Chapter 2 January 1995 Lily Jacobsen—Job Applicant #4
She walked slowly, and I matched her pace.
It gave me time to drink in everything. The palmetto in a cracked terra-cotta pot.
The chipped paint on the window casings.
The stained green carpet. So much of Paris was appearances.
In the Luxembourg Garden, the lawn was to be admired, not to be touched and certainly not to be picnicked upon.
Running clockwise on its sandy paths, lanky joggeurs sported Lacoste polo shirts, collars popped.
Parisiennes donned high heels even if they were just dashing into the supermarket to buy canned peas.
Rubbing the toe of my loafer over the splotch of ink on the carpet, I felt such affection for these imperfections, the way these stains and scratches underlined, Real life is messy, and that’s okay.
We passed the children’s section, the walls decorated with cheery paper snowflakes.
A fey brunette recited The Paper Bag Princess to little ones gathered in a semicircle.
The dragon took another huge breath, but this time nothing came out.
The dragon didn’t even have enough fire left to cook a meatball.
The kids leaned forward, the way I did when I reached an engrossing part of a novel.
The sparkle in the librarian’s eyes made me realize how much she loved her job, made me realize how happy I was to return to this bookish place.
The greeter and I passed the reading room, where patrons pored over books.
There were several cute guys, and I couldn’t help but wonder about dating one—if I got the job.
Continuing past the nonfiction stacks, I searched for my favorite numbers—001.
9 (the unexplained, like UFOs or Bigfoot) and 808 (writing and getting published).
The greeter boasted about the library’s treasures: a pair of Hemingway’s tortoiseshell spectacles; a letter from Henry Miller; and books that had once belonged to the Left Bank bookseller Sylvia Beach (the patron saint of impoverished writers) as well as Marlene Dietrich, who scrawled opinions in the margins (“This is without a doubt the worst writing I have ever laid eyes on.”).
The greeter added that the cavernous safe in the director’s office was rumored to contain the lost manuscript of Irène Cohen, a beloved Parisian novelist. I knew all about Professor Cohen from Odile.
“Her Cairo trilogy is incredible!” I replied, practically bouncing at the thought of discovering more of her work. “Is there any chance I can read the manuscript?”
“No one on staff has the key.”
“Can’t they hire a locksmith?”
“The budget is tight.”
Ah yes, modest salary. The only kind I’ve ever known.
“Still,” I ventured, “a secret new novel would relaunch interest in Irène Cohen. Her work deserves the attention.”
“You know your literature. Too few people are familiar with Irène’s work.”
After chatting with the greeter, I was no longer nervous. She smelled of hot cocoa, which made me trust her.
“Any advice?” I asked as we arrived at the director’s door.
Skipping the bland just-be-yourself nonsense, she said, “Be honest, but not too honest.”
“Okay. Is there anything you can tell me about the director?”
“Sure: Hayes is a bean counter and a name-dropper. He has no sense of humor.”
Before I could respond, she knocked on his door.
“Come in,” came the muffled response.
For a middle-aged guy, the director was handsome enough, with wire-rimmed glasses and a Saint-Tropez tan.
In his pinstriped suit, he resembled a stockbroker.
On his desk was a framed photo of him with President Reagan.
Given the library’s homey shabbiness, I knew Reagan’s trickle-down theory didn’t work here.
Mr. Hayes sifted through a pile of résumés. “Constance Thorn?”
I shook my head. “Lily Jacobsen.”
“Take a seat.” He gestured to a table and chairs in front of the window, which gave onto a paved courtyard that was more parking lot than secret garden.
My back was to the gray safe, which was the size of an upright piano.
I wondered how to get my hands on Professor Cohen’s manuscript. Odile and I would love to read it.
I answered Mr. Hayes’s questions the best I could. No, I’m not a library member. Yes, I have working papers. Yes, I have strong feelings about fonts. No, I’m not familiar with Saul Bellow’s prose.
“Saul Bellow, Pat O’Malley, Richard Ford.
” The director lifted his gaze to the heavens the way our priest back home did when evoking the holy trinity.
Mr. Hayes explained that booking A-list speakers for the Entre Nous literary series was the key responsibility of program manager.
The ALP was struggling financially. The cost of maintaining this old building was considerable, the pipes alone…
Anyway, big names would entice prospective donors.
However, with the relatively small Anglophone audience in Paris, authors passing through usually spoke at only one venue.
It was a high-stakes competition between the ALP and Parisian bookshops.
So far, those bastards at Piccadilly Books were winning.
Perhaps realizing he’d gone off script, he glanced at my résumé. “So you were a teacher? The job is about dealing with the public. We have many personality types here. You must be patient and diplomatic. It’s vital to cultivate good relations, even at your level.”
My level?
“How’s your French?” he asked.
“I speak fluently, but to be honest, sometimes when I’m stressed, my words evaporate.”
He nodded. “We can all relate to that, in any language.”
I longed to boast that my friend Odile had worked here—and faced the Nazis—during the war, but the way that Mr. Hayes kept peering at his watch stopped me. When he asked if I had any questions, I brought up salary.
“We’re a nonprofit,” he reminded me.
Subtext: minimum wage. I couldn’t help but wonder if that was his BMW I saw parked in the courtyard.
He asked if I was planning to stay in Paris. “I don’t want to hire someone who can’t commit. The previous two program managers lasted less than a year apiece.”
I should have asked why they’d resigned. I should have seen the red flag he waved in my face.