Does love resent my refusal to open the door to that room and … do what exactly? What should I do? Build a shrine to Manon? Bid her farewell? What? Tell me, what am I meant to do?
Jean Perdu replaced the book next to the sleeping Max. After a while, he pushed the hair from the young man’s brow.
Then he quietly picked out a few books. Using them as currency didn’t come easily to him, for he knew their true worth. A bookseller never forgets that books are a very recent means of expression in the broad sweep of history, capable of changing the world and toppling tyrants.
Whenever Monsieur Perdu looked at a book, he did not see it purely in terms of a story, retail price and an essential balm for the soul; he saw freedom on wings of paper.
A little later he borrowed a bike from Anke, Ida and Corinna and rode out to the nearest village along winding, empty, narrow roads, past fields, paddocks and pastures.
At the boulangerie on the church square a cheerful, ruddy-cheeked baker’s daughter was taking baguettes and croissants out of the oven.
She looked happy to be where she was: in a small bakery that saw boaters in summer and farmers, winemakers, tradesmen, butchers and city dropouts from Burgundy, the Ardennes and the Champagne region the rest of the year. Now and then a dance at the mill, harvest festivals, cooking contests and local history societies; a spot of cleaning and laundry for the artists who lived in converted sheds and stables dotted around the area – this was life in the peace of the countryside beneath glittering stars and red summer moons.
Could that be sufficient for a fulfilling existence?
Perdu took a deep breath when he stepped into the old-fashioned shop. He had no choice but to make his customary offer.
‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle. Excuse me for asking, but do you like reading?’ After some haggling, she ‘sold’ him a newspaper, stamps and a few postcards of the marina at Saint-Mammès, as well as some baguettes and croissants, in exchange for a single book: The Enchanted April, about four English ladies who run away to an Italian paradise.
‘That covers my costs,’ she innocently assured him. Then she opened the book, held it to her nose and took a long sniff of the pages. Her face reappeared, glowing with contentment.
‘It smells of crêpes, I think.’ She stowed the book away in her apron pocket. ‘My father says that reading makes you impudent.’ She smiled apologetically.
Jean sat down by the church fountain and tore into a warm croissant. How it steamed, how fragrant was its soft, golden inside. He ate slowly and watched the village awaken.
Reading makes you impudent. Oh yes, unknown father, so it does.
Perdu wrote a few cautious lines to Catherine. Fully aware that Madame Rosalette would read the card anyway, he decided that he might as well address it to everyone.
Dear Catherine, dear Mme. Rosalette (New hairstyle? Wonderful! Mocha?), my esteemed Mme Bomme and all at number 27,
Until further notice, please order your books from Voltaire et plus. I haven’t abandoned or forgotten you, but there are a few incomplete chapters I need to read first … and finish. I’m off to tame my ghosts. JP
Was that too sparse, not flashy enough?
His thoughts raced over the fields and the river to Paris, to Catherine’s laughter and her moans of pleasure. He felt a sudden flood of emotion. He was struggling to identify the source of this surge of longing to be touched, of this yearning for physical contact, nakedness and warmth under shared covers; a longing for friendship, for a home and a place where he could stay and be fulfilled. Did it come from Manon? Or Catherine? He was ashamed when he allowed them to intermingle in his mind. And yet: it had done him so much good to be with Catherine. Should he stop himself? Was that wrong?
I wanted never to need anyone again. I’m such a coward.
Monsieur Perdu cycled back, flanked by buzzards and larks that hung high in the air and hovered on the breeze over the wheat fields. He felt the wind through his shirt.
He felt he was returning to the barge a different man from the one who had set out an hour earlier.
He hung on the handlebars of Ida’s bike a bag containing warm croissants, a bunch of freshly picked red poppies and three copies of Night, in which Max had written lengthy dedications before going to bed.
Then he made coffee in the pot in his galley, fed the cats, checked the humidity in the bookshop (satisfactory) and the oil level (near critical), and prepared Lulu for cast-off.
As the book barge slid out onto the pristine river, Perdu saw Ida appear on the aft deck of the Baloo. He waved until he had rounded a bend. He wished with all his heart that Ida would one day find a big love to make up for losing her small one.
He calmly steered the ship into the morning light. The coolness in the air gave way to the silky warmth of summer.
‘Did you know that Bram Stoker dreamed up his Dracula?’ Jean Perdu asked an hour later, full of cheer, as Max reached gratefully for a mug.