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 The hesitant waif I’d first met had been replaced by a confident, capable woman.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.
The waiter cleared his throat. I’d forgotten we were in a busy restaurant, forgotten dear Margaret at my side. After le serveur took our order, Paul told her in halting English, “I’m not sure I could live so far from home. I admire you.”
“That’s kind of you,” she said. “I was terribly homesick, but then I met Odile.”
“Margaret has been an amazing help at the Library.”
Blushing, she said, “Do you have holiday plans?”
“Each summer, I help my aunt on the farm,” he said.
> “Near Paris?” Margaret asked.
“In Brittany.”
“You’re going away?” I said glumly. The waiter brought our steak frites, but I was no longer hungry and picked at my fries.
After dinner, Margaret thanked Paul and climbed into a taxi. Under the soft glow of the streetlights, he walked me home. I didn’t know if I should hurry like I usually did or match his pace. I didn’t know if I should shove my hand in my pocket or let it dangle at my side so he could hold it, if he wanted to. Ascending the stairs, I wondered if he would lean down until his lips were on mine, until I could breathe him in like air. On the landing, he didn’t come closer. I hid my disappointment by bowing my head to search for the key, lost in the bottom of my clutch.
As I tried to fit it into the lock, Paul touched my wrist. I froze.
“I was going to ask you out,” he said.
“You were?”
“Then your father offered me a job.”
I dropped the key.
Paul liked me because of Papa. What a fool I’d made of myself, hunting him down at the station. I felt queasy. I needed to move to the other side of the threshold and close the door between us. Bending down, my fingers swiped at the key, but Paul was faster, grasping it in one hand, my elbow in the other.
“I’m qualified,” he said, righting me, “and frankly, need the raise to afford somewhere decent to live.”
I stared at the small blue button of his shirt. “Congratulations. When do you start?”
“I turned him down.”
“You did?”
“I never want you to doubt my feelings.”
My heart began to bloom. He covered my mouth with his. At first, my lips pursed like a starlet’s in the movies, then my mouth opened, and his tongue caressed mine. When Paul raised his head, I gazed at him in wonder, feeling that in the space of a languorous kiss I’d plummeted into Wuthering Heights.
* * *
ON BASTILLE DAY, when I arrived at Margaret’s flat, a butler led me to the sitting room, where portraits of snooty men looked down on me. Intimidated, I moved from them to the grand piano parked in the corner. It was as big as Papa’s car. My fidgety fingers hit a few notes. No one I knew had a butler or a grand piano—elements of novels, not real life. At the window, I could see the golden-domed chapel where Napoleon was buried. Indeed, the neighbors here were high-ranking. At home, we rarely opened the windows because of the coal dust that wafted over from the train station. The low ceilings made our dim apartment feel cozy on good days, claustrophobic on bad. The view from my bedroom was into the building opposite ours—ten feet away—where a line of limp girdles dried above Madame Feldman’s tub. Sunlight and splendid views were a luxury. Margaret wasn’t exactly the waif I’d pictured.
“Did we keep you waiting? Christina didn’t want to get out of the tub,” Margaret said, her daughter in her arms. The little girl hid her face in the collar of Margaret’s blouse, and all I could see were damp ringlets.
“We met at Story Hour,” I reminded Christina. “It’s my favorite time of the week.”
She perked up. “Mine too.”
A nanny came for Christina, and I trailed Margaret through her powder-blue bedroom to the dressing room, which was the size of Miss Reeder’s office. One wall was lined with couture day dresses, another with evening gowns, each worth more than a year’s salary. It was hard to believe that one woman had so much, and impossible not to gawk. The colors! Candy-apple red, toffee, peppermint, licorice! I couldn’t stop touching the gowns.
“Would you like to try one on?”
“Would I!”
I couldn’t decide, so Margaret handed me the black gown. I held it to my torso and floated around the dressing room. “Come on,” I said. “What are you waiting for?”
She pulled the green gown from the hanger and joined me in a bout about the room. I began warbling the words to “Mon Légionnaire,” and Margaret sang along, until we were out of breath from dancing and singing and giggling, and we fell onto a heap under the silken gowns.
“Am I interrupting?” The man spoke English with a strong French accent. His thin black mustache rivaled that of the provocateur Salvador Dalí.
Margaret and I stood, and she introduced us.
“Enchanté,” he said to me.
Because of his posh clientele, society papers called Monsieur the “Heir Dresser.” He did not confer with clientes about what they wanted. He simply knew what had to be done. I offered Margaret dull days repairing books; she offered me a date with Paris’s most sought-after stylist.
Margaret had me try on the black gown so her maid could hem it, then she sat me down at her Art Deco vanity.
“Paul’s a nice chap,” she said as Monsieur Z began to comb my hair.
“Do you think he and I have enough in common? He’s a policeman, and I’m, well, me.”
“Lawrence and his Cambridge cronies can recite sonnets. It doesn’t mean they know anything about love. Paul clearly cares for you, and that’s more important than his job title or the books he reads.”
I should have told her I appreciated her reassurance, but Monsieur Z massaged my scalp, and I gave into the pleasure. I didn’t realize how anxious I’d felt—about my burgeoning feelings for Paul, the painful distance between Rémy and me, my father neglecting us for his mistress—until the tension melted away. When Maman cut my hair, her comb tore through the tangles. Monsieur’s slid through my tresses like a knife through butter.
This was the first time I’d had my hair professionally styled, and I was mesmerized by Monsieur wrapping locks of my hair around the heated tong to create a sea of rippling waves.
When he finished with a flourish of his hands and a resolute “Voilà!,” Margaret proclaimed, “Just like Bette Davis. You’d make one hell of a femme fatale.”
As Monsieur Z tied Margaret’s hair in an elaborate topknot, she asked, “Do you think Miss Reeder has a beau?”
“The ambassador escorted her to the Library gala.”
“They say Bill Bullitt is a keen negotiator but that he has a roving eye. I know a Norwegian consul who’s perfect for her. I’ll advise him to become a subscriber.”
“He’ll have to get in line.”
When Monsieur Z finished styling Margaret’s hair, she didn’t look at the mirror; she looked to me.
“What do you think?”
“Gorgeous,” I said wholeheartedly. “Inside and out.”
She blushed, and I wondered how long it had been since she’d been complimented.
“Lawrence will fall in love with you all over again,” I said.
“Hardly… he’s very busy.”
“Too busy to tell you you’re beautiful?”
“Not everyone sees me the way you do.” She rose without a glimpse in the mirror.
She donned the strapless green dress and handed me the hemmed gown. The silk slid along my skin, so unlike the scratchy wool I wore in winter, the stiff linen in summer. She fastened my zipper, and for an instant, as I admired my reflection, I couldn’t breathe. My own dresses drooped over my torso like a tablecloth. This gown worked, cinching my waist, pushing up a bust I didn’t even know I had. Though I told myself the bodice was tight, I knew the cold sensation coiling around my ribs was envy. Margaret had so much, and I had so little.
“Today’s the first time I’ve enjoyed getting ready for a party in Paris,” she said. “I hope you’ll come again.”
Gowns and house calls from hairdressers—I could get used to luxury. Her invitation to return dissolved the whorl of jealousy.
When we floated down the hall to join Lawrence in the den, the silk of my dress whispered a sensual yes, yes, yes as it caressed my calves. I wished Paul could see me.
Lawrence lounged in an armchair, half hidden by the Herald. Beside me, Margaret cleared her throat. He set down the paper. Dusky lashes shrouded his turquoise eyes. Mon Dieu, he was dashing in his tuxedo! “You’re ravishing!” He rose and kissed my hand. I expected him to kiss Ma
rgaret, but he kept his focus on me, my hand still in his. “If I weren’t already married…” He waggled his brows, and I giggled, entirely charmed.
“Do you happen to be acquainted with Mr. Pryce-Jones?” I asked, wanting to show that I, too, knew someone in exalted diplomatic circles.
“The man’s a legend! He wrote the protocol for Franco-British relations, and he hasn’t lost a debate since 1926. How do you know him?”
“He’s one of our habitués,” Margaret said proudly.
Lawrence kept his gaze on me. “It’s kind of you to let her play at being a librarian.”
Beside me, Margaret stiffened. It made me think of a line from Their Eyes Were Watching God Then she starched and ironed her face, forming it into just what people wanted to see…
“She doesn’t ‘play at’ anything,” I responded, snatching my hand from his and tucking it around her waist. “Margaret’s extremely competent.”
There was a peculiar current in the air. He’d gone from charming to condescending; she’d become wooden. I remembered Maman’s advice to cousin Clotilde: Make the courtship last as long as you can. Once you marry everything changes. Was this what Maman had meant?
“You look handsome.” Margaret spoke the line as if it was from a tired drama she no longer wished to play.
“So do you,” he said distractedly as he consulted his pocket watch. “Shall we? The chauffeur is waiting.”
At the residence of the British ambassador, under the brilliant light of the chandeliers, women in jewels dazzled. Like Lawrence, each gentleman wore a black smoking. It was the kind of party I’d dreamed about. I was dying to hear about the places the other guests had seen, the books they’d read.
Deserting us, Lawrence rushed toward a busty brunette. “If you weren’t happily married, I’d whisk you away.”
“Darling, don’t let that stop you!” She stroked his chest as if Margaret weren’t there.
It’s a vicious circle. Margaret’s remark about diplomatic circles finally meant something. I scowled at Lawrence, furious at him for humiliating Margaret in this way, furious at myself for having been taken in by his generic flattery.
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