“You really want to do that.”
It wasn’t a question. Leonidas, sitting in Soliman’s armchair, surrounded by a haze of pipe smoke as always, simply wanted to be sure that he had understood the hasty, garbled speech Juliette had made.
“It’s a good idea, don’t you think? I never managed to do what Soliman asked me to do: follow someone and study them carefully to find out what book they needed, working out which one would give them the hope, or the energy, or the anger they were lacking. This way, I’ll have lots of books in the minibus, and I’ll go and see people in the villages, and I’ll take the time to get to know them, at least a little. It will be easier. To advise them, I mean. To find the right book. For them.”
The man in the green hat—which was still perched on top of his head—took his pipe out of his mouth and gazed pensively at the bowl.
“Does what Soliman wanted matter so much to you? Did it ever occur to you that he was simply mad, and the rest of us with him? You don’t see us passeurs as some kind of … healers of the soul, doctors who wander around with their bags of medicines?”
“Well…”
How to tell him that yes, it was like that in a way? That she had ended up believing, no, being convinced, that all the world’s diseases—and all the remedies—were concealed between the covers of books? That in books you found betrayal, solitude, murder, madness, rage—everything that could grab you by the throat and ruin your life, not to mention others’ lives, and that sometimes crying over printed pages could save a person’s life? That finding your soul mate in the middle of an African novel or a Korean tale helped you realize the extent to which human beings suffer from the same ills, the extent to which we are alike, and that it is perhaps possible to talk to one another—to smile, caress one another, exchange signs of recognition, any signs—to try to harm others less from day to day? But Juliette was afraid of reading on Leonidas’s face an expression of condescension because, yes, all that was pop psychology.
And yet she believed it.
So she waited on the street corner for the breakdown vehicle from Dourdan-la-Forêt, paid the exorbitant sum the driver demanded without wincing, watched him unload the minibus—which at present looked like a wreck and nothing like the ball of sunshine she thought she’d seen shining back there, in the tumbledown shed, wreathed in the deceptive magic of the fog.
She called the nearest garage—out of the question, this time, to bankrupt herself with a long-distance charge—asked for an estimate, pulled a face, went up to the attic to retrieve the last pots of yellow paint, bought some detergent, and set to work.
Leonidas had brought out a garden chair and was sitting in front of the glazed door of the office, watching her. Every so often, he brought her an almond croissant and an instant coffee—they had given up trying to get Soliman’s contraption to work—nodded solemnly, and went back and sat down. The other passeurs had stopped coming. The rumors must have got around; they circulated even faster than the books, with their words released from the weight of print. Perhaps, mused Juliette, scrubbing the mold-encrusted bonnet, the story of the world as she knew it was one big rumor that some people had taken the trouble to set down in writing, and which would continue to evolve, again and again, until the end. The fact remained that they were alone.
With their ghosts.
And the bus, which sloughed off its dead skin like a snake clinging to a shrub, began to gleam again. It seemed to take up more and more room in the little courtyard.
“It’s so big,” muttered Leonidas, unable to conceal a certain admiration. “Now what do we do?”
Juliette was standing next to him, proud of her efforts, struggling to peel off her rubber gloves. The bodywork was still yellow, several different yellows because she’d had to buy more paint, and the fad for buttercup yellow had long since been replaced by one for canary or grapefruit yellow. There was still some of the original color left, on the bonnet, where the bodywork had been best protected. She was sorry that Zaide wasn’t there to paint flowers on the doors, as she’d done in the room Soliman had invited Juliette to move into just a few weeks earlier. But Zaide would not return to the depot. Not for a while, anyway. In the meantime, Leonidas was going to live there—his pension, he joked, could well do without having to cover rent. He wanted to rebuild the network of passeurs, to carry on, in short, and also …
“Boats need a home port,” he said that day, looking at the newly painted bus. “And that is a boat. Not a racing yacht for sure—there’s nothing streamlined about it. It’s even rather plump. It looks like a child’s toy. It reminds me of that Beatles song, ‘Yellow Submarine,’ do you know it? That’s what we should call it.”
Juliette began to laugh.
“You know the Beatles?” she asked, incredulous.
“Of course. Even if I were a hundred, I’d know them. You’re the one who’s not of your era, Juliette. And you’re marvelous that way. Although I won’t tell you to stay as you are, because it’s the opposite of what you want. But keep that little … I must be getting old; I can’t find my words. I can’t put my finger on what it is.”
“Neither can I,” murmured Juliette.
He smiled at her—a slightly wistful smile, but full of kindness.
“Just as well, really.”