The Paris Library(90)

“More than anything.”

The cadence of the Library took over, and we spent the day solving puzzles. (Where can I find information on Camille Claudel? What is the history of Cleveland?) I kept my hand in my pocket, on Rémy’s last letter. I had the whole thing memorized, but as the last subscribers left for the day, one line came flooding back: Don’t let this war separate you and Paul.

I rang the precinct. “I’m free! Come to the Library.”

As I paced the courtyard, the Countess approached. “I’ve tried to deliver books to Professor Cohen twice, but she hasn’t been home. Could you try now?”

“I have plans with someone tonight. May I tomorrow?”

“I suppose,” she said indulgently. “Does this someone have ‘A lean cheek… a blue eye’?”

“Yes.” I recognized the line and added, “but not an ‘unquestionable spirit.’?”

She continued on, under the acacias, their whispering leaves illuminated by the dull light of the streetlamps. I remembered another line from As You Like It, “these trees shall be my books, / And in their barks my thoughts I’ll character.”

When Paul arrived, I slid into his embrace.

“I’m so sorry about your brother,” he said.

I nestled closer.

“I tried to visit,” he said. “Your mother’s a dragon.”

“The war’s changed her.”

“It’s changed everyone.”

I didn’t want to think about war, of the loved ones we’d lost, of my beloved Rémy. On the way home, I asked, “How’s work?”

“Bizarre.”

The question used to be banal, but now it felt like a loaded gun. As we strolled, I asked after his aunt (I knew not to mention his mother), but he didn’t answer. I asked if his colleague had returned from sick leave. No reply.

“Is everything all right?”

We stopped. I could see he wanted to say something.

“Tell me.”

“A few days ago… well… Your father says what we’re doing—”

“My father?” I said. “What does he have to do with anything?”

Paul shrugged and stalked off.

I caught up to him. “What’s wrong?”

He stared straight ahead. “Why should there be anything wrong?”



* * *




THE FOLLOWING DAY, for the first time, Paul didn’t stop in at the Library on his rounds. I hoped that nothing had happened to him. At work, he dealt with all kinds. He’d broken up more than one drunken brawl, and black-marketeers had been known to cudgel policemen who tried to seize their ill-gotten gains. Distracted by my worry, I forgot about the books I was supposed to deliver to Professor Cohen and went straight home.

For the second evening in a row, Paul didn’t come. At closing time, I tucked the novels for Professor Cohen into my satchel. Climbing the escargot stairs, I expected to hear her typing away, but there was only an eerie hush. I knocked. “Professor?”

Nothing.

I put my ear to the door. Silence.

I knocked louder. “Professor? It’s Odile.”

Where could she be at this time of night? Was she visiting someone, or had something happened to her? Perhaps she’d gone to the country to see her niece. But she hadn’t mentioned any travel plans. Perhaps she’d had a malaise, though despite the deprivations, she’d remained hardy. I knocked again, then waited twenty more minutes before trudging home.

At work the next morning, I told Boris, “For the first time, the professor didn’t answer her door. I didn’t know what to do. Should I have called someone? Should I return today?”

I expected him to tell me that I was fretting for nothing, but he said, “Let’s go now.”

On the way, he confided that three Jewish subscribers to whom he delivered books had disappeared. We didn’t know what to make of it. Had they fled Paris, and the menacing watch of the Nazis, or had something happened to them?

When we arrived, Boris knocked; I called out, “Professor! It’s Odile,” but no one responded.



* * *




WHEN PAUL STAYED away for another week, I was devastated. Aunt Caroline had lost Uncle Lionel; Margaret had lost Lawrence. Perhaps Paul had lost interest in me. Since my family had received word about my brother, I hadn’t been good company. I was teary-eyed and had trouble concentrating on what people were saying. Perhaps Paul was with someone else. Paris was crawling with eager women. I remembered the time we’d strolled past cafés full of Soldaten and their girls, how he stared at the harlots in low-cut blouses.

At dusk, when I left the Library, Paul was waiting. Relieved, I moved to embrace him, but he held me at arm’s length.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

He didn’t meet my gaze. “Don’t be angry.”

I knew it. He was going to break my heart.

“I’m sorry I haven’t come by more, especially since you found out about Rémy. It’s just work. It’s been horrible.”

What? All this wasn’t about some hussy, it was about his job? I felt terrible for doubting him.

“I’m glad you’re here.” I reached up to caress his hair, but he ducked his head.