Chapter 10 May 1995 Lily Jacobsen—Program Manager #4
After the war, everything was shattered.
The city itself—gratings that protected the trees had been tossed together as makeshift barricades, cobblestones pulled up from the streets lay in piles, charred automobiles smelled of smoke and violence.
Lines were drawn between neighbors and within families.
Ration cards remained in use. In winter, we were all hungry, all cold.
We all aged. I wasn’t even thirty, but felt worn, weary.
That period was, in many ways, more complicated and difficult than the Occupation.
At the library, staff expected that Odile would return. We expected her to write, or at least contact her parents, but a year, then two slipped away with no word. I was angry with her, then worried, then bewildered. My self-righteous fury subsided, helium seeping from a balloon.
And now, with the blink of bloodshot eyes, decades have gone by.
Why hasn’t she reached out? Where is she?
I would go to her anywhere. Sometimes, I revisit the places we spent time.
In the corner of a thrumming café, arm in arm under the oaks of Parc Monceau, in the Afterlife.
When we were together, it was not so much places as a feeling.
When I was with her, my best friend, I was my best self.
Until I met Odile, I hadn’t liked Paris.
I was alone in that cavernous flat, or with standoffish neighbors in the elevator.
Unable to communicate with modistes, the baker’s wife who sold baguettes, the flower girl proffering petunias on the street corner, I’d never felt so lonely.
Odile was laughter, and long walks, and tea and biscuits, and heart-to-hearts.
Without her, when I passed before a mirror, I found myself staring at my reflection, asking who I was, who I wanted to be.
I could be less critical of others. I could and would be a better friend.
I vowed to volunteer at the library until she returned.
With each passing year, each white hair, each birthday spent without her, I feel the hands of time grip my shoulders and try to shake sense into me. She’s gone, the voice cautions. I refuse to believe it, and would give anything for us to be reunited. But how? Time is running out.
“Oh, I didn’t expect to find anyone else up here,” I heard a woman say.
Her words—the sore disappointment at not being alone—brought me back to the Afterlife.
Trying to get my bearings, I blinked. I was on the couch; the faintly typed manuscript rested on my lap.
A few pages had fallen to the floor and lay on a puddle at my feet; I’d sped through them, unable to read fast enough.
I’d finally found the footprint of Margaret Saint James.
The memoir was written in 1985. Was she still alive? How could I find her?
In the doorjamb, Jennifer de Narp frowned, and I didn’t know if she was unhappy with me or unhappy in general.
“What are you doing up here?” she demanded.
How long had I been away—ten minutes, twenty? How much trouble was I in?
“We don’t pay you to sneak off,” she added.
These days, I worked through my lunch “hour,” scarfing down a sandwich at my desk while researching possible speakers. Now, I took one lousy break, and she pounced.
I remembered why I’d fled to the Afterlife in the first place—Hayes had ordered me to cancel Wendy’s event, even though doing so would break her spirit.
I glanced at the pages in my lap. Odile and Margaret had faced actual Nazis, I merely had to call a friend to say there’d been an unfortunate change in plans. And yet…
“Well?” Ms. de Narp crossed her arms.
“Mr. Hayes said—”
“Hayes,” she scoffed. “What’s he done now?”
I still felt raw from his criticism, and the story poured out.
“I invited Wendy Peterson, an author I adore, to speak, and he’s making me cancel.
Only her dad is flying in from Canada for the event, and I don’t know how to break it to her that she can’t come.
” My voice became squeaky. I hated sounding unprofessional, especially in front of Ms. de Narp, with her sleek updo and manicured life.
“Rescinding an invitation is the height of rudeness! Did Hayes explain why?”
“He booked Philippe Lester to speak that night instead.”
Ms. de Narp’s eyes narrowed. “That far-right wing nut shouldn’t be given any podium, most certainly not ours.”
“Mr. Hayes said I didn’t have a choice.”
“I don’t care what he told you, he’s not in charge here. Hayes answers to the trustees.”
She glanced up at the ceiling like she was attempting a difficult math equation. Adding up the concerns. Subtracting the bottom line. Dividing, devising. I wondered what her takeaway was.
“The solution is obvious,” Ms. de Narp finally said.
“It is?”
“There’s more than one date on the calendar. Book your novelist the evening after Mazie’s nephew. If you don’t mind ‘helping out’ at the event, that is.”
“Helping out” was library speak for working for free. Honestly, I’d volunteer for the rest of my life if it meant that I could keep my word to Wendy.
“Oh, Ms. de Narp, thank you!” I felt like an idiot for not finding the solution on my own. If she were the hugging type, I’d have thrown my arms around her neck. “You’re a genius!”
“There’s no need to exaggerate.”
Still, she seemed pleased.
Thrilled to have a solution, I gathered Margaret’s manuscript pages to Xerox them before moving toward the entry. Ms. de Narp didn’t budge from the doorjamb. We stood inches apart. I waited for her to step aside, but she didn’t. I felt trapped in her calculating gaze and cigarette stench.
“Put that manuscript back.” She pointed to the box. “These stories are priceless!”
Ms. de Narp was right, I should be more careful.
I needed to think on whether or not to send the story to Odile.
Normally, I’d talk it over with Mary Louise, but what if she told me to mind my own business and leave Margaret Bauer in peace?
After all, Mary Louise was mad at me in part because I didn’t know when to keep my mouth shut and consider other people’s feelings.
I pondered the fifty-year rift between Odile and Margaret.
What if that happened to Mary Louise and me?
As I put the box on the shelf, I asked, “Should I tell Mr. Hayes about the added event?”
“You needn’t worry about that. I’ll take care of him.” Ms. de Narp turned on her Louboutin heel.
I’d misjudged Jennifer de Narp—first on the street, then on the job. Clearly, she had the ALP’s best interest at heart.
On my way back to my desk, I peeked into the reading room, hoping to see Chris. But there was still no sign of him. Maybe tomorrow.
The back office staff had already left for the day. It was blissfully quiet when I rang Wendy, who agreed to the date change. Everything had come together. I felt like a pool player whose shot had landed all the balls in the pockets.
I got home about eight and slipped into my long johns and favorite flannel pajamas.
I poured myself a glass of merlot, dregs from a recent ALP event’s bottle.
It felt strange to have a drink without Mary Louise.
I called her, hoping to talk about Book Head; about Jennifer de Narp, friend or foe; about sending a copy of Margaret’s memoir to Odile. There was no answer.
After a few days of reflection, I made the decision to photocopy the pages.
Just having the war memoir in my possession soothed me.
Should I send it to Odile, even though she’d specifically said she had turned the page on her past?
Would the memoir dredge up hurt feelings or spark a reconciliation?
Odile was a private person. The one time I’d delved into her privacy, she’d felt it was a betrayal.
Meg greeted me and started to copyedit the newsletter at the desk across the aisle.
I longed to ask if she was Odile’s friend Margaret.
But why did she change her name to Meg? For a fresh start?
To leave the past behind, like Odile had chosen to do?
I watched while she added corrections in the margins, as if I could gauge her mindset from the flick of her pen.
If she were an employee, I’d dig around payroll to learn her last name. Why hadn’t I asked when we first met?
“Hayes flew to Washington,” Meg said. “He’ll be gone a week.”
Good riddance. I was thankful that for a week, no one would bother me.
“He’s there to meet the ALP advisory board,” she added.
I kept staring at her.
“What is it, Lily? Is there something you want to tell me?”
The martini of my mind was one part reticent to delve, two parts insatiably curious. I’d ask a question, and she could confide as much or as little as she wanted. I resorted to the most common icebreaker in Paris: “I was just wondering—what brought you to France?”
“My first husband’s job.”
The tone clearly stated End of subject. She didn’t want to discuss the past. We worked in a rare silence until eleven on the dot, when Lorenzo stomped through the office (muttering about how easy we had it back here) and into the courtyard for a cigarette break.
He never lit up, he just held one between his fingers.
While he was away from his post, I grabbed the updated events calendar and hightailed it to “his” photocopier.
As always, I kept an eye out for Chris. He wasn’t in his usual spot.
Again. I felt a sting of disappointment.
I hadn’t seen him since our date. Over a week, an eternity.
Maybe he felt awkward after our kiss and decided not to return.
Or maybe he was seeing someone else. I never should have gone out with him.
What was that expression about not dating people from work?
Don’t check out guys where you check out books?