ON PLACE SAINT-SULPICE, Camille passes in front of a café. There is a cluster of tables on the sidewalk. Every one is occupied. People talk and argue with each other as they watch the world go by and enjoy an aperitif. Camille realizes that she has not eaten anything all day. She turns abruptly through the door, sits down at the nearest table and orders a sandwich, and, after a moment’s hesitation, a glass of white wine.
She settles back in her chair and glances at the clock on the wall. The afternoon is nearly gone. She has lost count of how many people she has spoken to today. She has met with pompous antiquarian booksellers in their expensive shops. She has interrogated dozens of bouquinistes, the shifty-eyed, weather-beaten men who sell old books out of the wooden stalls that line both banks of the Seine. By now she has perfected her pitch. Her delivery is all wry exasperation, amused tolerance at her husband’s well-meaning mistake. This was all an innocent misunderstanding, marital crossed wires; it happens to us all from time to time, n’est-ce pas? And would you happen to have…?
The money that she took from the safe that morning remains in her handbag. All day she’s been getting blank looks and lectures about the futility of her mission. Such a notebook does not exist, she has been told, again and again. Inquiries as to where else she might look elicited baffled shrugs.
Camille sighs. After a day traveling across the city, she’s back in her own neighborhood and almost ready to admit defeat, to return to the hotel and tell Olivier what was in the notebook. Then she remembers that there is a bookshop near here, on Rue de l’Odéon. It will be, she decides, her last stop of the day.
She looks out of the window. A woman walks past, hand in hand with her young son. They are making slow progress. The little boy stops to examine everything he sees—a bird pecking at the sidewalk, a discarded newspaper wrapped around the base of a tree—with a rapt expression on his face. Each time they stop, the woman crouches down next to him and talks softly in his ear. She is explaining the world to her child. Camille wistfully remembers similar expeditions with Marie, short walks around the neighborhood to nowhere in particular, and how the most mundane sights were transformed into things of wonder through her daughter’s young eyes. Watching the two of them, she is overwhelmed with the desire to run back to the hotel and hold Marie tight, but she knows that such indulgence would provoke nothing but awkward squirming and complaints. These days it’s all Camille can do to steal quick hugs, before her quarry wriggles away.
When Marie was a baby, Camille had drowned in a delicious ocean of human touch. Her tiny body had to be cleaned, dressed, inspected, cared for. Skin was always on skin, a blissful, dazzling communion. She never imagined that such happiness might end. She watches as the woman runs her fingers through the little boy’s curly hair. Enjoy it while you can, she thinks. Time travels in one direction only. There is no going back.
The wine is so cold that by the time it arrives at the table the glass is beaded with tiny drops of condensation. Camille takes an unladylike swallow, and then attacks her sandwich. She contemplates her return to the hotel as she eats, wondering how Olivier will react when she tells him what’s in the notebook. She realizes that she does not especially care anymore. She’s come a long way since she climbed off the train as a newlywed at Gare de Lyon all those years ago. Back then she depended on her husband for everything. They had both proceeded on the assumption that she was always wrong and he was always right. Camille’s life was one of meek capitulation and uxorial obedience. But those intimate conversations with Marcel Proust at all hours of the day and night changed all that. Beneath the warm sun of her employer’s attention, her confidence took root and began to grow. It did not take long for her newfound self-belief to manifest itself on the domestic front, too. Like Marcel Proust, Olivier was delighted with Camille’s growing independence. Unlike Marcel Proust, his delight had its limits. Having a confident, free-thinking wife was a fine thing, but only up to a point.
Olivier, too, had learned that there was no going back.
She takes another swig of wine. Perhaps that was Monsieur Proust’s most enduring gift, she thinks. It wasn’t her fond memories of their time together, or the wretched notebook. The most valuable thing he gave her was her independence. That, at least, is something that cannot be bought or sold at any price.
When Camille pushes open the door of the bookshop, the place is empty except for a young woman sitting at a desk, her head bent low over a leather-bound ledger. Camille looks at the volumes on display, and contemplates turning around and leaving, because all the books in the shop are in English.
There is a small cough from the far end of the room. The woman behind the desk is looking up at her, smiling. “Good afternoon, madame,” she says. “Can I help you?”
“I don’t think so,” replies Camille. “But thank you.”
“Are you looking for something in particular?”
She may as well ask. “Do you buy books, as well as sell them?”
“It depends on the books, madame.”
The woman has a kind face. Camille suddenly feels very tired. “I’m looking for a notebook,” she says. “My husband sold it.” She looks down at her shoes. “We had a misunderstanding. It wasn’t his to sell.”
“Did this notebook belong to Marcel Proust, by any chance?”
Camille’s head snaps back up. “Yes!”
“You’re Camille Clermont,” says the woman behind the desk.
She can barely breathe. “Was Olivier here?” she whispers.
An outstretched hand. “Sylvia Beach.” Her grip is strong. “Yes, your husband came into the shop yesterday. He told me that Monsieur Proust gave you the notebook years ago. He said that you’d asked him to sell it.”
“That was a lie!” says Camille hotly.
“Yes, I rather wondered,” says Sylvia Beach. “He couldn’t quite look me in the eye when he said it.”
Camille sighs. “So you didn’t buy it from him, then.”
“Of course I bought it!” says Sylvia Beach. “Your husband was asking for a fraction of what it’s worth. I’d have been a fool to let him walk out with such a treasure!”
Camille tries to hide her elation. “Did you happen to read any of it, by any chance?” she asks anxiously.
Sylvia Beach laughs. “Oh no, madame. I’m too busy to read the books I sell.”
Camille reaches into her handbag for the banknotes that she took from the hotel safe that morning. “I’d like to buy it back,” she says. “I have the money, every franc of it. As I said, it wasn’t my husband’s to sell. I’m sure you understand.”
“I’m very sorry,” says Sylvia Beach, “but you can’t have it.”
Of course. The shopkeeper knows how much the notebook is worth. She stands to make a huge profit.
“What if I paid you double what you gave for it?” asks Camille.
“Oh, it’s not about the money, Madame Clermont.” Sylvia Beach gives her a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry about what’s happened. One more reason, if I may say so, why I’m glad I’ll never have to worry about a husband.”
Camille’s head feels a little thick. She is regretting that glass of wine. “Then why can’t I have it?”
“Because I’ve already sold it.”
She stares at Sylvia Beach, aghast. “Who did you sell it to?”
“I’m not sure I should tell you.”
“Oh please, you absolutely must. I have to get the notebook back. It’s a matter of life or death.”
Sylvia Beach considers this. “You understand that even if I give you his name, he’s under no obligation to sell it back to you? He purchased it in good faith. The thing is legally his.”
Camille nods. The thought of the notebook beneath a stranger’s fingers makes her feel sick. “But I have to try.”
Sylvia Beach picks up the pen that lies next to the ledger. She pulls a piece of paper from one of the desk drawers, and starts to write. “He’s a writer. An American. This is the address of his apartment,” she says. “It’s not far from here. Perhaps you’ll find him there.”
“Thank you,” says Camille. It is all she can do not to burst into tears. She turns and hurries out of the shop.