Chapter 16 The Catcher in the Rye
The Catcher in the Rye
Coordinating the various and simultaneous efforts of bricklayers, electricians and plumbers took an incredible amount of energy and patience.
But ever since Monsieur Bariquez had deposited Anna’s check, his involvement had dwindled to a few brief, rushed visits.
He’d essentially left Anna to act as foreman in his place.
She’d found that she actually enjoyed the task, and was proud of the rhythm and rapport she’d built on site.
In just two weeks, the place had been completely transformed.
The floors were still dusty, but the chaos was over.
A wide arched opening had been made in the wall between the kitchen and the dining room.
The work surfaces had been prepared, the dilapidated appliances removed.
Soon the plumbing would be finished and then the tiler could begin.
If things kept moving at this pace, she would be able to start bringing in equipment within a week or two, and new staff try-outs could begin in about a month.
Anna was determined to break in the kitchen before she opened her doors to the public.
She did one last walk-through of the site, glanced in a mirror, brushed the dust off her coat collar and shoulders, ran a hand through her dishevelled hair, and left, locking the door behind her. She slipped the keys into her pocket before setting off down the street, whistling.
Ten metres down the road, Mitch froze like a hunting dog spotting his prey. He darted into the recess of a doorway, white-faced, hardly breathing. Verner stared at him, alarmed.
“Are you having a heart attack? Did you see a ghost? I suppose depending on the order they’re not mutually exclusive.”
“Shut up, Verner!”
“This just keeps getting better,” the music teacher remarked, rolling his eyes.
Anna disappeared around the corner.
“This is extraordinary. All that detective work’s gone to your head! Who was that, Mata Hari?”
“Just someone I didn’t want to see.”
“Someone you didn’t want to see, or someone you didn’t want to be seen by?”
“Quit talking to me like I’m some high-school kid!”
“You obviously haven’t looked in a mirror lately, or you’d know that’s the last thing I’m doing,” Verner retorted. “So, who was the beautiful stranger?”
“We spent an evening together. She promised to stop by the shop, and—”
“Not another word, please! I already feel sorry enough for you, old chap.”
“Don’t call me that. You’ve got thirty years on me, at least!”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re old on the inside.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. You live like a monk in your shop. Books your only friends. And then, the moment a woman comes near you, you vanish into the wall. That’s why you’re an old chap. Period.”
“Yeah, well, the friends I did have neglected me while I was rotting in prison.”
“Which friends were those, may I ask?”
“You, for starters… Madame Bergol. Madame Ateltow.”
“What a youthful crew,” Verner said dryly.
“Your girlfriend at the time lowered the average age a bit – but you have to admit that I’m right.
Now, if you’ve pulled yourself together, let’s go get that drink.
In fact, it’s going to take more than one to erase what I just witnessed.
You can tell me all about that young woman, who whistles in such perfect tune. ”
Verner steered Mitch into a bar, an old jazz club that had seen its glory days in the previous century, or perhaps never seen them at all.
Heavy red curtains sagged from the walls, three alcoves held battered booths, and a dozen tables faced a tiny stage.
An ancient bassist was up there, eyes closed, plucking away in time with a saxophonist blowing a little of his soul into every note.
“Wow, this place is depressing,” Mitch commented as they sat.
“Well, you wouldn’t recognize a good thing if it hit you right in the face.
Just listening to those old fools reminds me of how far I’ve come – in my musical career, I mean.
The bartender makes the best Manhattan in the city, and since I’m terrified of flying, this kind of travel suits me just fine. ”
Two Manhattans later, Mitch was ready to talk about Anna. When he got to the part where she’d climbed into a taxi and sped away from him, Verner just nodded. Then he turned to Mitch with a sly look.
“Since you fancy yourself a spy, I assume you noticed she just walked out of a restaurant under renovation? And unless I completely misread what she told you, she’s no architect.
So, the odds are, it’s her place. Which might explain why she’s been…
distracted. Add in her legal trouble – whatever that’s about – and I’d say she’s got more than enough excuses to be busy. ”
“So busy she can’t find five minutes to come see me?”
“That depends on the value you assign to those minutes. Coming to see you isn’t a question of time, but timing. Ever consider her silence might have something to do with the trouble her chef friend mentioned?”
“No,” Mitch acknowledged, clinging to this new explanation like a lifeline.
“Did you tell her the truth about yourself?”
Mitch nodded.
“Well then, here’s a theory: and I stress, just a theory.
Let’s say she liked you. Let’s even be optimistic and say she really liked you.
Then she finds out you just got out of prison.
And she’s dealing with her own legal mess.
If she’s got half a conscience – and I’m guessing she does – she might think she’s bad news for you.
And maybe, just maybe, she’s keeping her distance to protect you. ”
“Far-fetched. But not impossible,” Mitch conceded, ordering a third Manhattan.
“When was the last time you laughed?”
“No idea.”
“Then drink up and think about it.”
“What would you do in my shoes?”
“The opposite of what you should do, which explains why I’m single at my age.”
“But I thought you and Madame Ateltow—”
“I thought so too, but she decided we’d be better off as friends. The cruellest fate a woman can inflict on a man who loves her. Absolutely heartless. If you have feelings for this Anna of yours, don’t ever let yourself be talked into that sort of compromise.”
They lingered at the bar late into the night, but kept the conversation to books and music. As they parted, music holding its liquor better than literature, Verner urged Mitch to stop following the prosecutor. “You’d do better to put your heart somewhere, anywhere, other than the courthouse steps.”
* * *
The last suburban train had long since left, so Mitch was forced to spend what remained of the night in his shop.
As he stepped into the storeroom, his eyes came to rest on the rug that lay over the trapdoor.
The dusty sofas in the cellar would be far more forgiving than the bookshop floor, but he still couldn’t quite bring himself to set foot in the secret room. Not yet.
The cat woke him up at dawn brushing against his cheek and purring.
“How did you get in here, huh?” Mitch murmured, picking the cat up and setting it on his chest.
The night watchman had no interest in snuggling. He immediately leapt onto the radiator. Mitch closed his eyes again and woke an hour later, alone.
He got up, massaging his bad leg, and left the shop through the courtyard.
Back at home, he took a long, hot shower and shaved carefully, then pulled on a crisp white shirt and his best jacket, and caught a train back into the city.
His hangover was stubborn, but his heart felt lighter: he’d made an important decision.
He treated himself to breakfast at a café in the centre of town, then stopped at a nearby florist. Bouquet of peonies in hand, he returned to the street he and Verner had walked down the night before.
He finally stopped in front of a large window covered in brown kraft paper.
Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the restaurant door.
Anna was bent over the counter, her back to him, an electric sander by her feet. She ran her fingers along the grain of the wood, then switched the machine back on and set to work again. A loud high-pitched whining noise filled the space. Mitch took the opportunity to move a bit closer.
“If it’s not completely smooth, the varnish will crack!” she called over the noise.
“Depends on the number of coats you use,” Mitch shouted back.
She turned off the sander and looked over her shoulder.
“How did you find me?”
“Luck. I was passing by and saw you go in.”
“And the flowers? Happened to have them on you?”
“Do you like them?”
Anna took the bouquet from him and placed it in a bucket, which she filled with water.
“The plumber’s missing in action. The kitchen range is supposed to be delivered this morning; if the gas line isn’t hooked up, they’ll leave it on the curb. The tilers won’t be able to do anything when they come in this afternoon.”
“Do you have tools?” asked Mitch, eyeing the equipment on the workbench.
“The workmen left a toolbox in the office, but you’re not a plumber.”
Mitch shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. Anna watched as he strapped on a pair of protective goggles and picked up a welding torch. An arc of electricity sparked to life right in front of him.
“Won’t take long,” he said.
Anna didn’t respond; she was too taken aback by the unlikely image of this bookseller she’d been avoiding for weeks, now crouched over her gas line with a torch in hand.
But she didn’t have time to question it.
Moments later, Mitch stood and admired the weld, blowing the dust off the copper pipe.
He turned to her, looking pleased with himself.
“Done. Now, every time you turn on the burners, you’ll think of me.”
“In those goggles? Hard to forget,” she commented wryly. “Thanks. I owe you one. Now, tell me what you’re doing here.”
“Just a little welding. And if you need anything else, just ask. It’s my day off.”
“You closed the shop just to come and see me?” Anna asked. She kept her voice level but polite.