Page 16 of The Bookshop of Forbidden Books

“You’re nervous, aren’t you,” she said. “Everything’s going to be fine, believe me. Your aging Don Juan will fill any awkward silences with his guitar. And the friends I invited will have plenty to say, I promise.”

“How many do you think will show?” Mitch asked anxiously.

“Well, I invited at least twenty.” Mathilde made a show of totting up the numbers in her head. “Maybe twenty-five. And I asked them to spread the word. I really played up the secrecy angle – none of them will be able to resist the idea of an exclusive, invite-only club. You’re not the only one being censored, you know. It’s forbidden to discuss politics on campus now. But I can assure you, nobody coming on Wednesday is going to hold back.”

“If everyone you invited brings a friend, we might get to fifty,” Mitch mused aloud, “and if Verner pulls in as many, we’ll have a full house.”

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

* * *

As it turned out, only sixty people showed up that Wednesday. Thirty-two from Team Mathilde, twenty-six from Verner, and only one from Madame Ateltow, who’d talked her own neighbourhood bookseller into coming to a meeting she might find informational – and finally Madame Bergol, who wouldn’t have missed it for in the world. Fewer guests than Mitch had hoped for, but not bad for their first night.

Madame Ateltow hadn’t lost her touch. Masterfully, she described the repercussions of HB 1467, particularly the effect it would have on collective thought. She explained its true motives – which were political, not moral – and contrasted them with the intentions of the banned authors. Though from different cultures, countries, eras, styles and genres, they had all sought to understand what it means to be human, reject cruelty and inequality, and promote tolerance, justice and freedom.

She was full of fire and eloquence, and Mitch tried to remember if she’d been this passionate when he was her student. She cited authors and passages that demonstrated nuance. After a theatrical pause, she turned to the bookshelves, directing attention to the rows and rows of banned titles. Madame Ateltow’s local bookshop owner sat dumbstruck, wondering how a fellow bookseller had not only amassed but hidden such a collection of prohibited works. She didn’t have long to reflect on the point, though, since it was at that moment that Mathilde made her entrance, amid a silence that bordered on awe.

Mitch exchanged a knowing smile with Monsieur Verner, confirming what he’d suspected – that the two women had rehearsed, to be sure of achieving perfect synchronicity.

Indeed, they’d left nothing to chance. Mathilde moved through the rows with nonchalance and a deliberate sway of her hips, distributing a list of books she and Madame Ateltow had chosen for the next meeting.

The assignment: consider, over the coming week, the questions raised by these texts that made them threatening. The list included Stefan Zweig’s Confusion, Albert Camus’s The Stranger, Marguerite Duras’s The Lover, Michael Cunningham’s By Nightfall, Edgar Allan Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher, and Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale.

When the last handouts had been distributed, Mathilde perched herself on the back of an armchair, facing the group from her makeshift stage. Then she crossed her legs, and motioned for silence. After a dramatic pause of her own, she proceeded to captivate her audience with a speech on the liberating power of banned literature.

Verner was dazzled. Mathilde’s whole presentation had been expertly choreographed, he thought. And there was also the musical quality of her voice, the rhythm of her speech. She had the vocal control of a professional musician.

After a while, Mathilde opened the floor to discussion. A dozen or so students spoke in turn – though none with the drive or conviction of the two women at the centre of it all.

At around ten o’clock it was Verner’s turn to take the stage. He picked up his guitar, and surprised Mitch from the very first chords.

“And just wait till he really gets going,” Madame Ateltow whispered in Mitch’s ear.

The evening concluded shortly before eleven. The students departed full of enthusiastic chatter, Mitch having given each of them a book of their choice. Monsieur Verner went for a short stroll with Madame Bergol, Madame Ateltow having caught a ride home with the bookshop owner from her neighbourhood.

The first evening had been a success. The students had all signed up for the next meeting, set for the following Monday, promising to bring more recruits.

And yet, on the way home, Mitch and Mathilde hardly spoke.

* * *

A few days later, Mitch received an unexpected visit from the antique dealer who had sold him the shop. The man wore a coat with a faux-fur collar that made him look like a broke mafioso trying to look like a big-shot, and his slicked hair, carefully combed over his bald spot, didn’t help matters. His normally impassive face twisted into a strange grimace when he greeted Mitch. He drifted around the shop slowly, whistling, occasionally shrugging or raising his eyebrows. Mitch wondered if it was a tic.

“Looking for anything in particular?” he asked at last.

“No, just browsing. The place is looking good. Clean. Very clean. Felt a lot smaller back when it was mine. You got yourself a good deal.”

“Books take up less room than antiques,” Mitch said, wondering uneasily what the point of this visit was.

The antique dealer leaned over a table, picked up a book, put it back down.

“So,” he went on, “have you taken a closer look at it?”

“At what?”

“The room. Behind the brick wall.”

“Oh right,” Mitch said. “That old story about the previous tenant, wasn’t it?”