“Don’t look so shocked,” he told me. “It happens at least once a week. Someone always thinks our job is to protect morals.”

“Out of curiosity, which book was she talking about?”

“Studs Lonigan.”

“I’ll make a note to read it.”

He laughed, and watching him, I couldn’t help but think how odd—and wonderful—it was that we were now colleagues.

“I have something for you,” he said.

“You do?” I hoped he’d selected a novel for me. Instead, he tendered a list of seventy books that I was to gather and wrap for out-of-town subscribers. I consulted my watch. Already 2:00 p.m. I’d been so busy, I’d forgotten lunch. Too late now. From Summer, 813, to Alcools, 841, the treasure hunt took me throughout the three floors of stacks. By 6:00 p.m., my feet ached and so did my head. I’d never felt a fatigue like this, not even during exam week. I’d met twenty people and couldn’t remember a single name. I’d spoken English all day, answering dozens of inquiries—Is it true that Frenchmen eat frog legs, and if so, what do they do with the rest of the frog? May I access the archives? Where’s the restroom? What did you say, girl? Speak up! By the end of my shift, the language deserted me. It was like opening a novel, only to find the pages blank.

Clutching my droopy daffodils, I stepped into the cold night air. Frost covered the pebbles of the path and made them slick. The blisters on my feet throbbed. The walk home seemed as if it would take fifteen years instead of fifteen minutes. Limping along, I noticed that across the way, under the dim light of the lampadaire, a black car chugged. My father got out and opened the passenger door.

“Oh, Papa, merci.” Relieved to slip back into French, I slid onto the seat, sitting for the first time since breakfast.

“Are you hungry?” He presented me with an Honoré pastry box. Opening it, I savored the buttery aroma of the financier before taking a bite. The cake came apart in my mouth; I closed my eyes and chewed slowly.

“?a va?” he asked. “The first day, and you’re already exhausted. You don’t have one of your headaches, do you?”

“I’m fine, Papa.”

“At your age,” he said, his tone tender, “Maman and I had just survived the war and were mourning the loss of friends and family. You’re only twenty—we want you to enjoy your youth, find a beau, go to dances, not slave away in some book factory.”

“Papa, please, not tonight…” My whole life, my parents’ talk of war had ricocheted around me—tanks and trenches, mustard gas and mutilated soldiers.

“All right, we’ll talk about something else. Now, I know you work Sundays, so I’ve invited a fellow for dinner on Wednesday. This one says he reads!”

CHAPTER 6

Odile

EACH MORNING BEFORE the Library opened, I paid a visit to a different department. Monday, I had an appointment in accounting, where Miss Wedd, the bookkeeper, was known for her keen mind and scrumptious scones. When she leaned over her ledger, I saw three pencils tucked in her brown bun. After she explained the expenditure lines—everything from coal and firewood to books and glue for bindings, I asked if I could interview her. I had an idea for the monthly newsletter Miss Reeder had assigned to me. In addition to the usual scholarly reviews and the list of books that had been checked out the most, I wanted to include something more personal about subscribers and staff.

“What kind of reader are you?” I asked, notepad in hand.

“I liked maths in school. Numbers always made more sense than people. That’s why my favorite books are by the ancient Greeks: Pythagoras and Heraclitus. We’re still using their work, their ideas.

“I’m not like Boris and Miss Reeder. I’m not good with the public.” She slid a fourth pencil into her hair. “But I hope that in some small way, my contribution here matters. For over a decade, I’ve filled entire books with tales of generous donors and knowledgeable staff who work long hours, only I write vertical columns instead of horizontal lines.”

Interviewing her was like watching a rose bloom: she opened up, the petals of her cheeks pink with passion. “Thank you,” I said, glad I chose her. “Readers will love your answers, and I’m eager to discover Heraclitus.”

I was also enjoying getting to know my colleagues. Tuesday, I spent time with Peter-the-shelver, the only one tall enough to reach the top ledges. By arranging the books on the cart by their call numbers, he shelved ten books in the time I replaced two. He had the fine physique of a boxer, but when matronly Madame Frot’s foghorn of a voice blared through the stacks, “Peter dear, oh, Peter,” he dove into the cloakroom to avoid the amorous subscriber.

Wednesday, I went to the children’s room, where short bookshelves bordered the walls, and tiny tables and chairs were grouped in front of the crackling fire. Though I’d never met the children’s librarian, Muriel Joubert, I felt like I knew her, because the neat script of her signature appeared on each of the cards of the books I checked out. In the last week alone, she beat me to My ántonia, Belinda, and The Interesting Narrative of the Life of Olaudah Equiano. Given all she’d read, I’d pictured a white-haired lady. Instead, I found a girl my age observing me with keen violet eyes. Even with the black braid crowning her head, she didn’t measure five feet.