He had been listening for more than twenty years. He knew his neighbours so well that he was sometimes amazed by how little they knew about him (not that he minded). They had no idea that he owned next to no furniture apart from a bed, a chair and a clothes rail – no knick-knacks, no music, no pictures or photo albums or three-piece suite or crockery (other than for himself) – or that he had chosen such simplicity of his own free will. The two rooms he still occupied were so empty that they echoed when he coughed. The only thing in the living room was the giant jigsaw puzzle on the floor. His bedroom was furnished with a bed, the ironing board, a reading light and a clothes rail on wheels containing three identical sets of clothing: grey trousers, white shirt, brown V-neck jumper. In the kitchen were a stove-top coffee pot, a tin of coffee and a shelf stacked with food. Arranged in alphabetical order. Maybe it was just as well that no one saw this.
And yet he harboured a strange affection for 27 Rue Montagnard’s residents. He felt inexplicably better when he knew that they were well – and in his unassuming way he tried to make a contribution. Books were a means of helping. Otherwise he stayed in the background, a small figure in a painting, while life was played out in the foreground.
However, the new tenant on the third floor, Maximilian Jordan, wouldn’t leave Monsieur Perdu in peace. Jordan wore specially made earplugs with earmuffs over them, plus a woolly hat on cold days. Ever since the young author’s debut novel had made him famous amid great fanfare, he’d been on the run from fans who would have given their right arms to move in with him. Meanwhile, Jordan had developed a peculiar interest in Monsieur Perdu.
While Perdu was on the landing arranging the chair beside the kitchen table, and the vase on top, the crying stopped.
In its place he heard the squeak of a floorboard that someone was trying to walk across without making it creak.
He peered through the pane of frosted glass in the green door. Then he knocked twice, very gently.
A face moved closer. A blurred, bright oval.
‘Yes?’ the oval whispered.
‘I’ve got a chair and a table for you.’
The oval said nothing.
I have to speak softly to her. She’s cried so much she’s probably all dried out and she’ll crumble if I’m too loud.
‘And a vase. For flowers. Red flowers, for instance. They’d look really pretty on the white table.’
He had his cheek almost pressed up against the glass.
He whispered, ‘But I can give you a book as well.’
The light in the staircase went out.
‘What kind of book?’ the oval whispered.
‘The consoling kind.’
‘I need to cry some more. I’ll drown if I don’t. Can you understand that?’
‘Of course. Sometimes you’re swimming in unwept tears and you’ll go under if you store them up inside.’ And I’m at the bottom of a sea of tears. ‘I’ll bring you a book for crying then.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow. Promise me you’ll have something to eat and drink before you carry on crying.’
He didn’t know why he was taking such liberties. It must be something to do with the door between them.
The glass misted up with her breath.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes.’
When the hall light flared on again, the oval shrank back.
Monsieur Perdu laid his hand briefly on the glass where her face had been a second before.
And if she needs anything else, a chest of drawers or a potato peeler, I’ll buy it and claim I had it already.
He went into his empty flat and pushed the bolt across. The door leading into the room behind the bookcase was still open. The longer Monsieur Perdu looked in there, the more it seemed as though the summer of 1992 were rising up out of the floor. The cat jumped down from the sofa on soft, velvet paws and stretched. The sunlight caressed a bare back, the back turned and became—. She smiled at Monsieur Perdu, rose from her reading position and walked towards him naked, with a book in her hand.
‘Are you finally ready?’ asked—.
Monsieur Perdu slammed the door.
No.
3
‘No,’ Monsieur Perdu said again the following morning. ‘I’d rather not sell you this book.’
Gently he pried Night from the lady’s hand. Of the many novels on his book barge – the vessel moored on the Seine that he had named Literary Apothecary – she had inexplicably chosen the notorious bestseller by Maximilian ‘Max’ Jordan, the earmuff wearer from the third floor in Rue Montagnard.
The customer looked at the bookseller, taken aback.
‘Why not?’
‘Max Jordan doesn’t suit you.’
‘Max Jordan doesn’t suit me?’
‘That’s right. He’s not your type.’
‘My type. Okay. Excuse me, but maybe I should point out to you that I’ve come to your book barge for a book. Not a husband, mon cher Monsieur.’
‘With all due respect, what you read is more important in the long term than the man you marry, ma chère Madame.’
She looked at him through eyes like slits.
‘Give me the book, take my money, and we can both pretend it’s a nice day.’
‘It is a nice day, and tomorrow is the start of summer, but you’re not going to get this book. Not from me. May I suggest a few others?’
‘Right, and flog me some old classic you’re too lazy to throw overboard where it can poison the fish?’ She spoke softly to begin with, but her volume kept increasing.
‘Books aren’t eggs, you know. Simply because a book has aged a bit doesn’t mean it’s gone bad.’ There was now an edge to Monsieur Perdu’s voice too. ‘What is wrong with old? Age isn’t a disease. We all grow old, even books. But are you, is anyone, worth less, or less important, because they’ve been around for longer?’