Джанет Скеслин Чарльз - The Paris Library

Paul pointed to the platform, where a bespectacled young man kissed a woman who’d alighted from a carriage. “I come here to be in the presence of love. You probably think I’m crazy, spying on people…”

I shook my head. It was why I read—to glimpse other lives.

A musician with a trumpet case rushed by. A group of scouts gawked at a locomotive. A mother let go of her toddlers’ hands, and they ran to a man in a trench coat. He picked them up and spun them about.

“How darling,” I said.

Paul was riveted by the homecoming.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

He watched as the family left the station. “My parents and I used to live a block from here.”

“You did?”

“Until my father left… I was seven. My mother said he’d taken a long trip on the train. Convinced he’d return, I came here.” He turned to me. “I’m still coming here.”

I drew him closer, and he buried his face in my hair. I felt his shaky heart beat against mine. Perhaps it wasn’t dangerous to trust.

“I’ve never told anyone,” he said.

On the way home, neither of us said a word. We inched up the stairs to the landing.

“Can you stay for dinner?” I asked.

He kissed my temple, my cheek, my lips. “And pretend I’m not miserable about leaving in the morning? I can’t.”

As I watched him disappear down the steps, the door opened behind me.

“I thought I heard someone,” Rémy said. “Were you talking to yourself?”

“To Paul.” I wanted to tell Rémy that one moment I felt joyful and as light as a firefly, yet sometimes, like now, separated from Paul, I was miserable. “I can’t stop thinking of him.” I’d tried to keep Paul in the margins of my mind, but he’d moved to the middle of the page, to the center of my story.

“You’re in love,” Rémy said. “I’m glad for you.”

“I hope you’re as happy.”

“That’s what I came to tell you. I’m in love with Bitsi.”

They were perfect for each other, and I felt proud that I’d played a small part in bringing them together. “I tried to set you up with M. de Nerciat and Mr. Pryce-Jones, but perhaps Bitsi was the better choice.”

“Perhaps?”

“Have you told her?”

“I wanted to tell you first.”

We shared so much. He was the first reader of my newsletter, and I was the only person he allowed to edit his articles for the law review. Over tea in the kitchen, we talked until the wee hours. We knew each other’s secrets. Rémy was my refuge.

Yet everything was changing. I was with Paul; he with Bitsi. I had a job; soon, he’d graduate. This might be the last year we’d live under the same roof. We’d been together since before we were born, but eventually we would live separate lives. I wondered how long we had left together.

I QUIZZED MARGARET ON yesterday’s French lesson as we finished work for the day. “Verbs are divided into three families. To love, to speak, and to eat are in which?”

“ Aimer , parler , and manger belong to the -er family,” she said. “Families—what a lovely way to view words.”

“Don’t forget your French when you’re in London.”

“I’ll only be gone two weeks.”

We continued to the courtyard, where Rémy’s bicycle waited against the wall.

“ Merci for suggesting that I volunteer,” she said. “I finally feel part of something.”

“ Merci à toi! Without you, I’d still be stuffing crates. Or standing in front of the precinct.”

“Nonsense!” Her cheeks flushed, and she looked pleased.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” There was more I could have told her, but in my family, we didn’t discuss our feelings. Without you, I never would have worked up the courage to seek out Paul. Tutoring you has reminded me of the beauty of French, a beauty I’d taken for granted. The dullest tasks—shipping books, repairing rips in magazines, moving old newspapers into the archive room—go by quickly with you by my side.

When she said, “My dear friend, I don’t know what I’d do without you, either,” I wish I’d kissed her on each cheek. Instead, my mind on dinner, I hoisted myself onto the seat of Rémy’s bike.

“You know how to ride?” she asked.

“You don’t?” I pulled my foot from the pedal. “I can teach you!”

“I won’t be able to, and when I fall, I’ll make a fool of myself.”

“What do you care if a few Parisians see you scrape your knee? Isn’t that the best thing about being abroad? You can do what you want and no one back home will ever know.”

I held the bike steady. Margaret flipped her leg over the bar. The bike wobbled as it coasted, and she clutched the handlebar with one hand and my arm with the other.

“I can’t do this.”

“You already are. Hold on to the handlebars.”

“I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“You’re learning French and living in a foreign country—riding a bike is nothing compared to that,” I said, giving her a gentle push. “ Bon vent!”

As Margaret gained speed, her skirt flew above her knees. “If I fall, I’ll get right back on.”

“That’s the attitude!”

She pedaled slowly. “I’m scared.”

“Trust me!” I scampered alongside her. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I trust you,” she shouted. Exhilaration outweighed the uncertainty in her voice.

My arms were out, ready to catch her if she fell.

PARIS WAS HOT and humid in August, so many subscribers went sunbathing in Nice and Biarritz, or home to visit relatives in New York and Cincinnati. At my desk, Miss Reeder and I enjoyed a rare moment of calm. She looked cheery in her polka-dot dress. Her hair was coiffed in a chignon, and her silver pen was poised in her hand, ready to compose a speech or write a thank-you.

Most people in my life—from my father and my teachers to functionaries and waiters—said “no.” I’d like to take ballet classes. “No, you don’t have the right body.” I’d like to take a painting class. “No, you don’t have the necessary experience.” I’d like a glass of red wine. “No, white goes better with the dish you’ve ordered.” Miss Reeder was different. When I’d asked if I could make some changes in the periodical room, it had been shocking to hear Miss Reeder say, “Yes.”

There was so much I was dying to ask her. What do your parents think about your living here? Where did you find the courage to move to a foreign country? Will I ever be that brave? Though I could hear Maman say, Don’t pry. Mind your own onions!, questions simmered inside me, until one spilled out: “What brought you to France?”

“A love affair.” Her hazel eyes shone.

I leaned closer. “Really?”

“I fell in love with Madame de Staël.”

“The writer?”

“In her day, people said that there were three great powers in Europe: Great Britain, Russia, and Madame de Staël. She insulted Napoleon by saying that ‘Speech happens not to be his language.’ He responded by banning her book and banishing her.”

“She wasn’t afraid of anyone.”

“Would you believe that I sneaked into the mansion where she used to live? I only intended to enter the courtyard, but when a servant said, ‘bonjour,’ as if I belonged there, I strode in and slid up her stairs, running my hand along her banister, gawking at the walls that had once held her family portraits. That probably sounds fanciful.”

“It sounds like love. Did you really come for a writer?”

“I was already in Spain to organize the Library of Congress stand at the Iberian fair. There was a job opening here, and I seized it. What about you? Do you long to travel? Did you always want to be a librarian?”