Chapter 9 May 1995 David Hassan—Volunteer
David Hassan—volunteer
The Afterlife is filled with the heavenly scent of musty books.
Its walls are lined with tall bookshelves full of forgotten tomes—some slim, others stout.
In this cozy mezzanine between worlds, there are neither windows nor clocks, though occasionally, a burst of children’s laughter or whiff of a chocolate croissant wafts up from below.
Once you climb the clanky metal steps, you’ll find yourself shrugging off your jacket and making yourself at home.
On the shelves, gold-embossed titles glint in the glow of the table lamp.
At first, the sheer number of books overwhelms, but somehow, the eye is drawn to just the right one.
If you’re like me, you’ll choose a novel by Irène Cohen.
Curling up on the couch, you’ll decide to read just one chapter, but find yourself still reading at three in the morning, racing toward the end.
As you might expect, the Afterlife is located in the poshest district of Paris.
About an hour before sunset, the shadow of the Eiffel Tower becomes an arrow.
Follow its silhouette to the pointed end, down a rue named for a général, to a nondescript building.
During the day, not just anyone is allowed in—you’re required to present a membership card.
However, the greeter has a soft spot for misfits.
And like Saint Peter, she knows who to let through the pearly revolving door.
Most evenings, there is an open-door policy—you merely sign in to enjoy the fellowship of Brie, baguettes, and Bordeaux.
You can eat and drink to your lonely heart’s content.
The toady director might pester you to pay for a membership.
Just scratch your chin with gravitas until he is called away.
Events start at 7:00 and feature an array of art historians, journalists, and authors.
You’ll be on the edge of your folding chair.
Once inside the Afterlife, you can come and go as you please.
Having bunked here awhile now, I find that the best place to store belongings (a toothbrush, a pair of pajamas, a few francs, letters from friends) is in the narrow space behind the set of 1972 encyclopedias—no one thinks of looking there.
These days, few find the Afterlife—the Faithful, Cohen scholars, lost readers, and folks like me.
But don’t worry, after hours in the Afterlife, there’s no librarian to shush you, no security guard on nightly rounds, no police ordering you to move on.
You’re safe. I’ve been homeless for two years now.
During the day, I roam the city, but nights you’ll find me at the American Library in Paris.