‘It’s absurd how you’re twisting everything, all because you don’t want me to have that stupid Night book.’
The customer – or rather noncustomer – tossed her purse into her luxury shoulder bag and tugged at the zip, which got stuck.
Perdu felt something welling up inside him, a wild feeling, anger, tension – only it had nothing to do with this woman. He couldn’t hold his tongue, though. He hurried after her as she strode angrily through the belly of the book barge and called out to her in the half-light between the long bookshelves: ‘It’s your choice, Madame! You can leave and spit on me. Or you can spare yourself thousands of hours of torture starting right now.’
‘Thanks, that’s exactly what I’m doing.’
‘Surrender to the treasures of books instead of entering into pointless relationships with men, who neglect you anyway, or going on crazy diets because you’re not thin enough for one man and not stupid enough for the next.’
She stood stock-still by the large bay window that looked out over the Seine, and glared at Perdu. ‘How dare you!’
‘Books keep stupidity at bay. And vain hopes. And vain men. They undress you with love, strength and knowledge. It’s love from within. Make your choice: book or …’
Before he could finish his sentence, a Parisian pleasure boat ploughed past with a group of Chinese women standing by the railing under umbrellas. They began clicking away with their cameras when they caught sight of Paris’s famous floating Literary Apothecary. The pleasure boat drove brown-green dunes of water against the bank, and the book barge reeled.
The customer teetered on her smart high heels, but instead of offering her his hand, Perdu handed her The Elegance of the Hedgehog.
She made an instinctive grab for the novel and clung to it.
Perdu held on to the book as he spoke to the stranger in a soothing, tender and calm voice.
‘You need your own room. Not too bright, with a kitten to keep you company. And this book, which you will please read slowly, so you can take the occasional break. You’ll do a lot of thinking and probably a bit of crying. For yourself. For the years. But you’ll feel better afterwards. You’ll know that now you don’t have to die, even if that’s how it feels because the guy didn’t treat you well. And you will like yourself again and won’t find yourself ugly or na?ve.’
Only after delivering these instructions did he let go.
The customer stared at him. He knew from her shocked look that he had hit the target and got through to her. Pretty much a bull’s-eye.
Then she dropped the book.
‘You’re completely nuts,’ she whispered before spinning on her heel and tottering off, head down, through the boat’s book-filled belly and out onto the embankment.
Monsieur Perdu picked up the Hedgehog. The book’s spine had been damaged by the fall. He would have to offer Muriel Barbery’s novel for a euro or two to one of the bouquinistes on the embankment with their boxes of books for people to rummage through.
Then he gazed after the customer. How she fought her way through the strolling crowds. How her shoulders shook in her suit.
She was crying. She was weeping like someone who knows that this small drama is not going to break her, but is nonetheless deeply hurt by the injustice of the here and now. She had already suffered one cruel, deep blow. Wasn’t that enough? Did this nasty bookseller really need to rub salt in her wound?
Monsieur Perdu suspected that on her personal idiot scale of one to ten, she ranked him – the paper tiger idiot on his stupid Literary Apothecary – about a twelve.
He agreed with her. His outburst and his high-handed tone must somehow be related to the previous night and to the room. He was usually more sanguine.
He was generally unperturbed by his customers’ wishes, insults or peculiarities. He divided them into three categories. The first category comprised those for whom books were the only breath of fresh air in their claustrophobic daily lives. His favourite customers. They were confident he would tell them what they needed. Or they confided their vulnerabilities to him, for example: ‘No novels with mountains, lifts or views in them, please – I’m scared of heights.’ Some of them sang Monsieur Perdu children’s tunes, or rather growled them: ‘Mm-hmm, mmh, dadada – know that one?’ in the hope that the great bookseller would remember for them and give them a book featuring the melodies of their childhood. And most of the time he did know a book to match the songs. There had been a time when he sang a lot.
The second category of customers came aboard Lulu, the original name of his book barge in the Port des Champs-élysées, because they had been lured there by the name of the bookshop: la pharmacie littéraire, the Literary Apothecary.