Page 12 of The Bookshop of Forbidden Books

With great effort, he heaved his suitcase onto the counter. His hand trembled as he opened it. His eyes welled up, and he gripped the counter as if to keep himself from falling.

“Here’s something worth discussing over a drink,” he said, gesturing towards the fifty or so books packed inside. “For your collection. I’ve gone through my whole library – they’re all on the list.”

Mitch went to lock the front door, shutting them in with Madame Bergol, who was absorbed in her erotic novel and seemed utterly oblivious. Out of politeness, Mitch called to her across the room, asking her to keep an eye on the shop. He had business to take care of with a customer and promised not to be long. Madame Bergol licked her finger, turned a page and continued to read, giving no indication that she’d heard him. Verner, who had watched the whole thing, shrugged as Mitch returned to his place behind the counter, picked up the suitcase, and invited the music teacher to follow him.

In the back room, Mitch shoved the rug aside and lifted the trapdoor. Verner didn’t even look surprised anymore. He gripped the rope railing lining the wall and descended the staircase.

While the coal hatch ladder dropped down into the cellar, Mitch’s newly built stairs led straight into the secret bookshop.

At the bottom of the stairs, Mitch turned on the ceiling lights, and Verner let his gaze sweep the place, letting out a low whistle. Mitch put the suitcase down on a low table and began shelving the books while Verner watched in silence.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about the question you asked me,” the music teacher said after a moment.

“What question?”

“I’m afraid your project lacks a certain… ambition.”

“You too?”

“Er, who else, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“A friend,” Mitch said, turning toward Verner.

“What kind of friend? Ah, never mind, it’s none of my business. But I agree with them. You’re taking too many risks for very little reward. At the rate you’re going, the number of people you share these precious books with will be very small indeed. A privileged few. And that goes against what I believe the meaning and purpose of literature to be. You need to think bigger – much bigger. If you’re going to resist, Resist with a capital R.”

Mitch fell silent, lost in thought.

“I could start a book club,” he said at last. “People could gather here, in this room – it could easily hold fifty – once or twice a week. We could have debates, think together about ways of getting around the law, take action so that banned books can still be read. We could even set up some sort of mailing system.”

“You’re a terrible liar. It was this friend of yours who came up with these ideas, wasn’t it?”

Mitch nodded, then poured two glasses of whiskey. Verner raised his glass in a toast, and downed it in one.

They both drank another, then a third. There was nothing to add; it had all been said. Verner glanced at his watch and sighed.

“I’ve got an hour to get sober. In the meantime, I can’t say I’d mind a little help getting back up those stairs. They look steeper than they felt coming down.”

Mitch helped him and then walked him to the door.

“Keep the suitcase,” Verner said. “A gift from me to you. I don’t travel anymore, except to go an hour from here by train.”

Madame Bergol took advantage of Verner’s departure to slip out as well, throwing Mitch a dark look as she went.

* * *

Verner was wrong to assume that the book club had been Mathilde’s idea. The idea had been all Mitch’s, or nearly so. Mathilde had convictions, outrage and ideals – but seldom a concrete plan to put them into action. She had been right about one thing, though: sowing further distrust in the population was exactly what the government wanted.

That morning, Mitch had slipped out of Mathilde’s bed, gathered his things and left her studio as quietly as a mouse. Needing to clear his head, he’d gone for a walk along the riverbank, where he’d come across his English teacher from school. Madame Ateltow had immediately recognized her former student sitting on a bench, looking contemplative.

“You’ve hardly changed,” she said, sitting down next to him. “And don’t say I haven’t either. Twenty years is a long time.”

She was eager to hear about what he’d done with his life, so Mitch filled her in. She wasn’t surprised; being a bookseller suited him perfectly, she thought. She remembered Mitch as a hard worker with his head in the clouds, a rare combination, as most teenagers were either one or the other. Mitch hardly remembered that, nor the stories about him that Madame Ateltow clearly delighted in recounting. She was a little too chatty for Mitch in his sleep-deprived state, but her company was pleasant anyway, her eyes sharper than he remembered, and her voice soothing. She lived all the way on the other side of town, she confided; in fact, she didn’t go out much and was unfailingly loyal to her own neighbourhood bookshop. And even when Mitch remarked that it was getting late, and he should get back, Madame Ateltow kept talking.

“Is it a woman or your business that’s put you in such a mood?”

“Neither,” Mitch replied.

“You’re a handsome young man. You’re in good shape, and you have a wonderful profession – and yet you seem to have the weight of the world on your shoulders.”