Page 11 of The Bookshop of Forbidden Books

“I don’t want to argue,” she purred, and kissed him.

* * *

After they’d made love, she took him to one of her own secret places – a jazz club where the mingled tobacco and marijuana smoke floating above the tables was enough to intoxicate him. Their night ended in the dorm room Mathilde rented in the city, a tiny place furnished with nothing but a small desk, a chair, and a rumpled king-size duvet draped over a mattress on the floor. The bathroom was minuscule but she pulled Mitch into the shower with her anyway. Afterward, completely exhausted, he flopped into bed. Mathilde snuggled against him, still full of energy.

“You think certain places are predestined?”

“For what?” Mitch yawned.

“For good, evil, love, hate, damnation, salvation…”

Mitch rolled his eyes. He was a dyed-in-the-wool atheist, even if making love to Mathilde was like a little glimpse of heaven.

“Haven’t you ever walked into a place and instantly felt amazing, like you never want to leave? Or the opposite – like you’re suffocating and have to get out as fast as you can?”

“Probably,” he murmured, eyelids drooping.

“Well, I think I know why that is.” She turned to face him, propped up on one elbow, her cheek resting on her fist.

“Walls absorb energy. Positive or negative,” she began. “Some places are nests for love, others are grounds for heartbreak. You can feel when something awful’s happened; at least, I can. Can’t you? Mitch, if you fall asleep, I’m kicking you out.”

He opened his eyes to find Mathilde practically quivering with impatience. She was clearly anxious to share something that mattered to her deeply – so much so that nothing could keep it inside. Mathilde always did what she wanted, when she wanted it, and she never took no for an answer.

“Back in the sixteenth century,” she began, “a carpenter built his house on the edge of a forest. At the time, carpenters were also responsible for amputating limbs, and because accidents were so common he set aside a corner of his workshop just for that. When he died, his son took over – until, one day, a fire destroyed both the house and the workshop. A few decades later, the forest was cut down to make room for a village. War had recently broken out, so they converted an old barn into a makeshift infirmary, on the very spot where the carpenter had lived. When the village grew into a small town, the infirmary became a medical clinic. And now, a century later, the small town is a big city, and the clinic is a hospital.”

“Which hospital?” Mitch asked.

“The university hospital, believe it or not.”

“Where did you find out about all this?”

“At the University Hospital. Where do you think I’m studying? That place was always destined for healing. Now, think about what you found in the cellar of your bookshop. That was no accident.”

“So you’re telling me my cellar was destined to become a secret bookshop?” Mitch asked, a hint of mockery in his voice.

“What happened there in the past, before you rediscovered it?”

“It was used to conceal stolen goods, according to the previous owner. But I think it was more than that – a hideaway to drink and dance and gamble at a time when a lot of that stuff was illegal.”

“See? What did I just say? Your secret room was meant to be a place where people fight for their freedom!”

And with that Mathilde launched into a detailed explanation of everything Mitch needed to do if he wanted to be more than just a dreamer – if he wanted to take part in what she was already calling a major battle for justice.

Mathilde had that power some have, to banish apathy, to ignite ambition in men. Ambitions they didn’t even know they had until they’d slept with her.

Chapter 7

The English Teacher

Verner considered his own career to have been mediocre. He was as hard on himself as he was on his students, among whom he’d never found a true prodigy. Just one genius would have been enough for him to justify a whole life dedicated to teaching. Now, with ten years left until retirement, Verner figured there was little left for him to discover about himself. Thus, it made sense that he had become deeply invested in the tango school competition, whose qualifying rounds had been taking place every Thursday evening for the past few weeks. So after dinner, he turned on his stereo, laid a vinyl record on the turntable, and rehearsed his steps to the tune of ‘La Cumparsita’. He danced alone, keeping his back straight, knees slightly bent. It would all come down to his control of the movements, their sensuality, the emotions they would arouse. With years of practice under his belt, Verner thought he might finally have a chance at victory. But ever since his exchange with Mitch the previous weekend, he had been as distracted by the bookseller’s secret as he was by the dance competition.

* * *

The next Thursday, Verner showed up at the bookshop in the late afternoon, dragging a suitcase so heavy that it made him look like a miniature Leaning Tower of Pisa in an old raincoat and a pair of battered loafers.

“Going on vacation?” Mitch enquired.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Just give me a minute to catch my breath,” the music teacher panted.