Джанет Скеслин Чарльз - The Paris Library

“Odile!” Mom exclaimed, her gaze twitching toward me.

“Next to them in the hospital ward, during the war.”

At 9:00 p.m., the back door creaked. Dad coming home. Odile crept from the cot to the kitchen. Tiptoeing behind her, I plastered myself to the paneling in the hall.

“Your wife needs you; so does your daughter,” Odile said.

“Brenda says seeing me so miserable makes her feel like she’s already dead.”

“That’s why she won’t let friends visit?”

“She can’t stand the tears, even if they’re for her. She doesn’t want pity. I wanted to be there for her, but now I figure it’s best to give her the distance she wants.”

“You don’t want to have any regrets.” Mrs. Gustafson’s tone had turned from tart to tender. Like a mom’s.

“If only it were up to me.”

Down the hall, Mom coughed. Was she awake? Did she need me? I rushed to her room. Suddenly scared, I stopped at the foot of the bed. Behind me, Dad said, “Brenda, honey?”

Odile nudged me toward Mom, but I resisted, my shoulder blades pushing against her palms. Mom reached out. I was scared to take her hand, I was scared not to. She hugged me, but I stayed stiff in her arms.

“There’s so little time,” she said, her words whispery, “too little time. Be brave…”

I tried to say I would, but fear stole my voice. After a long moment, she pushed my body from hers and looked at me. Trapped in Mom’s mournful stare, I remembered things she’d said: Babies sleep through the love. A gaggle of geese, a murder of crows. People are awkward, they don’t know what to do or say. Don’t hold it against them; we never know what’s in their hearts. I wanted you to be Robin but you’re Lily. Oh, Lily.

CHAPTER 5

Odile

PARIS, MARCH 1939

MADEMOISELLE REEDER RANG,” Maman told me as Rémy and I walked in the door. “She wants to see you.”

Turning to Rémy, I saw my whirl of hope and relief reflected in his eyes.

“Are you certain taking a job is a good idea?” Maman asked me.

“Certain.” I hugged her.

Rémy gave me his green satchel. “For luck. And for the books you’ll be bringing home.”

Rushing to the Library before Miss Reeder could change her mind, I sprinted through the courtyard and up the spiral stairs, then slid to a stop at the threshold of her office, where she sat reviewing documents, silver pen in hand. Eyes tired, lipstick long gone, she looked peaked. It was after 7:00 p.m. She gestured for me to be seated.

“I’m finalizing the budget.” As a private institution, she explained the Library did not receive government funds—it relied on trustees and donors for everything, from buying books to paying for heat.

“But you won’t need to worry about that.” She closed the folder. “Professor Cohen speaks highly of you, and I’m impressed with you. Let’s talk about the job. The fact is, we’ve hired candidates who haven’t been able to continue for one reason or another, so we ask employees to sign a two-year contract.”

“Why didn’t they stay?”

“Some were foreign, France simply too far from home. Others found dealing with the public difficult. As you wrote in your letter, the Library’s a haven; staff works hard to make sure it remains so.”

“I believe I can handle it.”

“The salary’s modest. Is that a problem?”

“Not at all.”

“One last thing. Staff takes turns working weekends.”

No more Mass or suitors? “I want to work Sundays!”

“The position is yours,” she said solemnly.

I jumped up. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

“Thank you, I won’t let you down!”

She winked mischievously. “No bashing in subscribers’ heads!”

I laughed. “I won’t make promises I can’t keep.”

“You start tomorrow,” she said, and returned to the budget.

I dashed out, hoping to catch Rémy before he left for his political rally, and slammed into him on the sidewalk.

“You came!”

“What’s the verdict?” he asked. “You were in there forever.”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Same difference,” he grumbled.

“I got the job!”

“Told you!”

“I thought you’d be at your rally,” I said.

“Some things are more important.”

“You’re the president. They need you.”

He covered my foot with his. “And I need you. Without toi , there’s no moi .”

AT HOME, I entered the sitting room, where Maman was knitting me a scarf.

“Well?” She set aside her needles.

“I’m a librarian!” I drew her up and waltzed her around the room.

ONE-two-three.

BOOKS-independence-happiness.

“Congratulations, ma fille ,” she said. “I’ll bring Papa around, I promise.”

Intending to prepare for work, I went to my room to review my Dewey Decimal notes. Yesterday, in the Luxembourg Gardens, I saw several 598 (birds). Someday, I’ll learn 469 (Portuguese).… Was there a number for love? If I had my very own number, what would it be?

I thought about Aunt Caro—it was she who first introduced me to the Dewey Decimal system. How I’d loved sitting on her lap during Story Hour as a child! Years later, when I was nine, she introduced me to the card catalog, an unusual piece of wooden furniture made of tiny drawers, each with a letter on it.

“Inside, you’ll find the secrets of the universe.” Aunt Caro opened the N drawer to reveal dozens and dozens of stock cards. “Each has information that will open entire worlds. Why don’t you take a peek? I bet you’ll find a treat.”

I peered inside. Flipping through the cards, I came across a candy. “Nougat!”

She taught me how to find the next clue, a call number that would lead us to the section, to the shelf, to the exact book. A treasure hunt!

Aunt Caro had the tiniest waist and the biggest brain. Like Maman’s, her eyes were periwinkle, but while my mother’s had faded like one of Papa’s navy dress shirts, Aunt Caro’s were bright with life. As a reader, she was an omnivore, devouring science, math, history, plays, and poetry. Her bookshelves ran over, so her vanity table was a mixture of pink blush and Dorothy Parker, mascara and Montaigne. Her armoire held Horace and high heels, stockings and Steinbeck. Her love of books and her love for me imbued my being like the amber scent of Shalimar she dabbed behind our ears.

Memories of Aunt Caro reminded me why I needed the job.

ON MY FIRST DAY, I felt more nervous than I had at the interview. What if I disappointed Miss Reeder? What if someone asked a question I couldn’t answer? If only Aunt Caro were still with us. I’d have told her not to come on my first day, but she would have anyway. Laden with Shelley and Blake, she would have winked at me, and my nervousness would have melted away as I remembered what she’d said—the answers were here, one simply had to seek.

“Introductions,” the Directress said briskly, and presented Boris Netchaeff, the urbane Franco-Russian head librarian, impeccable as always in his blue suit and tie. At the circulation desk, subscribers lined up to pass before him the way they did their parish priest—for communion, for a private word. The glint in his green eyes never dimmed, not even when he listened to subscribers’ long-winded stories. He knew where to procure the finest clothing (“My man at the Bazar de l’Hôtel de Ville won’t steer you wrong.”) as well as what to look for when purchasing a horse. Stern Mrs. Turnbull said he was an aristocrat who’d owned a stable of purebreds. Mr. Pryce-Jones said Boris had been in the Russian army. There were as many rumors as books in the Library.

Boris was famous for his bibliotherapy. He knew which books would mend a broken heart, what to read on a summer day, and which novel to choose for an adventurous escape. The first time I’d returned to the Library without Aunt Caro, ten years ago now, the tall stacks seemed to close in on me. The titles embossed on the spines of stories didn’t speak to me like they usually did. I found myself with tears in my eyes, staring at a blur of books.