Джанет Скеслин Чарльз - The Paris Library

Two months later, Rémy was back to attending Mass. Like Maman, he knelt lovingly before the crucifix, convinced his faith had brought him through. I let him believe what he needed to. I had learned that love was not patient, love was not kind. Love was conditional. The people closest to you could turn their backs on you, saying goodbye for something that seemed like nothing. You could only depend on yourself.

My passion for reading grew—books wouldn’t betray. While Rémy spent his pocket money on sweets, I saved mine. He was the class clown, I the valedictorian. When his friends asked me out, I said no. Love was out of the question. I would learn a trade, get a job, and save money, so that when the inevitable happened, I could save myself.

BLEARY-EYED AFTER A restless night, I tried to help subscribers as best I could. It was hard not to dwell. Papa had a mistress, Rémy spent every second with Bitsi, and Paul hadn’t returned to see me. I stopped at the circulation desk in hopes that Boris would have a book for me.

“You’ve been blue today.” He handed me 891.73. “Go to the Afterlife. No one will bother you there.”

Holding Chekhov to my chest, I slid up the stairs, past the scholars on the second floor who hadn’t noticed it was spring, to the serene third floor, where we kept the books that were rarely checked out, the Afterlife.

As I floated through the stacks, the silence filled me with peace. Hidden among the books, I read: He had two lives: one, open, seen and known by all who cared to know, … and another life running its course in secret. We could never know our loved ones, and they would never know us. It was heartbreaking, it was true. Yet there was solace: in reading other people’s stories, I knew that I wasn’t alone.

“There you are!” Margaret said. Her face—usually perfectly powdered—shone with the effort of handling heavy tomes, and with contentment. The hesitant waif I’d first met had been replaced by a confident, capable woman.

“What was the task today?”

“Relocating the encyclopedia sets.” Rubbing her upper arms, she said, “One must be strong to work here.”

“You’re kind to give so much time.”

“It’s easy when you believe, and I believe in the Library.”

I wondered about giving my heart to Paul. “What if you don’t receive anything in return?”

“I’m not sure one should expect something when giving.” She regarded me quizzically. “What are you doing up here on your own?”

“Taking inventory.”

“You’re rather pensive.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yes, I can see that,” she said lightly. “It’s stuffy up here. You need some fresh air.”

Once outside, The Lady with the Dog and Other Stories tucked under my arm, I led Margaret up side streets.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

I frowned. Was Paul’s precinct on rue Washington?

I’d seen love go wrong. Now I wanted to see love go right. I needed to know if he felt the same way I did: hopeful, cautious. I had a job and was growing more independent. Perhaps I could take a chance.

“Is everything all right?”

“I…” I didn’t know how to say all that I felt, and anyway, she was so cosmopolitan, my problems wouldn’t interest her.

“Would you like to attend the embassy party on Bastille Day?”

I turned to her. “Truly?”

“Of course! I want to cheer you up. Come to my flat, we’ll get ready together. You can borrow one of my frocks. Er, not that you don’t have frocks of your own.”

I barely heard. There was the precinct. Hurrah! I stopped short. Margaret regarded the bars of the windows warily. When a handful of handsome policemen exited, a dawning expression crossed her face. “Is there perchance a certain subscriber you’re hoping to run into? I do hope he’s a constable, not a robber!”

“He is.”

“Go say hello.”

“Papa wouldn’t want me to. He says precincts are full of criminals.”

“Is your father here?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t see why you can’t go in!” She opened the wooden door and pushed me inside. The dim light barely cut through the fog of cigarette smoke. On the bench beside me, a man in a soiled undershirt leered. I clutched The Lady to my chest. He inched closer; I moved away. Perhaps Paul had taken the position Papa offered and no longer worked here. Perhaps he’d never worked here. I was an idiot. I shouldn’t have come. On my way out, I felt a hand on my elbow. I jerked away, ready to thwack the tramp with Chekhov; instead, I found concerned blue eyes.

“When I dreamed of seeing you again, it wasn’t here,” Paul said.

I lowered the book. “You wanted to see me again?”

“Of course. But after I embarrassed you in front of your boss…”

“You didn’t. Anyway, we’ve missed you… at the Library.”

“I’ve missed… the Library, too,” he said.

I waited for him to say something else, but when he didn’t, I said, “I should go. A friend’s outside…”

“My shift just ended, may I treat you both to dinner?”

In the bistro, the waiter, so dapper in his black blazer and bow tie, led us to a quiet table near the back wall, away from the cops who eyed us over their beers. Though none of them looked familiar, I wondered if any had been to Sunday lunch.

The mouthwatering scent of caramelized apples wafted out from the kitchen.

“What is that glorious smell?” Margaret asked.

“Tarte tatin,” I answered. “My third-favorite dessert, after profiteroles and Maman’s chocolate mousse.”

“My fourth favorite,” Paul said.

“I haven’t tasted it,” Margaret said, “but I’m convinced it’s my new favorite.”

Suddenly shy, I brushed the bread crumbs off the checkered tablecloth. She mouthed, “Talk to him.” The silence grew louder as I tried to think of something to say. Perhaps I could ask about his job. I thought of Papa, who came home from work in a foul mood, complaining about the miscreants he dealt with. Rémy and I were never sure if he meant criminals or colleagues.

“Why on earth did you want to be a policeman?” I blurted out.

“She means it’s such a dangerous job,” Margaret said. “She was telling me how much she admires our men in blue.”

“It’s what I always wanted to do,” he said. “To help people, to keep them safe.”

“How rewarding!” she said.

“Why on earth would you want to be a librarian?” he asked, an étincelle , a sparkle, in his eye.

“Sometimes I like books more than people.”

“Books don’t lie or steal,” he said. “We can depend on them.”

I was surprised, and heartened, to hear an echo of my own feelings.

“What kind of reader are you?” I asked.

“Is this for you, or the Library newsletter?”

I felt my face flush with pride. “You read my newsletter?”

“I loved Miss Wedd’s answer, and looked up old Heraclitus.”

“ ‘We never step into the same river twice,’ ” he and I said together.

“I’m asking for me,” I said shyly.

“I like nonfiction, mainly. Especially geography. I’ve enjoyed studying English grammar again, something with rules. Something I can point to and say, yes, exactly like that. I suppose it’s because I need things to be true.”

I was ready to argue that novels could be truer than life, but he continued, “Probably because I spend time with criminals who ignore rules. Felons don’t care who they hurt. They tell good stories, and you want to believe they had a reason for doing what they did. It’s hard when you learn that someone you’d trusted lied to your face.”

“It is painful,” I said, thinking of Papa and his harlot.