“It’s a joke,” repeated the guy in the too-tight suit. Juliette looked up at his laughing face and—thinking of Zaide and trying to imitate the expression of attentive solemnity that she’d caught on the little girl’s features—retorted: “No, not at all.”
“You’re … you’re a member of a … a group, I mean a kind of sect, is that it?”
The word sent a slight shiver down Juliette’s spine, as if a feather with prickly barbs had brushed her, barely touching but enough to alert her.
A sect. Wasn’t that what she’d thought when she’d come back from the depot? Perhaps even the first time she’d set foot inside? A sect, a sort of prison without bars or locks, something that clung to your skin, wormed its way inside you, obtained your consent, not even forced, no, on the contrary, it was given with relief, with enthusiasm, with the sense of having found a family at last, a purpose, something solid, that would neither crumble nor disappear; clear, simple certainties—like the words Zaide had cut out, one letter at a time, then glued onto the cover of her book, or rather, her books, all the ones she loved, she’d explained.
“Because it’s complicated explaining why you love a book. And I can’t always do it. There are books that when I’ve read them I feel … well … something stirs inside me. But I can’t show it. So, now I’ve said it and people should just try them.”
She had shot her father a slightly disdainful look.
“Me, I don’t run after anyone. But then there are some people who don’t budge at all.”
Soliman had held out his hand across the desk.
“I know what you mean, darling.”
His voice was very calm, and his right eyelid had a twitch, a tiny quiver. Zaide had blushed, and Juliette couldn’t help admiring the sight, that slow infusion of blood beneath her olive skin, from her neck to her cheekbones and to the corners of her eyes, which had filled with tears.
“I’m sorry, Papa. I’m a naughty girl. A naughty girl!”
And she turned on her heel and fled, her head bowed, hugging the book to her.
“No,” replied Juliette with a firmness that surprised even her, “I don’t belong to a sect. I love books, that’s all.”
She could have added: I don’t always like people. That was what she was thinking, at that moment, looking at him. His grin showing yellowish incisors, gap teeth, that old-fashioned healthy look, fat, pink, self-satisfied, slightly condescending. Chloe would have labeled him immediately: That guy’s a pig, forget it.
“Do you want it?” she went on.
Suspicion at once took the place of the assured smile on the man’s chubby face.
“Oh no, I’m not interested. I haven’t got any change and—”
“I don’t want to sell it to you. I’m giving it to you.”
“You mean it’s free?”
He looked gobsmacked. And suddenly greedy. He nervously ran his tongue over his fat lips, looked right and left, and leaned toward her again. The smell of aftershave engulfed Juliette, who held her breath.
“A catch,” he suddenly decided, clenching his fists on his thighs. “There’s always a catch with these freebies. You’re going to ask me for my email address and I’ll get spam till the end of the century.”
“You’ll be dead at the end of the century,” Juliette pointed out softly. “And I don’t want your email address. I’m giving you the book. I’ll be getting off at the next stop and you can forget me.”
She shut the book and placed it on her spread palms, which she raised toward him.
“Nothing in exchange. Free,” she repeated, enunciating each syllable as if speaking to a child.
He looked taken aback. Almost frightened. Finally, he held out both hands and took the book. Cool air ran through Juliette’s palms as the train drew into the station.
“Goodbye.”
He didn’t reply. She stood up, slipped the strap of her bag over her shoulder, and headed for the door behind a woman carrying her baby tied to her front with a long shawl. Over the woman’s shoulder, two tiny black eyes stared at Juliette, peeping out from beneath a woolen hat with three pom-poms, one red, one yellow, and one purple.
“Peekaboo!” said Juliette, feeling emotional.
Other people’s children always made her feel emotional, but the mothers terrified her—too confident, too competent, the opposite of what she felt she was.
The little nose wrinkled, the eyelids fluttered a fraction. That gaze. How could anyone stand that all day long, that perpetual questioning? Why? Why? Why? That tireless curiosity. Those open eyes like hungry mouths.
And that anger, at having been brought into this world, perhaps. This world.
On the platform, she took a few steps and then turned around. The guy was still staring at the closed book. He’d placed a palm down on the cover. Was he afraid it might open of its own accord? That monsters or mythological creatures would escape from it, something very ancient, dangerous, burning hot? Or too new to be confronted yet?
Juliette saw him go past as the train moved off, still hunched over, sitting motionless. His profile. His thick neck, with traces of the hair clippers. A man.
A reader?