Chapter 7 The English Teacher #2
Madame Ateltow held up a hand – not in a demand for silence, the way she’d done in class, but because she needed a moment to think.
She rose and paced slowly back and forth along the riverbank, passing Mitch several times, murmuring softly to herself, once pausing to watch a couple of mallards fighting over a morsel of bread.
“We’ll fight fire with fire!” she exclaimed suddenly, her voice filled with the renewed vigour of a teacher readying to tame a rowdy classroom.
“If the governor is targeting books, it’s because he’s afraid of them.
He fears their power. It’s exactly what I was trying to teach you when I had you read those books in class.
You often resented me for it, but I was teaching you the art of understanding rather than judging hastily.
I was shaking up your certainties and challenging your prejudices.
In my classes we met strangers, travelled to other cultures, explored new ideas, and confronted unfamiliar ways of thinking.
The governor is trying to stop the narrow little world he controls from changing.
My dear Mitch, the task ahead of us is more important than you can imagine.
It’s going to take courage, and a little bit of madness.
We’re going to make those books circulate ten times more widely than before.
It’s possible that the authorities will arrest us and make us pay, yes.
But if we do nothing, then everything really is all over. ”
“Are you suggesting I put them in the window?” Mitch asked. “That won’t work; I’ve already had a visit from a public safety inspector. They’ll shut me down.”
“No, I have a much better idea. Young people have an insatiable appetite for anything forbidden. They’re going to devour these books.
Idolize their authors. It’ll be all they talk about.
We’re going to spark a contagion the censors will be helpless to fight.
I’ll speak to a few former colleagues who are still teaching. Trustworthy ones, of course.”
Touched by Madame Ateltow’s fervour, Mitch considered her suggestions.
Getting the books to circulate in schools and universities struck him as far too risky.
Sooner or later, some officious teacher or hall monitor would confiscate one.
Sooner or later, there would be multiple teachers or hall monitors, and not all of them would be allies.
Sooner or later, some student under threat of punishment would betray them, and the authorities would trace the books back to him.
Creating a movement around banned books among young people was a powerful idea in itself, but they had to find the right way to infect the young with a fever for reading.
Mitch thanked Madame Ateltow and they exchanged phone numbers before parting ways, promising to see each other again soon.
The solution came to Mitch on the walk back to his shop.
* * *
He called Mathilde and invited her to dinner, which delighted her, as it was the first time he’d taken the initiative. She wanted to know where he was taking her, but all he told her was that it was a surprise, and that she was to meet him at the shop the next day, just after closing time.
As soon as they’d hung up, Mitch called Monsieur Verner, who initially declined the invitation, politely but firmly. But Mitch persisted, promising him a good meal paired with exceptional wine. Verner hated dining with other people, but if it was for a good cause…
Madame Ateltow accepted the invitation before Mitch could even finish his sentence; it seemed that she no longer minded the hassle of crossing town.
The moment she hung up, she rearranged her schedule for the next day to give herself time to get properly ready.
Then she called her son, who had an annoying tendency to show up at her apartment without calling first, and told him she had plans to play bridge with friends the following evening.
Mitch closed the bookshop a little earlier than usual, forcing Madame Bergol to pause in the middle of a chapter.
He went out and ran a few errands, bought two bottles of a good vintage, and headed for the kitchen as soon as he got home.
Meeting his guests in a restaurant would have been far less work, but he didn’t want any prying ears catching what he had to say.
* * *
The next morning Mitch took the first train into town, weighed down by an overflowing shopping bag.
He crossed the courtyard, stepped into the back room and climbed down into the hidden room below.
He set a tablecloth and four place settings on an old bridge table.
At lunchtime, he went to a hardware store and bought a hot plate and a mini fridge, arranging for same day delivery.
The rest of the afternoon seemed to last an eternity.
* * *
Madame Ateltow showed up half an hour early. Her hairdresser had made extravagant use of the blow dryer, and she kept trying to tame her rather startling mane of curls.
Verner arrived precisely on time, looking grumpy at first, though his mood changed dramatically when met with Madame Ateltow’s radiant smile.
Mitch wasted no time introducing them, and the fact that they’d both been teachers gave them immediate common ground.
From that moment on, as far as they were concerned, Mitch might not even have been in the room.
Mathilde made a fashionably late entrance, frowning at the unexpected company and making no attempt to hide her desire for them to leave. The cool smile Mitch greeted her with gave her the unsettling sense that she’d been taken for a ride.
“This isn’t the intimate evening I was expecting, I must say,” she commented icily. “Five people – doesn’t exactly count as a book club, unless you’re waiting on even more guests?”
Mitch wondered who the fifth person was that Mathilde was referring to.
His gaze swept the shop – and landed on Madame Bergol, mostly hidden behind a column, feverishly turning the pages of Our Bodies Entwined in the Summer Moisture.
He went over, delicately plucked the book from her hands, slipped in a bookmark, closed it, handed it back to her, and ushered her to the door, which he locked behind her.
He led his guests to the back of the shop, down the stairs to the room that only remained a secret to Madame Bergol.
The meal exceeded all of Verner’s expectations, though, truth be told, he hadn’t expected much from this evening beyond having to both eat and make small talk, two things he considered totally incompatible.
Or had until tonight, at any rate – for the food was exquisite, and his dinner companion a delightful conversationalist. It had been a long time since Verner had genuinely enjoyed the company of a woman and, as he helped himself to another generous serving of beef bourguignon, he found himself wondering what exactly had sunk his marriage in the first place.
What crime could he have committed to have earned such hatred from his wife?
This deep introspection prompted him, after a moment of silent hesitation, to ask Madame Ateltow what she thought of Spanish guitar.
He liked it very much himself, he added, and played it every night before he went to bed.
Madame Ateltow admitted that she’d never listened to any Spanish guitar, actually, but she’d be remedying that the very next day.
Meanwhile, Mathilde sat in uncharacteristic silence, puzzled by Mitch’s behaviour as he played the perfect host, refilling his guests’ glasses each time they finished their wine, clearing away used plates and bringing out clean ones as the evening progressed.
He seemed calm and quite engaged – though he wasn’t interacting much with her; in fact, he hardly seemed aware of her presence, to the point that she felt uncomfortable at first, and then like an outsider.
This wasn’t the first time she’d been drunk, but in the past alcohol had always made her feel giddy, ready to laugh at anything.
Tonight was different. She felt even more awkward than Verner, whose clumsy flirting would ordinarily have amused her.
She was used to being surrounded by strangers, drifting through parties where, out of laziness or disinterest, she felt detached from her own body.
She could listen to people talk without anything they said affecting her in the slightest. But not tonight.
Tonight, Mathilde wanted only one thing: to spend one last night with Mitch, somewhere far away from her apartment, far away from the life she’d be returning to after she left him.
Mitch left the table to fetch another bottle from behind the bar. Making his excuses to his dining companion, Verner followed him.
“So this little dinner party for strangers was a setup,” he said – unable to keep himself from glancing, moony-eyed, at Madame Ateltow, who’d struck up a conversation with Mathilde.
“It wasn’t,” replied Mitch, wiping glasses, “but if it was, you walked right into it. Somehow, I don’t think you’re having such a bad time.”
“Well, since we’re being honest, allow me to point out that you’ve been neglecting your lady friend, who seems charming, by the way.”
Mitch looked over at Mathilde. “It wasn’t my intention.”
“I think you should be telling her that,” Verner said. “Anyway, your beef bourguignon was excellent, but maybe it’s time to move on to the real main course, eh? Why exactly have you brought us here?”
Mitch cleared his throat loudly enough that Madame Ateltow stopped talking. All eyes turned to him.