Page 47 of The Librarian Spy

Lamant blinked in surprise. “I would never ask that of you.”

“I know.” Ava set her wineglass on the small table between their chairs. “I wanted to help regardless.”

And she still did, to repay him for all he had done in procuring the foreign publications. At every turn, her requests had been denied. She had been warned by Peggy, then snubbed by the vice-consuls at the embassy who refused to hear her pleas and then refused by a contact in DC she knew through one of her former roommates.

“I didn’t want you to think I hadn’t tried,” she said softly. “Not that it did any good.”

A waiter whisked by, and her glass disappeared.

Lamant studied her for a long moment. “No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted,” he said, quoting Aesop.

“My father used that quote often.”

“Then he would be proud of you.” Lamant settled his hand on hers, his fingers cold from cradling his drink. “You are meant to do great things.”

Though his compliment warmed her, it was another brick of expectation she did not feel she could support. In her months in Lisbon, she had not helped the refugees save for a few books given to children in the mornings and while she worked hard at collecting the newspapers, she wished she could do more. Daniel was still in danger, she was unable to find her neighbor who had been arrested by the PVDE, the world was still at war, and she could not even procure one American visa.

She was letting everyone down.

The sense of her own helplessness did not diminish as the months slid into October, when the chill of autumn gilded the foliage, leaving the trees awash in a splay of burnished gold. However, it was then she received two letters. One from Daniel—short and sweet, erring on the side of censorship, safe rather than the elaborate. And one under the door of her apartment from Lamant who she had not seen in several weeks.

I have finally not only secured an American visa but am leaving on a ship tomorrow. I wish to enjoy the final night of Lisbon with the people I cherish most in this stunning city.

Sheer joy engulfed her at such a letter, exquisite and filled with light. Despite the hurdles in Lamant’s path, he had managed to scale them and was on the other side at last. It was a worthy cause for celebration indeed.

That was how she and James found themselves navigating the ancient section of Lisbon known as Alfama with a moon hung high and full overhead in an inky, star-studded sky. The rest of the city was charted in a modern grid-like Pombaline pattern with widely spaced streets, but Alfama maintained its narrow winding passages with a complex maze of stairs and steep slopes, exactly as it had been in the medieval days.

That area was one of the few to have survived the fateful day in 1755 when an earthquake struck and destroyed most of the city. But the tragedy was not finished there. The shuddering earth enraged the Tagus River, which swelled into tidal waves and washed away pieces of Lisbon. As if that were not enough, the tipped candles and lanterns from the earthquake set ablaze what had not been reduced to rubble or submerged.

The devastation was momentous and resulted in tens of thousands of lost lives. Its worldwide news deeply impacted Voltaire who not only incorporated the tragedy into his tales of Candide but wrote an entire poem lamenting the disaster.

Even though by some miracle Alfama still stood, reinforcing brackets now thrust from the painted exteriors of the homes from those archaic days, like stitches on torn skin.

James was able to navigate the complex layout with an expertise she admired. The buildings around them rose three to five stories tall, their pastel faces dotted with shuttered windows, which residents leaned out of to chat with one another, some only an arm’s length away. Aromas of home-cooked dinners filled the streets, sizzling sausages and smoky, grilled seafood.

Ava’s mouth watered at the tempting scents, especially since they had been told to arrive hungry.

As they carefully made their way down a steep set of stairs toward a crumbling building, Ava caught sight of Lamant waiting for them at the bottom with a younger man who wore a genuine smile and a simple button-down shirt and slacks to James’s and Lamant’s tailored suits. Despite his youth, there was an exhaustion swelling the skin beneath his eyes and dulling his appearance somewhat.

Lamant introduced the man as Ethan Williams who worked with the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee.

“JDC,” Ethan abbreviated as he held out his hand.

Ava accepted it with a firm shake that earned her a nod of approval from the man.

“Ethan works closely with the refugees and can help you acquire more of the newspapers I’ve been supplying you with,” Lamant said. “Which is why I found it imperative to introduce you prior to my departure.” He put a hand on Ethan’s shoulder and gave it an affectionate squeeze, as a father might do to his son. “Ethan has been crucial in gathering a majority of the material I pass your way, as well as finally getting me to America.”

“It was so good of you to assist Lamant.” She smiled at the older Frenchman and pushed down the emotion threatening to overwhelm her. Not only the sorrow at knowing she would soon be absent his company forever, but also the joy at his escape.

Ethan nodded. “Of course. I’m happy to help.”

Lamant beamed at them all. “My favorite people are together here in this place of refuge even as my own countrymen tried to have me deported. I have been far more fortunate than most to enjoy the splendor of Portugal. It is a country of beauty and art and friendship, and I want to relish this final day with those I love.”

His words were true. He was fortunate. Not only for the luxury his wealth had afforded him as he bided his time, but also in how he saw the world, like a wrapped confection with new delights beneath each opaque covering.

“And now we must hurry, or we will miss the next singer.” Lamant ushered them toward the door.

Ava allowed him to guide her inside. “Singer?”