And we did make something of the place. It took us less than a month to settle in. It didn’t require a lot of renovation work. The day we put up the words THE GOOD NOVEL on the pediment of the little display window, I don’t know which was strongest—pride, worry, or disappointment at how small these letters were compared with the ones we’d had on the rue Dupuytren.
We were afraid that Doultremont might open an ordinary bookstore in the superb premises we had left behind at the Odéon. But we’ve just learned that they are going to open some sort of high-end electronics supermarket, and Doultremont has left France to go live in Brussels.
The Good Novel is off to a new start on the rue d’Hauteville. The clientele is no longer quite the same. It’s strange, in the same town, with the same books.
We’ve kept the same opening times. The evening hours are still just as gratifying: every day there are half a dozen devotees who read, standing there silently, until closing time.
One thing that is holding up well, and can only get better, is online sales. As soon as we have the means, we will do everything to promote it. The future of the bookstore is there, and we have a bit of a head start.
Armel Le Gall makes regular contributions to The Good Novel. Van converts them into co-op shares. “You’ll see who I name in my will,” grumbles Armel. In the meantime it helps us to keep the bankers quiet.
Oscar has put his redundancy pay to good use. He is finishing his novel. “It’s good to have some time,” he says. I’m eager to read it. According to what he has said about his work, I can already guess it’s something powerful, like Conrad. He hopes he’ll make a little bit of money from it.
He’ll need it, if he’s to see his plan through, to open a bookstore like The Good Novel in Tananarive.
“Madagascar is changing,” he says. “People are investing. They’re building the first luxury hotel. There’s no reason to think the country won’t develop. When things start getting better, I’d like to be there, too, and for books to be a part of it.
“And besides, in the century of the Internet, geographical location isn’t so very important. I think we should share the world. It’s happened before. For me, Africa and Asia ought to be enough start with, I’ll leave you the rest.”
“He reminds me of someone,” says Ivan. “Do you remember? The desert will bloom: that’s also my conviction.”
A few days ago, Folco came in with a newspaper from Argentina. Apparently a Good Novel clone is going to open in Buenos Aires. Ivan remembered that in the spring of 2005, at the height of all the controversy in the press, requests for information about the bookstore came from several places around the world, Berlin, Milan, a few others, Buenos Aires, in any case, that’s for sure. He no longer cares about keeping an eye on everything. “What more can I hope for, that the idea of The Good Novel will spread as much as possible,” he says.
We haven’t had any news from Ruth for a while. I called Houston. Things are going well, there, for The Good Novel. Word has got around in academic circles, and with the help of the Internet, they don’t want to go anywhere else. The foundation is studying the idea of opening another bookstore. Ruth was extremely interested to hear what is going on in Buenos Aires: while The Good Novel goes to bat in Houston for English-language novels, she had been thinking of setting up some sort of Buena Novela in a Spanish-speaking country. Perhaps her foundation will be able to assist the Argentine Project.
We see a lot of Yassin. He lives only a few streets away from The Good Novel, on the rue Jarry. He wanted to go on doing the cleaning at the bookstore, for free. We refused. Maybe that was a bit unbending of us, maybe we were wrong. At least that’s what Yassin says.
Sometimes he buys books from us. And he’s doing us a big favor. He reviews what’s being translated from Arabic, particularly where Iraq is concerned. It’s a small sphere, he said the other day to Van in my presence. A good title for a novel, commented Van, who is convinced that Yassin is writing, too.
Paul is doing okay. His treatment is coming to an end. He came by the bookstore twice. He’s going to have to find a roof. A doctor from the clinic has a stepbrother in real estate, and Paul asked him to hunt down the cheapest rent in the West. That, in fact, is how he had ended up in Les Crêts. In those days, he was looking for something in Savoie. This time he’s looking at the opposite end of the country, in Ille-et-Vilaine, or the Deux-Sèvres. Van thinks it’s a change for the better, that he has agreed to leave Chambéry and what was keeping him there.
The committee is working well. Obviously it has become impossible to add more titles to our stock, unless we deduct the same number. We’re short on space. It’s hard to cut back. But we have no choice.
Marie Noir gave us an idea. We put together a file with all the titles we don’t have and that we dream of ordering for The Good Novel. If one of our customers is particularly enthusiastic about an author, or a part of the world, or a century, he or she can consult a long list of titles, as if it were an annex of the bookstore. Like a traditional card catalogue, with index cards, our paper file is housed in a big wooden box. On top there is a little sign, “Order from us. We’ll have your books in a few days.” And of course this additional file is on the Web site. For those who buy online, the time difference is not very great, whether they order a book that is already in the shop or one that is in the virtual stock.
Heffner is continuing his investigation, in secret. Without an official mandate, it’s more difficult. It takes him twice as much stubbornness, and time, and luck. There is one thing he is absolutely certain about now. It’s important. He is convinced that, during Francesca’s lifetime, Doultremont did not try anything against The Good Novel.
Perhaps someday we’ll call him by his first name. He’s a friend, now. But he remains very discreet. We don’t know anything about his private life.
As for me, I am glad to have more time for myself again. I’ve needed it to put together this history of The Good Novel, I mean the first part of the history.
I got Van to talk for entire evenings. He has a very accurate memory, particularly about conversations. And he had kept a lot of documents, articles, notes, all the letters that came into The Good Novel, the venomous ones and all the others. Not to mention the electronic files, hundreds of e-mails, copies of forums: he saved an incredible amount of stuff. The chronology is fairly easy to establish. After all, it hasn’t even been three years.
For the rest, I don’t need a lot, and Van even less—so it really isn’t a lot—but rents are expensive in Paris, and I’m looking for work. We don’t both need to be at The Good Novel. There is only one thing I will not do, and that is work in a bookstore.
Last night, Van said, “I’ve done my accounts, I’m penniless. Makes me feel younger.”
I said gaily, “I think so, too.”
We were toasting bread, in our little kitchen. I love toast. I spun around, put my arms around Van’s neck, placed my cheek against his chest and said, “It seems to me the time has come to ask you something I’ve been thinking about for a long time. Would you consent to give me your hand?”
“Too late,” he said softly.
“What’s that supposed to mean, too late?”
“I’m nothing more than a bundle of fatigue, Anis. There was something exceptional about Francesca—she gave means to anyone who came near her. She may not have managed to give her daughter the means to live, but she gave other people the means for their ambition. Not everybody wanted to use them, or knew how to use them. As for me, nowadays I get the impression that I was only able to make use of them with her, associated with her: I was driven by her, and her hopefulness, and the strength of conviction which may have been nothing more than the energy of her despair.”
Van had not put his arms around me, and it hurt. I drew back, and looked him straight in the eyes, and shook my head. I even think I was smiling.
I could see Francesca’s smile. I had learned from her that there is not a great deal of difference between strength and weakness.
And then, now I know how you try to woo someone who no longer believes in himself, how you must be patient, and trusting despite appearances, and it can take a long time.
I’ve had a new idea. I talked about it with Armand Delvaux, and no one else. He thinks it’s a good idea, and he’s decided to look into it. There is no doubt that the concept inaugurated by The Good Novel is vital. It has to be used elsewhere, if not by private individuals, then by public authorities. After all, there is the radio station France-Culture, Arte on television, and there are over a thousand art-house cinemas in France. Every one lives better for it, and no one complains that public funds could be put to better use.
Sooner or later, The Good Novel will be looked on as a laboratory. No one will say that the experience was in vain. Francesca and Van wanted to do something good. And they did, that’s the least you can say.