched my scarf and pulled the scratchy wool over his head, knotting it under his chin the way our mother did. “Ma fille, women have a short shelf life.”

I giggled. He always knew how to cheer me up.

“The way you’re going,” he continued in Maman’s shrill manner, “you’ll be on the shelf forever!”

“A library shelf, if I get the job.”

“When you get the job.”

“I’m not sure…”

Rémy slipped off the scarf. “You have a library degree, you speak English fluently, and you got high marks at your internship. I have faith in you; have faith in yourself.”

A knock at the door. We opened it to find a blond policeman in a peacoat. I braced myself—last week’s protégé had greeted me by rubbing his greasy jowls against my face.

“I’m Paul,” this one said. He barely touched his cheeks to mine.

“Pleasure to meet you both,” he said as he shook Rémy’s hand. “I’ve heard good things about you.”

He seemed sincere, but I had trouble believing Papa had said anything remotely positive about either of us. All we heard about were Rémy’s dismal grades (Yet he was best debater in his law class!) and my lackluster housekeeping (“How can you sleep on a bed that has books all over it?”).

“I’ve looked forward to today all week,” the protégé told Maman.

“A home-cooked meal will do you good,” she said. “We’re glad you’re here.”

Papa thrust his guest into the armchair near the fireplace, then served the aperitif (vermouth for the men, sherry for the women). While Maman flitted from the seat near her beloved ferns to the kitchen, making sure the maid carried out her instructions, Papa presided from his Louis XV–style chair, his broom-shaped mustache sweeping assertions from his mouth. “Who needs these ch?meurs intellectuels? I say let the ‘intellectual unemployed’ compose their prose while working in the mines. What other country distinguishes between smart loafers and dim ones? My tax money at work!” Each Sunday, the suitor changed; Papa’s long-winded lecture never did.

Once again, I explained, “No one’s forcing you to support artists and writers. You can choose ordinary postage stamps or those with a small surtax.”

Next to me on the divan, Rémy crossed his arms. I could read his mind: Why do you bother?

“I’ve never heard of that program,” Papa’s protégé said. “When I write home, I’ll ask for those stamps.”

Perhaps this one wasn’t as bad as the rest.

Papa turned to Paul. “Our colleagues are having a hell of a time with the detention camps near the border. All these refugees pouring in—soon there’ll be more Spaniards in France than in Spain.”

“There’s a civil war,” Rémy said. “They need help.”

“They’re helping themselves to our country!”

“What are innocent civilians to do?” Paul asked Papa. “Remain home and be butchered?”

For once, my father didn’t have a reply. I considered our guest. Not the short hair that stuck straight up, nor the blue eyes that matched his uniform, but his strength of character and serene fearlessness in standing up for his beliefs.

“With all the political upheaval,” Rémy said, “one thing’s sure. War is coming.”