Page 15 of The Bookshop of Forbidden Books

“I don’t know what’s driving me, exactly,” Mitch confessed. “Maybe you made me want to do something that matters. Maybe you reminded me that if I give in, if I quit now, I’ll like myself even less than I did before.”

“Gee, and I thought I was dramatic,” Mathilde said wryly. “But let me bow before the master! Well, I’d better go. I’ve got troops to rally.”

Mitch watched her walk away. He’d lost the desire to return to the secret room this evening. The night stretched ahead of him emptily: solitude and his suburban apartment.

He turned and went back into the bookshop, locked the door, and had turned off the lights and hit the button to lower the metal shutter when he heard an odd clicking sound behind him. Quickly he hit the button again, stopping the shutter’s slow descent.

Madame Bergol, face pressed to the window, was tapping a fingernail on the glass like a woodpecker.

“What on earth are you doing here?” he asked, opening the door. “The shop’s closed.”

“I know that – I’m not stupid!” she retorted.

“Come back tomorrow and you can read as long as you like. It’s late.”

But Madame Bergol seized Mitch’s wrist and squeezed it as hard as she could.

“I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

“Is something wrong?” Mitch asked worriedly.

“The reason I’m not buying books from you… it’s because I can’t see anymore. I can still tell night from day, I can tell if something’s in my way, make out people’s outlines. But the letters in a book are just blurry shapes now. It’s a shame, because I used to read so much. I loved it.

“I’ve come to terms with it, more or less. None of us can avoid getting old. But ever since my husband died, the days have just become so long. Too long. That’s why I come here. For two hours a day, I pretend to read. It can get boring, especially when I’m the only customer, but even so I feel less alone, because you’re there.

“I try not to eavesdrop, and I don’t want to bother you, but I can hear perfectly well. Tonight, just before you shooed me out, I heard your girlfriend mention a book club you’re organizing. I’ve been thinking about it all evening. It would be a way for me to reconnect with books. And so I’d like to be a member of this club of yours. Please.”

Mitch was utterly stunned. He’d never really given Madame Bergol much thought. He was used to her daily appearance and, seeing no need to offer help or advice, he’d generally settled for just greeting her from a distance when she entered the shop. But if he’d taken the trouble to go up and speak to her, he might’ve noticed the milky veil that obscured the colour of her eyes. Cataracts, which should have been operated on long before they reached this advanced stage. But he knew nothing of her health nor her finances, and he didn’t dare ask.

Beneath her unbuttoned coat, she wore a neat black cotton dress that clung to her slim figure. The wrinkles on her cheeks did nothing to diminish her beauty. Mitch couldn’t think of a single reason to deny her, even if it meant helping her up and down the stairs. Her presence wouldn’t bother anyone.

“It’s a deal,” he agreed. “And when the shop’s empty and I’m not too busy, I can read a chapter or two to you. We can pick out a book together.”

“Are the ones I flip through not good?”

“Oh, they’re fine,” Mitch said quickly. “Just, wait here while I lock up. I’ll walk you home.”

“Very kind of you, but I can still manage perfectly well on my own!” she said tartly, and turned on her heel. Calling out a farewell over her shoulder, she made her way up the street.

* * *

That night, Mitch dozed off on a bench at the station while waiting for his train. He slept for the whole journey, his head propped against the smeary window of his carriage. It took all his strength to drag himself back home. Halfway up the stairs, he wondered if he’d even make it to his floor. Once inside, he collapsed onto his bed, fully clothed.

Chapter 8

The Secret Meeting

Mitch spent all his free time over the next week preparing the secret room, which meant working longer hours than usual and getting very little sleep, and yet he didn’t feel tired. Quite the opposite, in fact: he woke each morning in high spirits, more energized than he’d been the day before. As soon as he closed the shop he went down to the cellar, moving coffee tables around, arranging sofas, chairs, and armchairs in front of the imaginary stage Mathilde and Madame Ateltow would soon occupy. And then, when there was nothing left to move around, he categorized the books on the shelves or wrote up reading notes.

Mathilde came to lend a hand on the third evening, and every evening after that. She showed up unannounced, refused to listen to any instructions (Mitch quickly gave up trying), and threw herself into decorating. She’d dug up a bunch of old concert posters at a flea market – bands she admitted she’d never listened to. Pink Floyd, the Rolling Stones, Supertramp, ABBA, Guns N’ Roses, Nirvana, REM, Weezer… The highlight of her collection was a giant portrait of Freddie Mercury, dressed all in white, a microphone pressed so close to his lips that it looked like he might swallow it. That one, she hung behind the bar.

Mitch didn’t ask what the posters were supposed to add to evenings devoted to literature; she seemed to think they were, and her cheerful enthusiasm was enough to put him at ease. As they worked, she’d tell him about her day at the university, describing the classes she’d loved and the ones that had bored her, explaining the chemistry behind anti-inflammatory drugs and the side effects of aspirin, her excitement over a promising new molecule in cancer treatment.

When she ran out of things to say she’d curl up in an armchair with a book, whistling softly to herself. Occasionally she would disappear for two hours and return as nonchalantly as if she’d only been gone a few minutes. Over time, Mitch learned two new things about her. One was that she needed to be constantly busy, and the other was that she was terrified of silence. To make a statement, or maybe just to annoy her, he taped up a picture of the original cover of 1984 next to the poster of Freddie Mercury.

* * *

The following Sunday, they slept late. Mitch took Mathilde for a walk along the river. As they were crossing a bridge, he suddenly stopped. Mathilde noticed and turned to face him, so close now that there were only a few inches between them. She narrowed her eyes, bracing herself for whatever excuse he was about to offer for having to leave her for the day. Well, she wouldn’t give him the pleasure, she decided; she’d tell him she had things of her own to do, that she had coursework to catch up on, which she’d been neglecting to spend her evenings with him. All of this flashed through her mind in an instant, while Mitch simply looked at her. And as it turned out, he had no intention of giving her the slip. All he said was that she looked even more beautiful than usual this morning. Blushing, Mathilde slipped an arm through his. Her studies could wait a little longer, after all.