Page 22 of The Bookshop of Forbidden Books

“I’ve got all the time in the world,” she said.

So Mitch told her. About his arrest, the trial, the prison sentence that had cost him five years of his life – a life he was only just beginning to rebuild. But Madame Bergol’s curiosity was still far from satisfied, so he also told her about what he’d found out at lunch, and the anger that had followed.

“I understand,” she said, sinking into deep thought for a moment, then coming back to herself with a shake of her head. “Actually, no – I don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand?”

“Do you have even the slightest idea of what happened while you were in that cell?”

He shrugged. All he knew was what he’d found out in that café half an hour ago.

“The repression only got worse. You weren’t the only one thrown in prison. They arrested so many people. Former journalists, writers, filmmakers, musicians, teachers they deemed too progressive, researchers judged to be too far ahead of their time, students, even women accused of having had abortions after they were made illegal.

“Life became unbearable. Everyone was scared out of their minds. Resigned acceptance wasn’t enough anymore. Last year, the economy collapsed, and people got even angrier. Then the protest movement began. It was relatively low-profile at first, until the scandal broke.

“The governor threw this big banquet for a bunch of oligarchs, and promised them he’d eliminate the last of the environmental regulations in exchange for a few million in his party’s pockets. Nothing new as far as corruption goes, except that the people he’d made these promises to were from a foreign oil consortium. That really pushed people over the edge.

“People took to the streets. Shut everything down. And for once the police couldn’t stop them. The governor had become so unpopular that his own people panicked and forced him to call an election.”

“That was the impression I got at the café.” Mitch nodded.

“Well then, stop sulking and drop this self-absorbed nonsense!”

Mitch sat up straight on his stool, like a schoolboy being scolded.

“They released hundreds of incarcerated people,” she went on. “You can’t have been held with the other political prisoners – that’s why they forgot about you. But you’re free now, aren’t you? And when I say free, I mean actually free!”

“You’re probably right,” Mitch conceded.

“I don’t recall ever being wrong. And now that we’re in agreement, I have a confession to make. I’ve really missed being read to by you.”

“Sounds like you don’t need me anymore.” Mitch smiled.

“Well, you and I don’t have the same literary taste,” she grinned, “but it was more about the company. Five years is a long time at my age.”

“At mine, too. Especially behind bars.” He paused for a beat. “So, no one told you about the police raiding the shop? Or about the trial? No one at all?”

“Lord, you’re obstinate! Like a dog with a bone! No one tells us lonely old ladies anything! There wasn’t any sort of sign hung on your front door, and frankly, one bookseller’s troubles didn’t seem any more tragic than anyone else’s. Let me be blunt: you’re taking your anger out on the wrong target here.”

Mitch wondered where she was going with this.

“Blame the people who put you in prison, not the ones who forgot to get you out. You probably don’t want my advice, but I’ll give it anyway. Don’t waste your time dwelling on the past. Focus on the future. You’re lucky to have one.”

The old lady clambered down from her perch, opened her purse, paid for the Romain Gary novel, and tucked it into her bag. Mitch got up to walk her to the door.

“You’re limping?” she asked.

“No.”

“Yes, you are! You’re limping! I’ll come back to see you soon,” she promised, and took her leave.

There were no other customers that day. Mitch spent the afternoon pondering Madame Bergol’s morality lesson. Maybe she was right. Maybe the best thing he could do for himself right now was to start rebuilding, and stop looking back.

* * *

At six o’clock, after lowering the metal shutter, he decided to go for a walk by the river before catching his train home.

As he passed the front of the courthouse, he stopped dead in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat.