Juliette took three steps forward, reached out, and gingerly touched the pages swollen from the damp. She ran her tongue over her upper lip. Seeing a book wedged between two metal doors hurt her almost more than drowning a spider. Gently, she leaned her shoulder against one of the double doors and heaved; the book slid a little farther down. She caught it and, with her shoulder still to the door, raised the book to her face.
She had always loved the smell of books, especially when she bought them secondhand. New books had different smells, too, depending on the paper and glue used, but they said nothing of the hands that had held them, the houses that had been their home; they had no story of their own yet, separate from the one they told—a parallel story, hazy, secret.
Some smelled musty, others exuded the clinging aroma of curry, tea, or dried flowers; sometimes the pages had grease stains, or a long blade of grass that had served as a bookmark on a summer afternoon, turned to dust; phrases underlined or notes in the margin constituting a fragmented diary, a sketchy biography, sometimes bearing witness to indignation, or a separation.
This one smelled of the street—a mixture of rust and smoke, of guano and burnt tires. But also, surprisingly, of mint. Stalks fell out of the fold, dropped soundlessly to the ground, and the fragrance became even more intense.
“Zaide!”
The voice shouted again, a galloping sound; Juliette felt a warm little body bang into her.
“Excuse me.”
The voice, surprisingly deep for a child, sounded shocked. Juliette looked down and met a pair of brown eyes, so dark that the dilated pupils seemed to fill the irises.
“This is my house,” said the little girl.
“May I come in?” Juliette whispered.
“Of course.”
Awkwardly, Juliette stepped sideways and the heavy door began to close. The little girl pushed it with both hands.
“That’s why Papa always leaves a book there,” she explained patiently. “The handle’s too stiff for me.”
“But why a book?”
The question burst out like a criticism. Juliette felt herself blush, which hadn’t happened to her for a long time—especially not in front of a ten-year-old pip-squeak.
Zaide—what a pretty name—shrugged.
“Oh, them! He says they’re ‘cuckoos.’ That’s funny, isn’t it? Like the birds. They’ve got the same pages repeated three or four times, they haven’t been made right, you see? You can’t read them. Well, not really. Show me that one.”
The girl leaned forward, closed her eyes, and sniffed.
“I tried to read it. It’s a stupid story, about a girl who meets a boy. She hates him and then she loves him, but then he hates her and … I was so bored that I put mint leaves in it so that at least it would smell nice.”
“That’s a lovely idea,” said Juliette softly.
“Do you want to come in? Are you one of the passeurs? I’ve never seen you before.”
Passeurs? Juliette shook her head. The word evoked images from a black-and-white film: hazy shapes bent double running through tunnels or crawling under barbed wire as the passeurs smuggled Jews out of the German-occupied zone to safety, young women on bicycles carrying Resistance pamphlets in their saddlebags and smiling with feigned innocence at a German soldier wearing a gray-green salad bowl helmet. Images seen hundreds of times at the cinema or on TV, so familiar that you sometimes forgot the horrors they represented.
“So, do you want to be one?” Zaide went on. “It’s easy. Come on, let’s go and see my father.”
Once again, Juliette shook her head. Then her gaze left the little girl’s face and lighted on the doorplate with the mysterious but simple wording. BOOKS UNLIMITED. Such a curious name. Books know neither limits nor borders, except sometimes of the language in which they’re written—so why…?
She could feel her mind wandering, even though she was aware that the clock was ticking and she had to leave, get away from this street and return as soon as possible to the neon lighting of her office at the back of the agency, the musty odor of property files and client files, Chloe’s nonstop chatter and Monsieur Bernard’s cough, loose or dry depending on the season, the fourth viewing for a retired couple who couldn’t make up their minds between a house in suburban Milly-la-Forêt or a one-bedroom apartment near Porte d’Italie.
“Come on,” Zaide urged her again.
She took Juliette’s hand and pulled her into the courtyard, then carefully put the book back to prop open the door.
“That’s the office, over there across the courtyard, with the glass door. Just knock. I’m going upstairs.”
“Don’t you go to school?” asked Juliette instinctively.
“There’s a case of chicken pox in my class,” replied the girl self-importantly. “We’ve all been sent home; I’ve even got a note for my father. Don’t you believe me?”
Her little round face had creased into a worried frown. The tip of her tongue peeked out from between her lips, as pink and smooth as a marzipan flower.
Of course Juliette believed her.
“That’s okay then. It’s just you’re all so suspicious,” Zaide concluded with a shrug.
She spun around and again her braids bounced on her shoulders. Her hair was dark brown, with a honey sheen when the sun caught it; each of her braids was as thick as her delicate wrist.
While she raced up the steps of a metal staircase that led to a long gallery running the length of the first floor of the building—probably a former factory—Juliette made her way hesitantly toward the glass door. She didn’t know exactly why she’d followed the little girl and was now obeying her order—thinking about it, was it an order? Or a piece of advice? In any case, this was utter madness: she was already late, she knew it without needing to look at her watch. A fine drizzle was now falling and gently stinging her face, prompting her to seek warmth, a temporary shelter. After all, she had nothing urgent to do that morning … she could always say her washing machine was on the blink. It had been acting up for months. She had even talked at length to Monsieur Bernard about it, and he’d insisted on explaining to her the merits of the different brands. He maintained that the German ones were the best, so much more reliable, he claimed, and even offered to go with her the following Saturday to a store he knew: the manager was a distant cousin, a trustworthy man who would advise her well.
The glazed door sparkled, reflecting a section of sky—and in the depths of the room, a light was on.
Juliette raised her hand and knocked.