Chapter 11
11
The morning at the bookshop flies by as I rush to serve customers and help tidy up glassware from the bar area. There’s a lot more foot traffic than on my previous visits and I’m quite frazzled by it all even though Valérie did warn me about such a thing. ‘Are mornings always this busy?’ I ask as I blow back an escaped strand of hair, sure I’m looking bedraggled after running about to and fro. The thing is, while there’s a lot of bodies in the bookshop, they don’t seem to convert to many book sales. Perhaps the bar is where Valérie recoups costs? It’s busy as patrons get behind the spirit of getting their own potions and passages. It’s only my first day though so perhaps it’s too early to judge whether the bookshop can stand on its own.
‘ Oui , it ebbs and flows. It’s always busier closer to the weekend.’
I’m about to ask about bookshop sales when a seventy-something woman wearing a conservative beige pantsuit approaches the bar and takes up a stool, letting out a long sigh as if the day is already letting her down. ‘Bonjour, Valérie.’ She acknowledges her with a nod. ‘We have a new recruit, I see.’ She speaks in American-accented French and motions in my direction.
‘I’m Coco,’ I say, giving her a wide smile. ‘It’s lovely to meet you…?’ I hold out a hand, which she takes in hers and shakes with a firm grip.
‘Agnes.’ I mentally dub her as American Agnes, so I can try and keep track of regular customers’ names.
‘Coco’s going to run the book club,’ Valérie says, waggling her eyebrows.
Agnes lets out a chortle. ‘All I can say is bonne chance , Coco. Bonne chance . The central issue is that they don’t read anything of any literary value. They’re easily manipulated by mainstream media. All it takes is a fleeting glance at a colourful ad on social media or some such and they’ll traipse in here to buy the book without questioning if it’s right for them, or if the book has any merit. They get sucked in by clever covers and snazzy marketing campaigns.’
I’m taken aback by Agnes’s judgemental views and try to quickly process an appropriate reaction. Literary snobbery is rife in Literati-Land and it’s one of my biggest pet peeves. ‘Ah – isn’t it just common sense to have an attention-grabbing tagline on the cover that appeals to readers? Good cover art conveys the genre and style and is a quick and effective first impression that readers will recognise on the spot, without having to read a single word of the blurb. All in all, it’s done in an effort to get exposure for a book in a very crowded marketplace.’ I can’t lie, I take umbrage to what Agnes thinks, but perhaps that’s because I know how hard it is to get a book to stand out when there’s so much competition.
Valérie supresses a smile while Agnes continues her tirade, ignoring my soliloquy. I ramble longer than I meant to; perhaps I need to remember that I’m not in the publishing business any more and most people aren’t interested in the hows and whys.
‘Honestly, if our book club members stopped and listened once in a while I could expand their minds with recommendations for the greatest literature ever written. DH Lawrence, for example, but no, they want the latest bonk buster, or ice hockey romance – Mon Dieu ! Or they like…’
Bonkbuster? Who even calls it that these days? ‘Ah well, there’s always an explosion of popularity for certain genres, it’s just the way…’ The words dry on my tongue as Agnes speaks over the top of me. I’m translating that as she’s not interested in my opinion and only wants to share hers.
‘ Someone has to help educate them, and if not me, then who? They clearly need to broaden their range by reading authors with real literary merit, but will they? Non, non, non . All they want to read is a bestselling – and let’s face it, probably ghostwritten – thriller with twists that are far too outlandish to be believable, or some dark romantasy , which is really thinly disguised pornographic nonsense, with no need of a plot.’
I double blink. Agnes has a lot to say and does a lot of emphasising to get her rather narrow viewpoint across. Is this why the book club is quote-unquote ‘unruly’? Imagine if they’re all like her? ‘Do you read romantasy then?’ I ask, puzzled by this opinionated woman.
Agnes reels back with her hand on her chest. ‘ Absolutely not! I wouldn’t give that sort of… pornography the time of day.’
It doesn’t compute. She doth protest too much. ‘How do you know they are pornographic if you haven’t read them?’ Am I coming across as combative? I hope not. But I’m truly curious how she can dismiss certain genres if she hasn’t picked up a copy. And she does seem to know a lot of the popular genres and tropes – how, if she’s not that way inclined?
‘Coco, I keep abreast with the literary climate by chatting with likeminded individuals who share the same beliefs as me – we keep each other aware of what to avoid, although it’s not hard to tell, is it? The covers give it away, with those infantile cartoon characters splashed across the front. I mean, it’s absurd.’ I can’t help but bristle. I love the progression of cover art through the years and I’m sure most readers would agree. ‘Knowing literature as well as I do, I’ve tried to educate the book club.’
I raise my eyebrows so high I’m sure they’re now part of my hairline. ‘And how did that go?’
‘Badly. They weren’t even thankful . They continue to brush my concerns away and tease me about being a prude. If they had their way, books would soon be a series of emojis. Eggplant emojis. That’s what the world is coming to.’
For a seventy-something, Agnes seems to have a handle on what’s popular with the younger generation. There’s clearly more to her than just her literary bias, but it’s all rather extreme.
‘I’m not quite sure how to react to that.’ As much as I’d like to drop a truth bomb into the conversation, I sense my first day on the job is not the right time. Not everyone wants to hear the truth, Agnes is the prime example of this. She wants to be heard but doesn’t want to listen .
Do the other members find this sort of condescension offensive? Or do they really just laugh it off and call her prudish? I’m sure her literary put-downs grate after a while.
Still, this is my job now, so it’s probably sensible to start managing her literary bigotry gently when we’re alone, rather than in front of the group. ‘Being open to new genres is one of the functions of a good book club, don’t you agree?’
‘Yes, wholeheartedly !’ she says. Have I changed her mind so easily? ‘So, you’ll tell them that our first book club pick will be a literary classic and insist they actually read it?’ Her voice is eager.
OK, that backfired.
I inhale as I organise a response that will gently get my point across. ‘What makes book clubs great is having the ability to keep an open mind and respect everyone’s right to read whatever genre they choose, even if those choices are eyebrow-raising to you. While you enjoy literary fiction, others may enjoy spicy romantasy and that’s perfectly acceptable. You won’t be forced to read a book that you find personally offensive, as they won’t be forced to read a classic if that’s not their speed.’
‘I’m not sure you understand the depths of their salaciousness, Coco, but you’ll soon learn. Books like that are a crime against literature!’
Spicy, smutty books are de rigeur these days, becoming popular again, being shared on sites like TikTok, but it’s not as if the genre is new; it’s simply been renamed from erotica. ‘I, uh… see.’ My algorithm breaks. I’m not sure how to defend these books and not get the woman offside.
Agnes sighs when she doesn’t get the reaction she wants from me and turns to Valérie. ‘Next Coco will suggest we choose an obscene book! One of those domestic noir types, where the heroine falls for the abusive hero who is somehow a molecular scientist with anger management issues, yet they push all of that to one side for the graphic sex scenes! When will this madness end ?’
What? The plot she mentions is very familiar to me. How can she possibly know such detail without reading the book? ‘Are you getting this information from… book reviews?’
Agnes gives me an impatient huff. ‘No, it’s simply that those novels are all the same…’
But they’re clearly not! ‘I – but – I…’ I’m saved from stuttering a response when Valérie cuts in.
‘If Coco did choose a spicy novel, you’d read it, wouldn’t you, if only for the sake of providing educated discourse for the novel?’ Valérie stirs the pot, with a cheeky twinkle in her eye.
‘Absolutely not ! I wouldn’t read such filth.’ Her lips curl in distaste.
I frown, frustrated – gah! ‘How can you call it filth if you haven’t read it, though? Shouldn’t you give it a chance, as you want them to give your genre a chance?’
Agnes shakes her head as if disappointed in me. ‘Seriously? Explicit sexual content has no business in literature, period.’
Her argument has no merit, and if only I was braver I’d tell her straight. Ah, but there might be a way… ‘You mentioned DH Lawrence as one of the literary greats.’ Agnes gives me a curt nod. ‘If I recall correctly, Lady Chatterley’s Lover has graphic sexual depictions? So much so that it was banned from sale in many countries?’
Her lip quivers as she battles to retort. ‘That’s an entirely different beast. It’s fine if it’s not, if it’s not… gratuitous , isn’t it?’
I hide a smile at winning a point. ‘Are all spicy books now gratuitous?’
She nods vehemently this time. ‘ All of them, yes. I’m rarely satisfied with the book club choices, Coco, so I’m not expecting much. It’s more of a social club for me. I’m certainly not going to meet my literary equivalent here and I’ve come to terms with that.’
‘Right. It’s just I find that by embracing all kinds of stories I learn so much about others, and about myself along the way.’ She gives me a puzzled frown, as if I’m not making sense. I let it go for now. Agnes is certainly going to make book club interesting. I’m keen to see how the other members handle her archaic literary views. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘I’ll have an iced coffee, thanks, and don’t skimp on the whipped cream. I’ll take my table by the leaning wall of books.’
‘Sure.’ After she saunters away, I face Valérie, so many questions prickling the tip of my tongue, but the one that wins out is not about Agnes – well, not first at any rate. ‘The leaning wall of books?’
‘Ah, I forgot to show you the courtyard. Just outside we have a book wall made with damaged novels that were destined for the rubbish pile. I couldn’t abide by such a waste of those precious tomes. I made a pile of them outside in the undercover area, and soon that pile grew. In the end, I had so many books that the wall sort of grew itself… if that makes sense? Once the wall was built, people kept donating books, so I made steps out of them and now there’s an entire book garden. My engineering skills are basic, hence it’s called the leaning wall of books. But don’t worry, it’s reinforced so it won’t topple on unsuspecting bookworms.’
‘Wow. I need to see this book garden.’
‘I’ll make Agnes’s iced coffee and we can take it out to her and have a peep. The book garden is very popular with tourists who come to take photos on the steps with the leaning book wall in the background.’
‘You’re very clever getting to the heart of a bookworm.’ The potions and passages and now a book garden!
‘Bookworms aren’t so hard to understand.’
‘Speaking of bookworms…’ I glance over my shoulder to make sure Agnes is not lurking within hearing distance. ‘How do the book club members get along with Agnes?’ I’m hoping in the heat of the moment I have the courage to keep order.
Valérie grins while she mixes milk into a shot of coffee and adds ice cubes and generously layers it with cream and a dusting of cocoa powder. ‘They call her the literary snob, but it’s all in good fun. They’re not always patient when she goes off on a rant but I’m sure she enjoys the debate.’
‘Why is she so adamant?’
With a shrug she says, ‘A generational hangup? A sort of inherent pretension about books, probably from the way she grew up. In her world, seventy-five-year-old women don’t read literature as “low brow” as sports romance, or at least that’s what she wants you to believe. Or maybe… Agnes is also suffering a broken heart and she comes here to fix it, but rather than admitting that, she defaults to book talk, the only way she knows how.’
I swallow back a scoff. Agnes does not resemble someone suffering a broken heart. Not in the least. ‘Well, how will she fix this alleged broken heart then…? What will you do to help her?’
‘That’s a secret, Coco. But let me just say that soon Agnes will see the way forward, but hers is a slow recovery because what ails her is so ingrained.’
Now she’s speaking in riddles, surely?
Valérie surveys me, clearly spotting the doubt that flashes across my features. ‘Not everyone wears a broken heart the same way, Coco. Some of us hide it better.’
I contemplate it, finding the truth in her words. I’m quite proficient at hiding my heartbreak from the world; it’s only Valérie who has been savvy enough to pick up on it. And why do I feel the need to pretend Alexander didn’t hurt me but hurt only the business? I suppose I don’t want to come across as na?ve, vulnerable, but it’s more, isn’t it? It’s that I don’t want to admit, even to myself, I’m absolutely gutted that what we had wasn’t real, at least not for him. I’d really, genuinely, fell head over heels for him, and that love only continued to grow over the five years we were together.
Instead of admitting to myself, my daughter, the world around me that I am suffering, I paste on a smile and pretend. I turn to books to find solace.
Valérie slides the iced coffee on a tray and hands it to me. ‘Follow me through the book tunnel.’
‘There’s a book tunnel?’
Valérie’s eyes shine as if she’s getting a kick out of showing me the bookish architecture around the shop. ‘Let me show you.’
With tray in hand, drink sloshing precariously, I take care as I follow Valérie through the rabbit warren of a bookshop. Next to the chair where Henri usually sits there’s an archway, and painted above in French cursive is the phrase ‘Reading is a portal into another world’.
The tunnel is just that – an arched hallway with books stacked as if they are bricks themselves that go all the way around, transforming a passageway into a literary burrow. String lights are looped in a zigzag, producing a warm shimmery glow that gives the tunnel a cosy feel and allows enough illumination to read the spines on display. ‘How do they stay upright?’ I ask, sweeping my gaze from left to right, noticing small gaps because the books are different sizes.
‘They’re secured from behind and pinned together. These beauties were all bound for landfill and now they live on.’
We walk through the book tunnel, which is surprisingly long and rich with the scent of old books. I can’t wait to show Eloise. ‘I’m glad these books have been saved and made into art.’
‘ Oui , me too. There is always a way to repurpose books if they can no longer be read. And that’s the only the time you’ll find me destroying a book, if it cannot be fixed by the book doctor.’
‘Of course there’s a book doctor.’ Nothing surprises me here any more.
Valérie grins. ‘Isidore is actually a book binder, but that title doesn’t do her justice, because she does so much more than that. She’s of the opinion that every book should be saved, if at all possible, whether it’s a prized valuable first edition or a mass market paperback. There’s no money in those, but she saves as many as she can. She’s a petite French woman with a boisterous laugh and a predilection for travel and is gifted with strikingly tiny hands perfect for such delicate fine work.’
The plot thickens. ‘I can’t wait to meet Isidore. I don’t think I’ve ever come face to face with a book doctor before.’
‘You’ll meet her soon enough. She’s a member of the book club.’
‘What kind of novels does she like?’ What if she’s a literary snob too and my role in the book club becomes more of a referee than moderator?
Valérie takes a second before saying, ‘Isidore reads anything and everything. She’s probably so open with her reading because she deals in life and death every day.’
‘Life and death?’
‘Of the books , Coco. The books’ lives are in her tiny hands. It’s a big responsibility to shoulder, a significant burden, so she comes here to decompress.’
‘And she’s heartbroken too?’
‘Very. Think of all the novels she can’t fix. Depressing, non ?’
Wow, OK, I’ve never heard of anything quite like this before. A book doctor who grieves for those which she cannot save. It’s sweet that Isidore cares for all books in such a way, and not only those with a big price tag attached .
I’m keen to meet this tiny-handed woman. While it’s understandable that she’s sad about the books that are not salvageable, is there more to it? ‘Is she also part of the heartbreak club? Like the rest of us?’ I’m not sure why I pry, but I still find this whole broken heart cure mumbo jumbo fairly wacky. And surely I’m not the only one who is dubious?
Valérie flashes me a frown. ‘Nice try, Coco. In this instance, think of me like a doctor. I cannot share such privileged information! It goes against my very principles.’
I’m in a parallel universe where nothing makes sense, yet everything makes perfect sense. Still, I push. ‘How do I help them if I don’t know what’s wrong?’
‘Your job is to find them books to read that help along their journey of healing. Books are like medicine, in cases like this, so ply them with uplifting reads which in conjunction with my assistance will get our special customers back on the path to happiness.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
We come to the end of the tunnel into the muted sunlight of the book garden, which is shaded by a pergola where purple and white wisteria blooms hang. Agnes holds a copy of Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables in her hand with the leaning wall of books a stunning backdrop behind her. It’s a showstopper, all those colourful spines on display like a Lego world made from books. There’s also a thick notebook on the table. A diary?
I place down Agnes’s drink, and she gives me a curt smile. ‘ Merci , Coco.’ Her expression is softer in the gauzy sunlight, as if some of the fire inside her has been extinguished. While I place a napkin down, I take a moment to surreptitiously survey her. There is an air of dejection about her when she’s sitting alone like this; she seems smaller, less sure somehow. Perhaps I’m not the only one hiding the broken parts. The thought gives me pause.
‘Enjoy your drink, Agnes. Let me know if you need anything else.’
I follow Valérie back through the tunnel to the bookshop. ‘Are there any more surprises around here?’ Book architecture, broken hearts, book doctors. What else can there be!
Valérie takes a moment to consider it. ‘Ah! You haven’t seen the book loft upstairs. It’s a relaxation zone with hammocks, daybeds, beanbags. A mishmash of seating areas for customers to laze or sprawl on when they read.’ Valérie points to a black wrought-iron staircase on the far side of the bookshop. I noticed the stairs earlier but haven’t had time to think much of it. ‘You can explore upstairs tomorrow. Let’s have lunch. I’ll show you how I assemble a charcuterie board, and we can share the spoils.’
My stomach rumbles at the thought of lunch after only taking a few bites at breakfast, but I’m intrigued about the book loft upstairs. The idea of a bookish contemplative quiet zone appeals, and I wonder if there’s anything this wily bookseller hasn’t thought of…