Chapter 8 April 1995 Lily Jacobsen—Program Manager #2
It was hard not to despair. I wanted to wad up the rejection, but it was proof that I was trying. I would add it to my stack. I reminded myself that I couldn’t control editors’ responses, and could only do my best.
To cheer myself up, I peeked into the reading room and felt a burst of happiness at seeing Book Head, his chestnut hair sticking up adorably.
Mary Louise had a boyfriend; soon, so would I.
Wending between tables, I handed out event flyers as an excuse to approach.
Spread out before him, I spied a slew of Texas guidebooks.
“Planning a trip?” I shot for flirtatious, but instead sounded like an overexcited travel agent.
“Not anytime soon. Just dreaming, I guess.” He spoke with a slight accent. Why does English sound better when it’s spoken by a French person?
“Maybe you should aim higher.”
He crossed his arms. “You’re criticizing my dream?”
“I didn’t mean to.” Too often, my mouth worked faster than my brain. “I meant aim due north… to Montana. The Rocky Mountains and Yellowstone National Park.”
Why was I trying to sell the place I’d left without a backward glance?
“I bet it’s stunning,” he said. “Is that where you’re from?”
“Yes. We have one million cows and eight hundred thousand people. You have space to think. Folks there are kind.” A pang of longing hit me.
I missed my little brothers, dad, and stepmom.
Not wanting to become maudlin, I continued, “You know the song ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’? It was originally ‘The Marigold of Montana.’ The songwriter bowed to peer pressure.”
“Why don’t I believe you?” There was a tinge of warm humor in his tone.
“If you don’t believe me, ask John Steinbeck. ‘I am in love with Montana. For other states I have admiration, respect, recognition, even some affection, but with Montana it is love.’ ”
He side-eyed me. “Did Steinbeck really write that?”
I held up my hand. “Scout’s honor. In Travels with Charley.”
“Did he spend time in Texas?”
“He did, but if you want Texas, try The Liars’ Club. It’s equal parts hilarious and heartbreaking; it’s the story of a family, but also of a time and place.”
He nodded as I spoke. “I’ll check it out. My name’s Christophe, by the way. You can call me Chris. Like Kris Kristofferson, my favorite songwriter.”
“I’m Lily.”
From the circ desk, Lorenzo gave us the shut-up-you’re-in-a-library stink eye.
I wasn’t the only one who felt the Sicilian death stare. “I guess we need to be quiet,” Chris whispered, “but I’d love to continue our conversation. Want to grab dinner sometime?”
“Absolument!”
“Friday at seven? Meet you here?”
“Oui!” There weren’t enough exclamation points in the library’s books to express my excitement.
At my desk, Mr. Hayes lay in wait, a crumpled piece of paper in his hand.
His suit was rumpled, as if he’d slept in it, yet his face was haggard, as if he hadn’t slept at all.
“Why can’t you book real authors like Saul Bellow, Richard Ford, or Pat O’Malley?
” he demanded. “Every week, Piccadilly hosts Pulitzer Prize winners. The only writers you manage to find are locals. Low-hanging fruit, rotting on our branch.”
Should I mention that speakers had been booked months in advance by my predecessor?
And by “real authors,” did he mean men? I held up the letter from Gallomart to show that editors were responding, but Mr. Hayes didn’t give me the opportunity to speak.
Worse, Odessa, the secretary, and Marius, the collection manager, were at their desks—how humiliating to be criticized in front of co-workers. I felt my cheeks flush.
“No wonder we have a lousy turnout!” Mr. Hayes shook a half-filled attendance sheet at me. “And don’t forget to update your statistics!” He stalked off.
Peeking up from behind her binders, Odessa winced in sympathy. “Girl, don’t take it to heart,” she advised. “We lifers have learned that if Hayes likes you, you can do no wrong. If he doesn’t… well, nothing you ever do is right.”
Hayes didn’t like me?
Across from me, Marius had turned his attention to mending a spine. Without looking up, he said, “I’ve worked here for thirty-five years. Eight directors have come and gone. I’ve learned that if you wait long enough, problems—both personnel and personal—go away.”
Statistics:
Number of months worked: 3
Events organized: 24
Authors who turned up late: 2
Authors who turned up drunk: 1
Audience attendance: not good enough
Events that trustee Jennifer de Narp attended: 24
Events that Mary Louise attended: 0
Contrary to what Mr. Hayes thought, there were great novelists who weren’t “big names.” For example, Wendy Peterson, who’d written an incredible account of 350 women who volunteered just miles from the front in World War I.
I’d discovered it in the “Underrated Gem” section of the Red Wheelbarrow bookshop.
A work of historical fiction, The Library Card recounted the career of Jessie “Kit” Carson, who worked for Le Comité Américain pour les Régions Dévastées (CARD).
This modest NYPL librarian changed the literary landscape of France by making reading accessible to all ages, genders, and social classes.
Wendy Peterson’s book showed how one person could make a difference.
I’d given copies to everyone I knew. According to the bio on the back cover, she worked at the New York Public Library, so I was stunned to bump into her at the bookshop.
I gushed that I was a fan and asked what she was writing now.
“These days, lesson plans.” She explained that in order to get a work visa, she’d accepted a job teaching English in a French executive MBA program.
The black frames of Wendy’s glasses set off her tired eyes. Her weary tone reminded me how teaching business English had eaten away at my soul. These écoles de commerce charged a fortune in tuition, but teachers were paid next to nothing.
“I’ve been there,” I said. “My students compared me to a hostage taker. It was demoralizing.”
“Exactly. Their companies pay them to take English classes, yet somehow they’re victims.”
I felt a quiet thrill that she understood. “Right? I’d kill to learn a foreign language on the clock.”
I asked how long she was planning to stay in Paris. She said at least a school year. When I asked if she’d had family over to visit, she replied, “My dad thinks I’m nuts for coming here. He never visited me in New York, he sure as hell won’t come to France.”
God, I could relate to that, too. Some friends had nonstop visitors who squatted in their studios, used all the hot water, emptied the fridge, and left a mess.
Others were like me—no company ever. For my loved ones in Montana, Paris might as well be the moon—distant and unattainable. It had started to feel lonely.
“But enough about me,” she said. “What about you?”
It had been a while since anyone had asked.
Maybe because I knew her writing, I felt like I knew her and could confide.
At the Sorbonne, fellow students used the informal “tu,” like we were already friends.
Mary Louise and I had met up with them for readings and art shows.
After graduation, a few of our classmates got married and had kids.
They needed bigger apartments and could no longer afford Paris.
They bequeathed us cast-off belongings—that’s how I’d inherited the wonky bookcase.
Now, the people I met used the formal “vous,” and try as I might, we never made it to the warmth of “tu.” I explained to Wendy that though I had a dream job of organizing literary events, I wasn’t writing.
“So you’re an author,” she said.
“I’m not published.”
“You’ll get there.”
“Would you consider giving a talk at the ALP?” I handed her my business card. Wendy would be my first acceptance, my first choice.
Silence.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing.” She traced the ALP lettering. “I’m just surprised. It’s been a year since anyone’s invited me to give a reading.”
“But you’re so good. You brought Jessie Carson back to life!”
“When I got here, I considered buying an ALP membership for my research, but decided it was too expensive.”
“Lots of us can relate to being broke,” I reassured her.
She looked like she wanted to say something more.
“What is it?”
Wendy gave a shake of the head, and I didn’t press any further. “Nothing… Thanks for the invitation! I’m honored.”
We agreed on a date. I was stoked.
“Are you really not working on a new project?” I asked.
“Well…”
Recalling how I’d ruined lunch by cutting off Mary Louise, I waited for Wendy to speak.
“I’m usually superstitious about revealing anything,” she said, “but I can confide in you, program manager to program manager.”
She and her husband planned to shoot a documentary about Jessie Carson, who’d not only created libraries in Paris and war-torn Picardy but also laid the foundation for a library school to train Frenchwomen.
(Before that, the profession was reserved for Frenchmen.) The school was housed in the ALP in the 1920s.
“She was at the library? Chills. I have chills.” I held up my arm to show Wendy the goose bumps. “I can’t wait to see your film!”
“The reason I came to France was to learn more about her. I spend my weekends at the Franco-American Museum in Blérancourt or the library she founded in Belleville. I’d love to check out the ALP archives.”
“Why didn’t you say so? Like the second we met?”
I was keen to help her but suspected that Hayes would nix the project (“No reason to bother with a no-name author!”). Thus, Wendy and I arranged to meet at the ALP at 7:00 a.m., two hours before opening, so we could examine the archives in peace.
“Just so you know,” she said. “I’ve applied for funding, but I’m not a real filmmaker.”
“You will be.”