Page 20 of The Bookshop of Forbidden Books

She brushed her hair, took one last look in the mirror, and headed downstairs. A misty rain was tapping on the windows. The silence in the house unsettled her. Five years of forced exile hadn’t erased the memories.

Throwing on her raincoat, Anna stepped out the back door. Tall weeds choked the garden all the way to the railroad tracks at the bottom of the hill. She waded over to the shed adjoining the fence that separated her garden from the neighbours’ and wrestled with a swollen door that wouldn’t budge. As a train roared past, she kicked hard at the warped wood, and finally broke it free from its frame.

From the shed she retrieved a rake, an old lawnmower, and a roll of burlap so tangled in cobwebs that it looked mummified. Then she knelt down and thrust her arm deep into a hidden spot of the shed, reaching for what she’d really come for: a calfskin pouch bound with a leather cord, the kind in which chefs usually keep their knives.

Anna’s pouch held not blades, but a pipette and two glass vials filled with a brownish liquid. While she’d been away, before falling asleep at night, she’d often wondered why she’d kept them. Was it guilt? Some kind of remorse she couldn’t let go of? She felt neither of those things now; quite the opposite, in fact. She would never be a victim again, and the world was better off without Commissioner Jabert.

Anna closed the pouch again, placed it back where she’d found it, and propped the shed’s broken door into its doorway. Then, calmly, she set off down the narrow footpath that followed the tracks toward the station. An hour later, she stepped off the train into the clamour of the city and headed for her destination: an attorney’s office.

* * *

The fading grandeur of the building bore the tell-tale signs of cost-cutting. The smell of cheap floor wax assailed Anna’s nostrils the moment she pushed open the front door. The elevator was out of order, so she climbed the stairs to the third floor and paused on the dimly lit landing before ringing the bell. A young clerk greeted her and ushered her into an office.

All parties were already present, seated around a circular table in the middle of the room: Anna, in her black raincoat, her hair pulled into a low bun; the seller, a balding man with bushy eyebrows; the attorney, in a grey suit to match his complexion; and the clerk, whose moustache made him look like a young English lord from the nineteenth century. The seller pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his forehead each time the clerk turned a page of the deed of transfer, which he was reading aloud.

Anna signed the cheque. The seller signed the deed. The attorney stamped the document and congratulated them both. The premises Anna had just purchased to open her own restaurant were in a dilapidated state, but then again, for the price she’d paid, she could hardly complain. She’d spent the last year combing through listings in a nice trade paper – one that took a full week to reach her in the mail. She’d been waiting for the kind of opportunity that would finally allow her to bring her dream to life. The photos she’d received of this building must have put off all the other prospective buyers, but not her, and she’d spent half of her savings on it. The other half would go toward renovations and wages for a skeleton staff – just enough people to keep the place afloat until some cash flow gave her a little breathing room.

And so, on that drizzly afternoon, still acclimatizing to the neighbourhood, Anna walked happily through the rain. If everything went according to plan, in just a few months she would be opening her very own restaurant.

Chapter 11

Thirteen Reasons Why

On Monday at 10 a.m., Mitch reopened his bookshop, content that he was finally moving forwards with his life. The feeling didn’t last. The first customers, a couple on their way to the train station, came in a few hours later.

The man, in his early forties, wore a sharp brown suit and lingered near the window, darting furtive glances toward the avenue. The woman, who wore black trousers, a blouse and a large pair of square-framed glasses that covered half of her face, approached the counter and asked, in a near-whisper, for a copy of Thirteen Reasons Why.

“My daughter’s been going through a difficult time,” she explained with timid politeness. “I’m trying to find a way to connect with her.”

Jay Asher’s novel, Mitch recalled, had caused quite a stir when it was first published. It told the story of a teenage girl who, shortly before taking her own life, sent cassette tapes to the people closest to her explaining the part each of them had played in her decision.

Mitch had no doubt the book had ended up on the forbidden list. Still, as a formality, he opened the drawer behind the counter, consulted his old copy of the list, and apologized: the book was unavailable for sale. The woman stared at him, bewildered.

“But I just saw it yesterday! A receptionist at our hotel had a copy. She’s the one who suggested that I read it.”

Mitch absorbed this information in silence, wondering if the receptionist in question was one of the students who had frequented his clandestine meetings before his arrest. A sudden wave of paranoia swept over him. Could this couple be a pair of undercover public safety inspectors?

“She may have found a copy somewhere, but that doesn’t change the fact that I can’t sell you one.”

“Why not?” The woman’s tone was sharp. “Do I not look trustworthy or something?”

“Of course not – it isn’t that…” Mitch stammered.

The woman continued to stare at him with the puzzled look common among people who don’t have a wide range of expressions. The man, whose jaw had tightened, approached them and thumped his fist on the counter.

“Look,” he said, “if you didn’t have the book, you’d have said so right away. I’d happily go and buy it elsewhere but our train’s leaving in less than an hour, and we need that book. I’ll even pay you three times the price, how’s that?” He pulled a fat wad of cash from his pocket.

A tense silence fell. Mitch looked from the cash to the couple, scrutinizing their faces. The whole thing felt like an obvious trap. That two government agents would play a sick game like this on the very day he reopened the shop filled him with a cold fury.

“The answer is no,” he said icily. “I know what kind of people you are. Get out, now. And don’t come back.”

The woman squared her shoulders, her jaw quivering. She looked like she was gearing up to say something terrible, until her husband grabbed her arm.

“Don’t waste your breath,” he muttered, steering her toward the door. “Guy’s just another right-wing asshole.”

* * *

Two hours later, Mitch was still shaken. No other customers had come in to break the tension. Maybe he needed a fresh perspective. Since his release from prison, he’d been living like a recluse, shuttling between the shop and his apartment, trying to put himself back together. It was time to become reacquainted with the outside world.