Page 30 of The Bookshop of Forbidden Books

“I remember telling you that day that I needed a friendly travel companion. I didn’t know you were making me your accomplice.”

“Selling the book was illegal, not reading it.”

“Who even came up with such an absurd law?”

“The better question is why people went along with it. That’s what I couldn’t understand, and all I could do was sit around and think. Tyrants don’t need monsters to create a tyrannical state: they just need a system. Minor tasks that in themselves don’t seem objectionable, performed by regular people. Each person carries out their task in order to get paid, or get a bonus or a promotion. The cops that came for me were only doing their jobs – arresting a lawbreaker – nothing to keep them awake at night. Same thing for the clerk, the jurors, the judge. The bus driver who drove me to prison. That’s how authoritarian regimes cement their power: by parcelling out responsibility in such a way that no one realizes they’re a link in a chain of atrocities.”

“What about the prosecutor?”

“He’d tell you he was only upholding the law. Sleeping just fine too, I imagine. For the big jobs, the regime relies on the most eager and cruellest of collaborators. He’s been promoted since. He’s Attorney General now.”

Anna was looking at him strangely. The silence stretched out between them, long enough to make Mitch uncomfortable.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Not at all. Just thinking.”

“If being around an ex-con bothers you, I get it, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried. And as you said, there’s nothing criminal about you.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I put myself in your shoes for a minute.”

“Ah. How was it?”

“How long were you in prison?”

“Five years.”

Anna made a shocked sound loud enough to turn a few nearby heads. “Five years for selling books? If it were me, I don’t think I could’ve resisted an opportunity to get him back.” She spoke much more quietly now.

“Really?” Mitch asked, shocked.

“Really.” With touching sincerity.

“What makes you think I didn’t? Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

Mitch handed her a menu, but Anna pushed it aside without a glance.

“Come on. Let’s go somewhere else.”

The place she took him was a far cry from the sort of spot Mathilde would’ve chosen.

It was a neighbourhood eatery where the waiters knew all the regulars by name. The soft evening light streamed through tall windows, catching the edges of old mirrors and vintage tiles, casting a warm, nostalgic glow that felt vaguely like what Mitch imagined of sixteenth-century Madrid. Le Conquistador served fusion food in a lively atmosphere. When Anna tried the asparagus d’Aranjuez, it caught her off guard in the best way. This was worlds apart from the dull, traditional dishes at Les Trois Cousins. José had clearly reinvented himself.

“This is incredible,” said Mitch appreciatively, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “What’s my dish called?”

“Roast cochinillo,” Anna replied absently.

“Er… does roast cochinillo bring up bad memories, or…?”

“I used to be close with the chef.”

“And you’re not anymore?” Mitch asked, his hopes for the evening fading fast.