Beneath my feet, a stunning mosaic sparkled in the sunlight. The design depicted a world map but one that bore little resemblance to our modern-day renditions. I didn’t recognize all the shapes, with some continents swollen, others shrunk. As I watched, gold, silver, lapis, and jade tiles glinted, and dust motes danced in the beams of sunlight. An unusual perfume wafted in the air. I smelled paper, glue, leather, paint, and what I thought must be myrrh or frankincense.
Mathieu noticed me sniffing. “It’s incense. I found a stash of it in the rubble and burn it routinely. I like to think of the monks who toiled here long before me and the continuity of us all working with books, smelling the same smells, keeping the same art alive.”
He walked over to the windows and opened first one and then another, letting in fresh air along with the soft cooing of birds.
“At first,” Mathieu continued, “I was just coming up here to explore and investigate, and then I was studying what I found and experimenting with all the ancient papers and inks that had been left behind. My brother wasn’t interested in any of this. He loved discovering the city and spent all his free time roaming through Paris and learning its history. So I had the scriptorium all to myself. And since my uncle both published and sold books and had no children of his own, he was delighted at my interest and encouraged me.”
As he talked, Mathieu began absentmindedly applying himself to an unfinished book cover in the middle of his table. I was mesmerized watching his hands work the leather and couldn’t help thinking of how those same fingers felt stroking my arm, caressing my neck.
To Mathieu’s right were shelves filled with supplies: papers, boards, leathers, and other fabrics all in a muted rainbow of blues, reds, browns, and greens. I noticed sheaves of gold leafing. Jars of silver and bronze and copper paint. Bottles of gem-colored ink. Sewing supplies. Pots of glue. There were several small printing presses that appeared to date back hundreds of years.
Off to the left, a small collection of finished books and journals sat on a bench. I was drawn to their glowing leathers, their gilt edges and elaborate art décoratif designs all reflecting Mathieu’s unique artistry.
“How did you learn to do this? Is there a school?”
“There are some classes now, but I studied bookbinding the old-fashioned way. While I was still at the lycée, Uncle arranged to have me meet Pierre Legrain for an apprenticeship. He’s been Paris’s master bookbinder for the last fifteen years. Several of his books were shown at the most recent Salon des Artistes Décorateurs.”
“How old were you?”
“Fourteen.”
“And he accepted you even though you were so young?” I’d pulled up a stool and watched, mesmerized, as Mathieu decorated the leather with gold leaf. Applying it and then brushing it off. Gold dust flying, catching the light, and then landing like tiny shooting stars on the wood table.
“Yes. And I worked with him until the war broke out and we all enlisted. Legrain tried to get me assigned to him—he had a desk job in charge of the secretarial service, which allowed him to draw for publications including L’Assiette au Beurre and Le Journal—but the army needed my brother and me in the trenches.”
Mathieu leaned down, noticing something that caused him to frown. I watched his fingers gently flick away a speck of gold on the corner of his work in progress.
The cover boasted intricate geometric circles cut in quarters, some sections filled in gold, others in black, some left as outlines.
“But it’s not just a pretty design. Is it?” I asked. I was getting an emotional feeling from the pattern.
Mathieu looked up and into my eyes. He seemed both surprised and delighted by my question. “No, it’s not. Like my mentor, I’m considered a modernist. That means eschewing a lot of the more affected and facile ornamentation of traditional bookbinding. I’m really trying to convey the character of the text with the form and color of the design in each book dressing. I search out sumptuousness with unusual materials. Rare skins and woods and leathers that have been tanned with special oils. Unique inks and uncommon metals that can be painted or leafed.”
He stopped to show me some of them. “This is yellow China shark, this is galuchat, this is a lacquered skin. This is bronze leafing. And this is pewter paint. I’ve been learning from the Cubists and the Expressionist school of painters about the arrangement of geometrical shapes in asymmetrical patterns to symbolize a mood or attitude. I’m striving to create objects that enhance the atmosphere of where they are placed. Whose rhythms and designs add harmony.”
I was fascinated by his work and his words, by the thought processes behind his designs.
“Legrain once said that a form appropriate to its use equals beauty. I believe that. I’m aware that I’m creating a tool and an object at the same time. Each book dressing has two purposes: to protect the pages within its covers and to give pleasure. Art for function’s sake.”
I was inhaling his words, breathing them in along with the perfumed and rarefied air, in awe of his dual talents—his design sense and his poetic way of describing his world.
“Do you consider your mother to be your mentor?” he asked me.
“I suppose so, yes.”
“Does she do portraits, too? I’ve only seen her landscapes.”
“Yes, but hers are not like mine. I—”
“Do you like it?” He’d finished the section of the cover he’d been working on and held it out to me for inspection.
“It’s beautiful!”
“Now, tell me, what type of book do you think it’s dressing?” he asked playfully.
I studied the ruby leather, with its black and darkened gold geometric designs. The red made me think of tragedy. The subdued metal suggested high drama. Imposing and inspiring. Striking and remarkable. One author immediately sprang to mind.
“A novel by Victor Hugo?”
“Brava!” he said. “Les Miserables. And once it’s finished, I’ll give it to you.”
“But you’ve already given me my—” I’d almost said Book of Hours. I hadn’t yet told Mathieu that I’d given this turquoise journal a name. “So many beautiful gifts.”
He came around to where I was sitting and took my face in both his magical hands, cupping my cheeks and chin. “I plan to never tire of giving you gifts. Especially ones like this,” he said, and then leaned down and kissed me.
My arms went around his back as he pressed closer to me. The new scents of glue and ink added to his familiar smell.
While still kissing me, he lifted me and carried me as if I were no heavier than a few of his books. He deposited me on a chaise tucked into a corner of the room.
There, in golden sunlight, Mathieu embraced me again. We might never have stopped kissing and touching if the sun had not set and shadows filled the secret aerie, reminding me that I had to get home to my great-grandmother’s house, or they would worry and ask too many questions about why I was late. Pulling myself away was harder than I expected. And not just for me but also for Mathieu.
“I’ve half a mind to kidnap you and keep you here, like the witch kept Rapunzel in the fairy tale.”
“But you can’t be the witch. I am. You have to be the prince and save me,” I teased.
“Then that’s what I’ll do. I’ll save you.” And he bent his head to seal his promise with one more kiss and then one more, until a chill breeze from the open window wafted in and cooled our ardor.