The Paris Library

by Janet Skeslien Charles

The only thing that made Rémy forget his worries – which was to say the worries of others – was a good book. I ran my fingers along the spines. Choosing one, I opened to a random passage. I never judged a book by its beginning. It felt like the first and last date I’d once had, both of us smiling too brightly.

There was sorrow in her eyes, but was it loss or regret? And after living in Paris, how could she settle for this dull dot on the plains?

‘The best thing about Paris? It’s a city of readers,’ our neighbour said.

She said that in friends’ homes, books were as important as the furniture.

‘Robins are elegant,’ she told me, ‘a good omen, a reminder of the special things we have right in front of us.’

‘People are awkward, they don’t always know what to do or say. Don’t hold it against them. You never know what’s in their hearts.’

Boris was famous for his bibliotherapy. He knew which books would mend a broken heart, what to read on a summer day, and which novel to choose for an adventurous escape.

I was sceptical about soulmates, but could believe in bookmates, two beings bound by a passion for reading.

Gently, she cupped my cheek. ‘Because I believe in the power of books – we do important work, by making sure knowledge is available, and by creating community. And because I have faith.’ ‘In God?’ ‘In young women like you and Bitsi and Margaret – I know you’ll set the world right.’

You’re nothing without principles. Nowhere without ideals. No one without courage.

We added 810 (American), 840 (French) and 302.34 (friendship), and created our shelf of 1955.34-worthy books. Some favourites were Le Petit Prince, Little Women, The Secret Garden, Candide, The Long Winter, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Their Eyes Were Watching God.

I remembered a line from Bridge to Terabithia: Life was as delicate as a dandelion. One little puff from any direction, and it was blown to bits.

‘People make plans, and God laughs,’ she said.

Odile had told him it meant ‘After the darkness of war, the light of books’.

I thought of a line from Good Morning, Midnight: I want a long, calm book about people with large incomes – a book like a flat green meadow and the sheep feeding in it . . . I read most of the time and I am happy.

Love is like the sea. It’s a moving thing, but still and all, it takes shape from the shore it meets, and it’s different with every shore. 813, Their Eyes Were Watching God.