Chapter 4 February 1995 Lily Jacobsen—Program Manager
Lily Jacobsen—program manager
Dear Ms. Jacobsen,
Thank you for your submission of French Kisses. There are more than enough books and movies about na?ve Americans in Paris. The world does not need one more.
Sincerely,
The Lerner Agency
After reading the rejection letter, I went through the writer’s stages of grief: disbelief that my manuscript hadn’t been snatched up, an afternoon of wallowing on the futon, sucking down large quantities of chocolate, anger at the literary agency and the world at large, and finally, denial about the state of my career—there were other agents and editors to query, and I was ornery enough to write and publish the book just to prove the naysayers wrong.
Despite my trying to be chipper, deep in my soul, anguish from another rejection festered. These past weeks, Mary Louise had absented herself. I missed her, missed being able to share life’s ups and downs with her, especially when word came that I got the job as the program manager.
When she returned home on the fourteenth, I was heartened—she remembered our day.
Before she could say hello, I thrust my ALP work contract under her nose.
She squealed and hugged me. She set two glasses on our kitchenette table and poured the bottle of bubbly that had waited patiently in the fridge.
She raised her glass. “Just like Marcelle said, we need to celebrate the wins. Congratulations on your job!”
I loved that she talked about my favorite characters like they were real people.
As we touched our rims together, I tried to tell myself that change was good.
Mary Louise was only moving across town, not to a different country.
And I’d be following in Odile’s footsteps in a dream job.
Even so, it was hard to fight the doubts.
You’re a nobody. How will you ever convince big names to read at the library?
Your writing isn’t brilliant. Time to quit daydreaming that you’ll ever be an author.
Seeing me struggle with my thoughts, Mary Louise said, “You will publish. You will.”
She knew how I felt. When she’d applied for jobs, the only offer she received was from an American dental practice.
She’d said accepting it felt like she was giving up her dream of showing her artwork in Paris.
I insisted that she could paint on the side, and that receptionist work would be a way to improve her language skills and that her French co-workers might become friends.
Over a year later, they were still just co-workers and her French still sucked. Unlike me, she’d built up a nest egg.
Mary Louise slipped her foot over mine as I signed the contract, which dictated the details: minimum wage, twenty hours a week, no overtime pay, dressing in a “classique” manner, and the first three months were a trial period, in which I could be fired at any time.
When I reported for duty at the welcome table, a smile illuminated the greeter’s wan face. “Congratulations, Lily! I’m glad that you’re the one he hired.”
“Me, too.” I was a little embarrassed that I hadn’t caught her name.
At my desk in the back office, she gave me the lay of the open-space land.
Near the window was Marius, the collection manager, a gaunt Frenchman.
As he mended bindings, his papery hands moved with the grace of an orchestra conductor’s.
At the next desk was the secretary, Odessa, who greeted me with a distracted nod before returning to mounds of files.
“She’s the one who really runs things,” the greeter said.
“I thought that was me,” said a tall, trim man who’d thrown open the glass door and entered from the courtyard. In a sweater vest and checkered pants, he nailed the homicidal golfer look.
“This is Lorenzo, the head librarian,” she said. “He offered to help out tonight.”
“ ‘Helping out’ is the library’s genteel euphemism for ‘work for free,’ ” Lorenzo said. “Meg and I will train you since the previous program manager quit on the spot.”
“Quit on the spot?” I echoed. “Why?”
“Let’s just say Hayes isn’t the best boss,” Meg replied.
“She didn’t even last a year. Some people can’t hack working here.” Lorenzo smirked. “I’m sure it’ll be different for you,” he added, sounding entirely unconvinced.
On the wall behind my desk, there was an oversize, jam-packed calendar, where I would keep track of book clubs (green ink), support groups (blue ink), and Entre Nous literary events (red ink).
Meg showed me examples of invitations sent to speakers, as well as the follow-up correspondence on when to arrive (6:30 p.m.) and how long they should talk (no more than forty minutes).
It hit me again that I had no idea how to lure writers.
“What’s the budget for an event?” I imagined that hotels and meals could get expensive.
Lorenzo snorted. “Budget!”
He explained that for tonight’s event with Cal Gaige, the program manager had tracked down his French editor to find out if he’d be in Paris to promote the translation of his latest book.
The publisher financed his trip and booked appearances on French television and radio; the library just asked for some of the author’s time, positioning the reading as an opportunity for authors to share their work.
That didn’t sound too bad.
“You must book A-listers,” Lorenzo continued. “If you don’t, Hayes and the trustees will be breathing down your neck. And even if you do, they’ll be right behind you, second-guessing.”
Meg shot him a warning glance. “Don’t worry. This is an interesting job. You’ll meet amazing people.”
“What are some of the challenges?” I asked.
“In this role, you have to do some… appeasing.” She measured her words carefully, the way my stepmother measured the ingredients of a complicated recipe. With care, Ellie poured flour into the measuring cup, then ran a knife over the rim to get the exact amount. No more, no less.
“And I suppose Hayes neglected to mention that the program manager must ‘freshen up’ the restrooms before events,” Lorenzo said.
Freshen up. I frowned. In high school, I’d spent summers as a hotel maid. I didn’t mind cleaning, but the unexpected return to scrubbing toilets felt like a step back.
I followed Meg to the supply closet. She knocked on the door. Did she believe the place was haunted, or that a gremlin lived inside rolls of toilet paper?
“Twice, I’ve walked in on the assistant director snogging the writer in residence.”
A little thrown, I didn’t reply. The prim quiet of a library pitted against Paris, a city renowned for its lovers. Clearly, assumptions about libraries being dull were wrong.
We each grabbed paper towels and a spray bottle of bleach. I told her she didn’t need to help out, but she insisted and even let me take the women’s restroom while she tidied the men’s.
She suggested I get started in the reading room, that she would join me shortly.
Get started doing what? I wondered as I headed down the hall, fingers grazing the stacks.
I repeated everything I needed to retain.
Find French editors and ask them to loan us their writers.
Clean the bathrooms. Knock before entering.
Now, I observed patrons working studiously at round tables and wondered where we’d store the tables during the event.
Should I ask everyone to leave, like a lifeguard bellowing, “Everybody out!”?
I felt submerged, as if I’d been dropped into the deep end of the library pool.
In the corner, a cute guy with book head drew my attention.
In the same genus as bedhead, it’s a condition caused by holding fistfuls of hair while inhaling a gripping novel, or by a long stint of studying, elbow on the desk, hand digging into the scalp, eyes on the page.
Such pure concentration made me long to know what he was reading.
Perhaps One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest, or a translation of Camus?
Squinting at the books fanned out before him, I tried to glimpse a title.
He glanced up. Watching him watch me, I felt a jolt.
Lorenzo sidled up beside me. “Closing time in fifteen minutes!” he hollered way too close to my ear.
I willed Book Head to stay for tonight’s event, but like most patrons, he slid his notepads and pens into his briefcase and headed out.
Meg showed me how to fold the legs of the tables and slide them into the stacks, while a wiry man moved the chairs into rows. “This is David, one of our best volunteers,” she said.
He regarded me with serious brown eyes. With his button-down shirt and graying corkscrew hair, he reminded me of the steadfast men back home, the ones who volunteered on the ambulance crew. They didn’t say much but were always there for folks.
“Nice to meet you,” I said. “How long have you been volunteering?”
“Since I got here, two years ago. I don’t know what I’d do without Meg.”
I had a feeling I’d soon be saying those very words.
In a tiny kitchen, she grabbed bottles of wine and juice; I brought the napkins and plastic cups. At the refreshment stand near the entry, David sliced the Brie and baguettes on a wooden board. All in all, we created an inviting aperitif.
“Make sure volunteers serve the wine,” Lorenzo advised. “You don’t want attendees filling their cups to the brim themselves and getting sloshy drunk.”
“And cut the Brie immediately,” David added. “Last week, Mazie Chester slid a wheel of Camembert into her tote when she thought no one was looking. Rich people are weird.”
At the welcome table, Meg greeted people by name and asked them to sign in.
“For statistics,” Lorenzo explained to me. “We count the number of attendees. In December, you’ll present a report to the trustees, and you must show that attendance improved.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
“Remove some names from March and add them to November,” he said. “Voilà!”