Джанет Скеслин Чарльз - The Paris Library

Looking concerned, Boris drew near. “Your aunt didn’t bring you?” he said. “We haven’t seen her in a while.”

“She won’t be coming back.”

He selected a book from the shelf. “It’s about family, and loss. And how we can have happy moments even when we’re down.”

I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning to sail my ship.

Little Women was still one of my favorites.

“Boris started here as a page—a sort of library apprentice—and knows absolutely everything about the ALP,” Miss Reeder said.

He shook my hand. “You’re a subscriber.”

I nodded, pleased to be recognized. Before I could respond, she whisked me to the reading room, where we approached a woman writing near the window. Gray hair framed her face, black glasses balanced on the tip of her nose. Before her, books on Elizabethan England covered the table. Miss Reeder introduced the trustee, Countess Clara de Chambrun. I knew her name. I’d recently finished Playing with Souls , one of her novels. A countess and a real-life writer!

“Researching another book on the bard?” the Directress asked. “Why don’t you use my office?”

“No need for special treatment! I’m a subscriber like anyone else.”

The Countess’s accent was most definitely not French, nor was it British. Did America have countesses? The mystery would have to be solved another day. The Directress steered me toward the periodical room, which was to be my post. On the way, she introduced her secretary Mademoiselle Frikart (French-Swiss), the bookkeeper Miss Wedd (British), and the shelver Peter Oustinoff (American).

I surveyed the long shelves that held fifteen dailies and three hundred periodicals from America, England, France, Germany, and countries as far away as Japan. When Miss Reeder told me that I’d also be responsible for the bulletin board, the newsletter, and the ALP News column in the Herald , I panicked, thinking there was no possible way I could manage it all.

“You know,” she said, “I started in this section, and look where I am now.”

We enjoyed a moment of complicity as we watched subscribers read, heads bowed, books held reverently in their hands.

Mr. Pryce-Jones approached. He reminded me of a spry crane sporting a paisley bow tie. With him was a subscriber who resembled a walrus with bushy white whiskers. “Hello, gentlemen, please welcome the newest addition to our staff,” Miss Reeder said before returning to her office.

“Thank you for the advice about laying out an argument,” I told Mr. Pryce-Jones.

“Glad you got the job,” he said, his bow tie bobbling. Gesturing to his friend, he added, “This conniving journalist is Geoffrey de Nerciat. He thinks the Library’s copy of the Herald belongs to him.”

“Spreading lies again, old boy?” asked Monsieur de Nerciat. “That’s all you diplomats are good for.”

“I’m Odile Souchet, librarian and referee,” I joked.

“Where’s your whistle?” Mr. Pryce-Jones asked. “With us, you’ll need one.”

“Our shouting matches are legendary,” M. de Nerciat bragged.

“The only person who can bellow louder than us is the Countess.”

“Which we learned when she managed to insert herself between us and insisted we take our differences outside.” The Frenchman gazed at Clara de Chambrun.

“Quite scared me! Thought she was going to take me by the ear.”

M. de Nerciat grinned. “That fine lady can take me anywhere she likes.”

“Doubt her husband would agree to that.”

“And him a general! Better watch my step.”

The duo continued to spar; I put out the dailies and familiarized myself with the magazines. Soon I was lost in the tables of contents, my mind full of history, fashion, and current events.

“Mademoiselle? Odile?”

Deep in the fog of work, I barely heard.

“Excuse me. Mademoiselle?”

I felt a hand on my upper arm. Glancing up, I saw Paul.

He looked dashing in the uniform of les hirondelles , the swallows, policemen who patrolled on bicycle. His navy-blue cape emphasized his broad chest. He must have come directly from work.

Once, when I was reading on a gusty day in the park, the wind took hold of the pages and I lost my spot. Paul made my heart flutter like those pages rushing past.

Then a horrific thought occurred to me: What if Papa had sent him?

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

“I’m not here because of you.”

“Didn’t think you were,” I lied.

“Many tourists ask the police for directions. I need a book to improve my English.”

“Did my father tell you I got the job?”

“I heard him grumbling about uppity women.”

“Following up on a clue,” I said tartly. “He’ll soon make you lead detective. Just what you want.”

“You’ve no idea what I want.” He drew a nosegay from his messenger bag. “These are to wish you well on your first day.”

I should have thanked him by kissing him on each cheek, but I felt shy and buried my nose in the blooms. My favorite flowers, daffodils held the promise of spring.

“Shall I help you find some books?”

“It’ll be good practice to find them on my own.” He held up a library card. “I plan on spending time here.”

Paul strode toward the reference room, leaving me adrift in the aisle. His card had been newly issued. Perhaps he’d come for me.

Over the course of the morning, most subscribers waited patiently as I helped them find periodicals; only one complained. “Why can’t anyone here keep track of the Herald ?” he grumbled. Later, I found the newspaper crumpled under Monsieur de Nerciat’s briefcase.

A scuffle brought me out of the periodical room, to the circulation desk, where a red-faced woman waved a book in Boris’s face and shouted that the Library must stop lending “immoral” novels. When he refused to censor the collection, she stormed out.

“Don’t look so shocked,” he told me. “It happens at least once a week. Someone always thinks our job is to protect morals.”

“Out of curiosity, which book was she talking about?”

“Studs Lonigan.”

“I’ll make a note to read it.”

He laughed, and watching him, I couldn’t help but think how odd—and wonderful—it was that we were now colleagues.

“I have something for you,” he said.

“You do?” I hoped he’d selected a novel for me. Instead, he tendered a list of seventy books that I was to gather and wrap for out-of-town subscribers. I consulted my watch. Already 2:00 p.m. I’d been so busy, I’d forgotten lunch. Too late now. From Summer , 813, to Alcools , 841, the treasure hunt took me throughout the three floors of stacks. By 6:00 p.m., my feet ached and so did my head. I’d never felt a fatigue like this, not even during exam week. I’d met twenty people and couldn’t remember a single name. I’d spoken English all day, answering dozens of inquiries— Is it true that Frenchmen eat frog legs, and if so, what do they do with the rest of the frog? May I access the archives? Where’s the restroom? What did you say, girl? Speak up! By the end of my shift, the language deserted me. It was like opening a novel, only to find the pages blank.

Clutching my droopy daffodils, I stepped into the cold night air. Frost covered the pebbles of the path and made them slick. The blisters on my feet throbbed. The walk home seemed as if it would take fifteen years instead of fifteen minutes. Limping along, I noticed that across the way, under the dim light of the lampadaire , a black car chugged. My father got out and opened the passenger door.

“Oh, Papa, merci .” Relieved to slip back into French, I slid onto the seat, sitting for the first time since breakfast.