Chapter 15 The Hate U Give
The Hate U Give
As the days rolled by, customers began to return to the bookshop.
Former regulars offered Mitch little more than a nod, made their purchases and departed without lingering.
Not a single one bothered to ask any questions, as if it were completely normal for a bookshop to close one evening and reopen five years later.
No one had wondered what happened to him, much less defended him.
Pretending nothing had happened seemed the best way to keep their consciences clear.
Mitch couldn’t quite name what he was feeling.
He tried to convince himself that the past was behind him, but it hung over him each evening, when he closed the shop.
Each morning, he’d roll up the metal shutter with a quiet resolve: he wouldn’t let bitterness take hold.
It would only make things worse. So he paid more attention to the occasional walk-in customers.
He reminded himself that business was steady.
During the day he could find reasons to be content – nights were harder.
At night his thoughts returned to Anna. There was no sign of her, and after two weeks he resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn’t be hearing from her again – which didn’t keep him from wondering obsessively what he could possibly have done to drive her away.
Was it something he’d said? Had he asked something he shouldn’t?
Was he just that boring? And since he hadn’t already tortured himself enough, he decided in the end that she must have thought one evening in the company of an ex-con was plenty.
Once he’d established this, Mitch slowly started to move on.
After all, he’d served his time. He hadn’t hurt anyone.
And he wasn’t dragging around the remnants of some mysterious situation likely to pique the interest of the police.
Anna’s persistent silence had begun to feel humiliating.
He’d been stupid to get his hopes up. Occasionally he glanced around to make sure the shop was empty, then allowed himself to swear out loud.
Today’s oath of choice: “What an idiot!”
“Customer service hasn’t improved, I see,” said a voice from the doorway.
“Verner?”
“In the flesh, my friend. Or what’s left of it, anyway.”
Mitch stepped out from behind the counter to greet the music teacher.
“You should install a bell,” Verner went on. “You never seem to notice when a customer comes in.”
“True, half the time I don’t, and it’s better that way. Ever since the station closed its waiting room, people come here instead to kill time before their train. The problem is, they hardly ever actually buy anything.”
“Maybe if you didn’t call them idiots, they’d actually make a purchase.”
“Alright, Verner – is there something you want?” Mitch asked coolly.
“To see you, of course. What else? What happened to your leg? You’re limping.”
“Skiing accident.”
“Funny. Really, where have you been? You could’ve sent a postcard.”
Verner seemed utterly sincere – but Mitch knew he was a good actor, and wasn’t about to be fooled.
“What do you mean, where have I been?”
“Was I not clear? And why so hostile?”
“You’re honestly going to stand there and pretend you didn’t know?” Mitch flared, losing patience.
Now Verner was annoyed too. “Know what?” he said sharply.
“I came to the meeting as scheduled – unlike you, obviously, because the shutters were down! I thought perhaps I’d got the date wrong, so I came back the next day after class, and the next, but the bookshop was always closed.
I called, but no one ever picked up. I came back, again and again… ”
“And?” Mitch snapped.
Verner’s face darkened. He puffed his chest and began pacing the shop, hands clasped behind his back, head bobbing wildly like a rooster on the verge of a panic attack.
“And I figured you’d left. No forwarding address. It hurt, Mitch. I thought we were friends. The way you disappeared, without a word, it stung. There, I’ve said it.”
“Do you really expect me to believe you didn’t know anything about the arrest? Or the trial?”
Verner stopped short. “What arrest? What trial?” he demanded breathlessly. As further proof of his astonishment, he sat down heavily on the nearest table.
“My arrest! My trial!” Mitch shouted. “I spent the last five years in jail!”
Verner sagged, as if his whole body were being crushed by the weight of this news.
“I had no idea,” he said. “I swear. How could I have known?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe by reading the news?”
“I stopped reading the Lighthouse years ago, for the very good reason that one learns nothing from it. I’m telling you the truth. Please believe me. Let me buy you a drink. I want you to tell me everything, if you’re willing to.”
Mitch had zero interest in a drink. It was much too early for that, and, even if it hadn’t been, he still wouldn’t have gone. But Verner showed no sign of leaving. At last Mitch gave in, vanished into the back room, and returned with a pitcher of water as a sign of silent surrender.
Verner listened without interruption. As Mitch recounted it all, two thoughts turned over in his mind: either Verner was the best liar he’d ever met, or he had truly been in the dark.
“Absolutely horrifying,” Verner whispered, when Mitch had finished.
“I survived.”
“I don’t mean prison – I mean my own ignorance. I would’ve visited. Brought pastries. We could’ve talked. Helped pass the time. Eased your loneliness – and mine, for that matter.”
Verner had that unusual gift: he could be fussy and benevolent, all at once. A master tightrope walker, always managing to land on his feet.
“Well, things turned out differently,” Mitch murmured.
“What will you do now?”
“Try to keep my shop afloat,” Mitch answered. Now wasn’t the time to mention his plan for revenge, which was becoming more and more of an obsession.
“And what about your precious collection? Was it confiscated?”
“No – they never found the secret room. I got sent up the river because of two godforsaken books I’d forgotten in the storeroom. Didn’t Salinas ever come to question you?”
“Salinas?”
“The prosecutor who ruined my life.”
“Never heard of him,” Verner vowed solemnly, looking as if he were willing to swear a blood oath to prove his sincerity.
Mitch felt almost guilty for having doubted him.
“I’m glad you didn’t get dragged in. Hope no one else did either.”
“If you want to ask me about Madame Ateltow, do feel free.”
“I couldn’t care less, to be honest.”
Verner rubbed his chin, stood up and leaned his elbows on the counter, drumming his fingers on the surface. Then he took a deep breath, preparing to speak.
“An armed raid, a trial and a stiff prison sentence, all for two books? Just, doesn’t sit right with me.”
“And yet, it happened.”
“Is it possible that you haven’t given enough thought to why? The police might not have found what they were looking for, but if there were that many of them you can bet they were looking for something.”
“They were looking for someone to make an example of. To scare booksellers and librarians. Deter resistance.”
“If that’s the case, it’s very strange that I never heard about it. And even stranger that Madame Ateltow didn’t either – not even from her bookshop friend, who was practically giddy after her visit to your reading group and dead set on joining the cause.”
“She organized her own meetings?” asked Mitch, with genuine interest in what Verner was saying for the first time.
“She did. You really can’t say the government went out of its way to use your arrest as a warning to others. It just doesn’t add up. But who knows what goes on behind the scenes – or in the heads of those in power?”
“What are you getting at, Verner?”
“Al Capone died in prison, serving a sentence for tax fraud, not for any of the murders he committed.”
“What a flattering comparison.”
“Did you know that it was his accountant who ratted on him to the FBI, in exchange for immunity? The government used that relatively minor infraction to get exactly what they needed.” Verner gave him a significant look.
“I didn’t know that. And I don’t see what it has to do with me.”
“Fine. Be obtuse, then. If you say two books got you thrown in prison, and no one else, then I’ll take your word for it.
You’d know best, after all.” Verner stood up, preparing to leave.
“I’m glad you’re back. Glad you made it out.
If you don’t mind, I’ll drop by again. Who knows, maybe next time you’ll be up for a real drink. ”
At the door, he turned and asked, with a crooked grin, “Oh, and the lovely Mathilde – have you seen her?”
“Not since the day I was arrested.”
“How unfortunate. The two of you seemed so close.”
“I thought so too, but I was wrong. She never came to the trial or visited me in prison, not even once.”
Verner departed, closing the door behind him.
It wasn’t until later that evening that Mitch finally understood the point Verner had been trying to make, and the irony in his voice when he’d blamed the books and no one else…
Mitch had always assumed that the police raid had been triggered by the inspector who’d spotted Anne Frank’s diary on a shelf.
He’d blamed himself for being careless, for having so thoughtlessly left two other banned titles lying around in the storeroom.
But the thought that someone might have reported him to the police hit him like a punch to the gut.
* * *
The next day, he closed the bookshop half an hour early.
He slipped out through the courtyard, leaving a dish of kibble for the cat, who was napping on a windowsill.
He reached the courthouse just as the day’s hearings were wrapping up.
It was the fifth time he’d done so in the last two weeks.
On Thursdays, Salinas tended to emerge from the courthouse just a few minutes after closing.