Page 14 of The Bookshop of Forbidden Books

“This isn’t the intimate evening I was expecting, I must say,” she commented icily. “Five people – doesn’t exactly count as a book club, unless you’re waiting on even more guests?”

Mitch wondered who the fifth person was that Mathilde was referring to. His gaze swept the shop – and landed on Madame Bergol, mostly hidden behind a column, feverishly turning the pages of Our Bodies Entwined in the Summer Moisture. He went over, delicately plucked the book from her hands, slipped in a bookmark, closed it, handed it back to her, and ushered her to the door, which he locked behind her. He led his guests to the back of the shop, down the stairs to the room that only remained a secret to Madame Bergol.

The meal exceeded all of Verner’s expectations, though, truth be told, he hadn’t expected much from this evening beyond having to both eat and make small talk, two things he considered totally incompatible. Or had until tonight, at any rate – for the food was exquisite, and his dinner companion a delightful conversationalist. It had been a long time since Verner had genuinely enjoyed the company of a woman and, as he helped himself to another generous serving of beef bourguignon, he found himself wondering what exactly had sunk his marriage in the first place. What crime could he have committed to have earned such hatred from his wife? This deep introspection prompted him, after a moment of silent hesitation, to ask Madame Ateltow what she thought of Spanish guitar. He liked it very much himself, he added, and played it every night before he went to bed. Madame Ateltow admitted that she’d never listened to any Spanish guitar, actually, but she’d be remedying that the very next day.

Meanwhile, Mathilde sat in uncharacteristic silence, puzzled by Mitch’s behaviour as he played the perfect host, refilling his guests’ glasses each time they finished their wine, clearing away used plates and bringing out clean ones as the evening progressed. He seemed calm and quite engaged – though he wasn’t interacting much with her; in fact, he hardly seemed aware of her presence, to the point that she felt uncomfortable at first, and then like an outsider. This wasn’t the first time she’d been drunk, but in the past alcohol had always made her feel giddy, ready to laugh at anything. Tonight was different. She felt even more awkward than Verner, whose clumsy flirting would ordinarily have amused her. She was used to being surrounded by strangers, drifting through parties where, out of laziness or disinterest, she felt detached from her own body. She could listen to people talk without anything they said affecting her in the slightest. But not tonight. Tonight, Mathilde wanted only one thing: to spend one last night with Mitch, somewhere far away from her apartment, far away from the life she’d be returning to after she left him.

Mitch left the table to fetch another bottle from behind the bar. Making his excuses to his dining companion, Verner followed him.

“So this little dinner party for strangers was a setup,” he said – unable to keep himself from glancing, moony-eyed, at Madame Ateltow, who’d struck up a conversation with Mathilde.

“It wasn’t,” replied Mitch, wiping glasses, “but if it was, you walked right into it. Somehow, I don’t think you’re having such a bad time.”

“Well, since we’re being honest, allow me to point out that you’ve been neglecting your lady friend, who seems charming, by the way.”

Mitch looked over at Mathilde. “It wasn’t my intention.”

“I think you should be telling her that,” Verner said. “Anyway, your beef bourguignon was excellent, but maybe it’s time to move on to the real main course, eh? Why exactly have you brought us here?”

Mitch cleared his throat loudly enough that Madame Ateltow stopped talking. All eyes turned to him.

“Monsieur Verner is right,” he said, raising his voice a bit. “I owe you all an explanation for this dinner party. I’m grateful to all of you for challenging me to really think. The idea of renting my books out one by one… well, it wasn’t ambitious enough. If you’re here tonight, it’s because you’ve contributed in some way to a plan I’d like to tell you about, and because I need your help to make it real. If we move the furniture around a bit, this room can hold a hundred people. One or two nights a week, we can bring students here. Madame Ateltow, if you’re willing to teach again, you could introduce them to books that will change their world and make it better. Books that will give them hope. You did that better than anyone; believe me, I would know. Monsieur Verner, you could invite your students – and why not play for them? It would certainly lift the mood. These gatherings need to be about fun and togetherness and sharing, where everyone feels valued and free and proud to be, in some way, taking part in the resistance. If everything goes well, we can have the meetings more often – maybe even convince other bookshops to do the same. I know, it sounds ambitious. But I believe we have it in our power to start a movement that no censorship, no authority will be able to stop.”

“What about me?” demanded Mathilde. “What’s my role in this whole thing?”

“A hundred students is a very big class,” Madame Ateltow jumped in before Mitch could answer. “I’m a little rusty, and I could use your help. What would you say to helping me teach them? It would help close the generation gap.”

“Thank you, Madame Ateltow, but I was talking to Mitch.”

“Help me organize everything,” he said. “I can’t do it alone. And if you invited students from other faculties, it would really help build momentum. I know it’s asking you to take risks, and you’re under no obligation to do anything if you don’t want to.”

“Of course she wants to! Don’t you?” Madame Ateltow turned to Mathilde.

“When’s the first meeting?” Mathilde asked.

“As soon as we can make it happen. Let’s say a week from now.”

“I’m booked on Thursdays and Saturdays already,” Monsieur Verner spoke up.

“Wednesday, then?” Madame Ateltow proposed.

The date was set, the pact sealed. Verner glanced at his watch and offered to escort Madame Ateltow home, claiming the streets weren’t safe after 9 p.m. Mitch went upstairs to unlock the front door for them, and had scarcely said goodbye before the two teachers were heading up the pavement together. Mathilde, who had followed them out the door, lingered in front of the window.

She was wearing her hair down this evening, Mitch noted belatedly. Not only that, but she had swapped her usual jeans and sneakers for a summer dress and ballet flats. He was pretty sure he already knew how this night was going to end, but he asked permission, anyway, to walk her home.

“Your friend’s a lousy liar. It’s not even nine o’clock yet. And the streets are perfectly safe.” She spoke slower than usual, and her tone was slightly off.

“What’s wrong?”

“You ask stupid questions, Mitch. You really do. What would you have said down there, if your old teacher hadn’t come to your rescue?”

“Exactly what I did say. I’d already given a lot of thought to how I want you to be involved, I didn’t need any inspiration from her.”

“Then I have to ask you something very important, Mitch. What’s driving you the most in all this – teaching those students how to resist, or becoming a hero?”

“You’ve seen me, right? Do I really look like a hero to you? I’m afraid of cutting myself when I shave in the morning.”

“Not all heroes wear capes,” Mathilde said with a weak smile. “Some just carry books.”