“I’m afraid your description is far more intriguing than mine. A writer? How unusual for a young woman to have such interests.”
I smiled. Monsieur Clavel displayed none of the impassioned gestures or animated speech patterns I had witnessed minutes before. Now he simply appeared intrigued.
“What are you writing? A piece for one of the ladies’ journals?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m working on a novel.”
“A novel?” He smacked the edge of the bistro table. “Now, that’s not the answer I was expecting!” He chuckled.
“I admire your tenacity. I aspired to write, too, when I was about your age... But now I just collect other people’s old books.” He took another sip of his coffee. “But there’s something to be said about centuries-old books. We are only here a limited time, but it’s the books that are eternal.”
“I like that thought,” I said. “The immortality of books.”
Our conversation about books soothed me. With all of the uncertainty the war had brought and, on top of that, Grandmother’s failing health, it was nice to be able to talk about books for a change.
“So now you’ve unlocked the secret between booksellers. Shame on you, Alex,” Monsieur Clavel teased. “But this brings me back to the rare Haggadah in your possession, Solange. I’m incredibly intrigued. Perhaps you’d be interested in selling it to me?”
Alex shook his head. “Always the aggressive collector... But if she won’t sell it to my father, I doubt she would sell it to you.”
I laughed. “Yes, I’m not planning on parting with it just yet. But thank you for the offer.”
Monsieur Clavel placed a few francs on the table for his coffee before extinguishing his cigarette.
“I’ll have to ask your father more about this mysterious book of hers... I’m leaving France soon, and it might be time to give your book one more journey all its own.”
Alex cut him off. “I think she’ll be keeping it close to her. But safe travels if I don’t see you before you leave Paris.”
“I hope you’ll also consider getting out before it’s too late, Alex.” He stood up and patted down the front of his pants.
“Things are only going to get worse here.”
Alex squeezed my hand. “Then Solange and I had better make the most of today.”
***
Later we walked toward the opera, the sunlight hitting my face as Alex’s hand threaded through mine. We breathed in the fresh air. We ignored the newspaper boys selling their headlines of doom. We didn’t look into the store windows whose empty shelves made me sad. Instead, we looked toward the birds and the stretch of blue in the sky.
He asked me a few questions about my childhood and my favorite memory. He searched for stories about my mother and shared with me his memories of his own, whom he had lost when he was barely three.
“I remember the sound of her heels on the tile of our apartment. The scent of her perfume. I remember she wore a sterling-silver comb in her hair. And that when I kissed her, my lips felt the veil of powder on her cheeks.”
I confided to him that I believed my mother’s bookshelf stillcontained her soul. That I only needed to breathe in the paper from one of her novels to find her again.
“I love hearing your stories,” he said as he pulled me into his arms and kissed me.
It felt like there were a thousand fluttering birds beneath my feet as his lips pressed against mine. I cupped his face with open palms and closed my eyes as I kissed him once again.
After we came up for air, he pulled away from me slightly and looked at me straight in the eyes.
“Solange, I want you to know I realize your association with me and my family exposes you to danger. There’s nothing I can do to help with the uncertainty of war, but I want you to know one thing is certain and absolute.” He took me again into his arms and kissed me. “I love you.”
48.
April 1940
It felt like a painful wound, pulling away from Alex that afternoon, but I knew it was imperative that I be at the apartment when Marthe’s doctor arrived. By the time I finally reached the front door, my heart was pounding and I was nearly out of breath.
Once inside the vestibule, I could see the doctor’s overcoat draped on the brass coat stand in the corner, where Giselle always hung hats and umbrellas. In the distance, I could see that the door of Marthe’s bedroom was closed.
