Page 33 of The Bookshop of Forbidden Books

“You’re honestly going to stand there and pretend you didn’t know?” Mitch flared, losing patience.

Now Verner was annoyed too. “Know what?” he said sharply. “I came to the meeting as scheduled – unlike you, obviously, because the shutters were down! I thought perhaps I’d got the date wrong, so I came back the next day after class, and the next, but the bookshop was always closed. I called, but no one ever picked up. I came back, again and again…”

“And?” Mitch snapped.

Verner’s face darkened. He puffed his chest and began pacing the shop, hands clasped behind his back, head bobbing wildly like a rooster on the verge of a panic attack.

“And I figured you’d left. No forwarding address. It hurt, Mitch. I thought we were friends. The way you disappeared, without a word, it stung. There, I’ve said it.”

“Do you really expect me to believe you didn’t know anything about the arrest? Or the trial?”

Verner stopped short. “What arrest? What trial?” he demanded breathlessly. As further proof of his astonishment, he sat down heavily on the nearest table.

“My arrest! My trial!” Mitch shouted. “I spent the last five years in jail!”

Verner sagged, as if his whole body were being crushed by the weight of this news.

“I had no idea,” he said. “I swear. How could I have known?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe by reading the news?”

“I stopped reading the Lighthouse years ago, for the very good reason that one learns nothing from it. I’m telling you the truth. Please believe me. Let me buy you a drink. I want you to tell me everything, if you’re willing to.”

Mitch had zero interest in a drink. It was much too early for that, and, even if it hadn’t been, he still wouldn’t have gone. But Verner showed no sign of leaving. At last Mitch gave in, vanished into the back room, and returned with a pitcher of water as a sign of silent surrender.

Verner listened without interruption. As Mitch recounted it all, two thoughts turned over in his mind: either Verner was the best liar he’d ever met, or he had truly been in the dark.

“Absolutely horrifying,” Verner whispered, when Mitch had finished.

“I survived.”

“I don’t mean prison – I mean my own ignorance. I would’ve visited. Brought pastries. We could’ve talked. Helped pass the time. Eased your loneliness – and mine, for that matter.”

Verner had that unusual gift: he could be fussy and benevolent, all at once. A master tightrope walker, always managing to land on his feet.

“Well, things turned out differently,” Mitch murmured.

“What will you do now?”

“Try to keep my shop afloat,” Mitch answered. Now wasn’t the time to mention his plan for revenge, which was becoming more and more of an obsession.

“And what about your precious collection? Was it confiscated?”

“No – they never found the secret room. I got sent up the river because of two godforsaken books I’d forgotten in the storeroom. Didn’t Salinas ever come to question you?”

“Salinas?”

“The prosecutor who ruined my life.”

“Never heard of him,” Verner vowed solemnly, looking as if he were willing to swear a blood oath to prove his sincerity.

Mitch felt almost guilty for having doubted him.

“I’m glad you didn’t get dragged in. Hope no one else did either.”

“If you want to ask me about Madame Ateltow, do feel free.”

“I couldn’t care less, to be honest.”