“Mademoiselle Joubert?” I asked.

She told me to call her Bitsi, that everyone did, ever since a subscriber from Texas had taken one look at her and proclaimed, “Why, you’re just an itsy-bitsy thing!” She said she’d wanted to make my acquaintance ever since she’d noticed my name scrawled on the cards of her favorite novels.

“We’re bookmates,” she said, in the decisive tone one would assert “the sky is blue,” or “Paris is the best city in the world.” I was skeptical about soulmates, but could believe in bookmates, two beings bound by a passion for reading.

She proffered The Brothers Karamazov. “I wept when I finished.” Her voice swelled with emotion. “First because I was happy to have read it. Second because the story was so moving. Third because I’ll never again experience the discovery of it.”

“Dostoevsky’s my favorite dead author,” I said.

“Mine too. Who’s your favorite live one?”

“Zora Neale Hurston. The first time I checked out Their Eyes Were Watching God, I gorged on the chapters, wolfing down the words. I needed to find out what happened next—Would Janie marry the wrong man? Would Tea Cake live up to my hopes for Janie? Then, with a handful of pages left, I started to dread the fact that this world that I loved was coming to an end. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. I read slowly, just savoring the scenes.”

She nodded. “I do the same, to make each page last as long as possible.”

“I finished the novel in four days, but kept it the full two weeks. On the due date, I placed it on the circulation desk, but my hand remained on the cover, not ready to let go. Boris found me three other books by Miss Hurston.

“I gorged on those, too, like chocolate cake, like love. I cared so deeply about the characters that they became real. I felt I knew Janie, that one day she might enter the Library and invite me for coffee.”

“I feel that way about my favorite characters, too,” Bitsi said.

A mother approached. “My son chose these”—she held up two storybooks—“but they appear to be… well thumbed.”

“They’re well loved,” Bitsi replied. “If you prefer, we have brand-new books on our ‘latest arrivals’ shelf.”

When Bitsi mouthed, “Back to work,” and led them to the display, I peeked into the reference room, hoping to see Paul, but he wasn’t there.

Disappointed, I continued to my desk, where a subscriber tapped her foot, wanting her Harper’s Bazaar. “Where have you been?” Madame Simon scolded.

When I handed her the latest issue, still in its brown wrapping paper, she softened, confiding that at home she was last in line. Dentures wiggling as she spoke, she explained that everything she owned—the matted mink from a dead aunt, the false teeth that had belonged to her mother-in-law—had served someone else. But here, she was first to take pleasure in fashion, though there was nothing she could afford. “Or fit into,” she lamented, her beefy hand skimming her stout figure. She settled in next to Professor Cohen.

Observing Boris, Madame said, “They say that during the Russian Revolution, his family fortune was lost. He had to start over here in France. Penniless as a pauper.”

“Whatever his situation, he’s a prince of a man,” the professor said.

“His wife’s the princess, or was. Now she’s a cashier. How the mighty have fallen!”

“Spoken by someone who’s never had to earn her own keep.”

Clara de Chambrun strode past, laden with papers. “And speaking of nobility,” Madame snickered, “there’s the countess from Ohio.”

“You’ve a bee in your beret today, and quite a sting. Clara’s an excellent trustee, knows how to raise funds. We wouldn’t be sitting here if it weren’t for her. Since you’re enamored by fashion, I’ll say this: snark isn’t a good look on anyone.”

CHAPTER 7

Margaret

PARIS, MARCH 1939

PATTING HER MORNING pearls nervously, Margaret hesitated at the threshold of the American Library. It was as quiet as a cathedral, and she wasn’t sure she should enter. Margaret certainly wasn’t American, nor was she interested in books. But after four months in Paris, she was desperate for English in any form. The French language was a nasal bog that she had to wade through in the shops, the hairdresser’s, and the bakery. No one in those places spoke English. Reduced to sign language, she pointed and held up a finger to signal she wanted one croissant. She nodded to show she grasped the meaning; she shrugged to show she didn’t.

At home, her husband, Lawrence, did most of the talking. Nanny minded Christina, and Jameson ran the flat with the same efficiency here as in London. No one needed her. Margaret barely spoke at all.

She’d assumed she would love Paris. The haute couture, the lingerie, the perfume. But shopping alone wasn’t amusing. When she tried on dresses, no friends admired her figure. More than anything, Margaret wanted her mother’s opinion—was this gown her color, should she have a heart-to-heart with Lawrence or let him be? What surprised Margaret most about Paris wasn’t Jeanne Lanvin’s gorgeous dresses or the posh hats that women wore, it was how much she missed her mum.

Margaret didn’t understand the unfamiliar money. And the shopgirls cheated her! When she bought stockings, they told her, in their convoluted language, that seventy-five francs was the price for each one, not the pair. Yet when a Parisian behind her in the queue purchased the same stockings, she paid half. Margaret couldn’t fight back, she couldn’t insist. She could only stamp her foot, which made the shopgirls giggle. Jokes at her expense were very costly.