Chapter 7 The English Teacher #3
“Monsieur Verner is right,” he said, raising his voice a bit.
“I owe you all an explanation for this dinner party. I’m grateful to all of you for challenging me to really think.
The idea of renting my books out one by one…
well, it wasn’t ambitious enough. If you’re here tonight, it’s because you’ve contributed in some way to a plan I’d like to tell you about, and because I need your help to make it real.
If we move the furniture around a bit, this room can hold a hundred people.
One or two nights a week, we can bring students here.
Madame Ateltow, if you’re willing to teach again, you could introduce them to books that will change their world and make it better.
Books that will give them hope. You did that better than anyone; believe me, I would know.
Monsieur Verner, you could invite your students – and why not play for them?
It would certainly lift the mood. These gatherings need to be about fun and togetherness and sharing, where everyone feels valued and free and proud to be, in some way, taking part in the resistance.
If everything goes well, we can have the meetings more often – maybe even convince other bookshops to do the same.
I know, it sounds ambitious. But I believe we have it in our power to start a movement that no censorship, no authority will be able to stop. ”
“What about me?” demanded Mathilde. “What’s my role in this whole thing?”
“A hundred students is a very big class,” Madame Ateltow jumped in before Mitch could answer. “I’m a little rusty, and I could use your help. What would you say to helping me teach them? It would help close the generation gap.”
“Thank you, Madame Ateltow, but I was talking to Mitch.”
“Help me organize everything,” he said. “I can’t do it alone. And if you invited students from other faculties, it would really help build momentum. I know it’s asking you to take risks, and you’re under no obligation to do anything if you don’t want to.”
“Of course she wants to! Don’t you?” Madame Ateltow turned to Mathilde.
“When’s the first meeting?” Mathilde asked.
“As soon as we can make it happen. Let’s say a week from now.”
“I’m booked on Thursdays and Saturdays already,” Monsieur Verner spoke up.
“Wednesday, then?” Madame Ateltow proposed.
The date was set, the pact sealed. Verner glanced at his watch and offered to escort Madame Ateltow home, claiming the streets weren’t safe after 9 p.m. Mitch went upstairs to unlock the front door for them, and had scarcely said goodbye before the two teachers were heading up the pavement together.
Mathilde, who had followed them out the door, lingered in front of the window.
She was wearing her hair down this evening, Mitch noted belatedly. Not only that, but she had swapped her usual jeans and sneakers for a summer dress and ballet flats. He was pretty sure he already knew how this night was going to end, but he asked permission, anyway, to walk her home.
“Your friend’s a lousy liar. It’s not even nine o’clock yet. And the streets are perfectly safe.” She spoke slower than usual, and her tone was slightly off.
“What’s wrong?”
“You ask stupid questions, Mitch. You really do. What would you have said down there, if your old teacher hadn’t come to your rescue?”
“Exactly what I did say. I’d already given a lot of thought to how I want you to be involved, I didn’t need any inspiration from her.”
“Then I have to ask you something very important, Mitch. What’s driving you the most in all this – teaching those students how to resist, or becoming a hero?”
“You’ve seen me, right? Do I really look like a hero to you? I’m afraid of cutting myself when I shave in the morning.”
“Not all heroes wear capes,” Mathilde said with a weak smile. “Some just carry books.”
“I don’t know what’s driving me, exactly,” Mitch confessed. “Maybe you made me want to do something that matters. Maybe you reminded me that if I give in, if I quit now, I’ll like myself even less than I did before.”
“Gee, and I thought I was dramatic,” Mathilde said wryly. “But let me bow before the master! Well, I’d better go. I’ve got troops to rally.”
Mitch watched her walk away. He’d lost the desire to return to the secret room this evening. The night stretched ahead of him emptily: solitude and his suburban apartment.
He turned and went back into the bookshop, locked the door, and had turned off the lights and hit the button to lower the metal shutter when he heard an odd clicking sound behind him. Quickly he hit the button again, stopping the shutter’s slow descent.
Madame Bergol, face pressed to the window, was tapping a fingernail on the glass like a woodpecker.
“What on earth are you doing here?” he asked, opening the door. “The shop’s closed.”
“I know that – I’m not stupid!” she retorted.
“Come back tomorrow and you can read as long as you like. It’s late.”
But Madame Bergol seized Mitch’s wrist and squeezed it as hard as she could.
“I need to talk to you. It’s important.”
“Is something wrong?” Mitch asked worriedly.
“The reason I’m not buying books from you… it’s because I can’t see anymore. I can still tell night from day, I can tell if something’s in my way, make out people’s outlines. But the letters in a book are just blurry shapes now. It’s a shame, because I used to read so much. I loved it.
“I’ve come to terms with it, more or less.
None of us can avoid getting old. But ever since my husband died, the days have just become so long.
Too long. That’s why I come here. For two hours a day, I pretend to read.
It can get boring, especially when I’m the only customer, but even so I feel less alone, because you’re there.
“I try not to eavesdrop, and I don’t want to bother you, but I can hear perfectly well.
Tonight, just before you shooed me out, I heard your girlfriend mention a book club you’re organizing.
I’ve been thinking about it all evening.
It would be a way for me to reconnect with books.
And so I’d like to be a member of this club of yours. Please.”
Mitch was utterly stunned. He’d never really given Madame Bergol much thought.
He was used to her daily appearance and, seeing no need to offer help or advice, he’d generally settled for just greeting her from a distance when she entered the shop.
But if he’d taken the trouble to go up and speak to her, he might’ve noticed the milky veil that obscured the colour of her eyes.
Cataracts, which should have been operated on long before they reached this advanced stage.
But he knew nothing of her health nor her finances, and he didn’t dare ask.
Beneath her unbuttoned coat, she wore a neat black cotton dress that clung to her slim figure.
The wrinkles on her cheeks did nothing to diminish her beauty.
Mitch couldn’t think of a single reason to deny her, even if it meant helping her up and down the stairs. Her presence wouldn’t bother anyone.
“It’s a deal,” he agreed. “And when the shop’s empty and I’m not too busy, I can read a chapter or two to you. We can pick out a book together.”
“Are the ones I flip through not good?”
“Oh, they’re fine,” Mitch said quickly. “Just, wait here while I lock up. I’ll walk you home.”
“Very kind of you, but I can still manage perfectly well on my own!” she said tartly, and turned on her heel. Calling out a farewell over her shoulder, she made her way up the street.
* * *
That night, Mitch dozed off on a bench at the station while waiting for his train.
He slept for the whole journey, his head propped against the smeary window of his carriage.
It took all his strength to drag himself back home.
Halfway up the stairs, he wondered if he’d even make it to his floor.
Once inside, he collapsed onto his bed, fully clothed.