Chapter 10 May 1995 Lily Jacobsen—Program Manager #6
“How did you know what was happening?” I asked.
“I heard.”
“You heard?”
He regarded me gravely as he made up his mind about what to tell me. Finally, he said, “I live here.”
“You live here?”
“In the Afterlife.” He pointed up, as if to heaven.
The Afterlife, upstairs, a better place. Now I understood why he just disappeared after events—you can’t say goodbye if you don’t leave. Thank God he’d been here. I didn’t want to think about what might have happened.
My whole life, libraries had been my safe havens. I’d never expected to be in danger in one. I reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I will be. Let’s talk about something else. Anything else. How long have you lived here?”
“For two years, since I arrived in Paris.”
He said he was from a country in East Africa called Eritrea.
I was ashamed that I’d never heard of it.
He explained that it had a one-party government, a dictatorship.
There, mandatory military service could last for years.
David was scared to be drafted for life, so with the goal of getting to London, he crossed the Sahara, mostly on foot, and had nearly died of heatstroke.
He then found his way across the Mediterranean.
In Toulon, a trafficker arranged for him to travel in the back of a semitruck with twenty others.
There were more and more checkpoints along the way, so the driver chucked everyone out forty miles south of Paris.
I shook my head, both at the situation and at the fact that I had no idea about the world outside my bubble. “Lily-land,” Mary Louise had called it.
“How did you end up here?”
“At first,” he continued, “I lived on the street and in the parks, never staying long. The police get after you—the city doesn’t want the homeless tainting tourist spots.
One day, I was shuffling along—depressed, really—and I saw the ALP banner.
Meg invited me in for a spot of tea. When I started sneaking in regularly, she turned a blind eye—she’s been through hard times, too, so she’s less judgmental than most.”
I took in all that he recounted. “What will you do next? Can your family help?”
“No one there has the money, and I can’t go back. I’d like to apply for a French visa, to be able get a paying job and send money to my parents.”
“Maybe Jennifer de Narp could help—she’s a lawyer.”
He held up his hand. “No trustees. I’m happy for now. I have my books. I enjoy our events, meeting folks, giving back to the community. Everyone here has been kind.”
David outlined the system in place to support him: Meg had contributed clothes and bedding.
Marius had brought the gray couch from home.
Odessa, the secretary, put extra food in the fridge.
Lorenzo siphoned the cash from library fines so David could buy toiletries, use the laundromat, and shower at the municipal bath.
“Get out!” I said. “Lorenzo?”
“A man of many surprises.”
When the old custodian retired, Marius and Odessa had proposed an exchange: the job for room and board. It was the best they could do since David didn’t have working papers.
“Does Hayes know you live here?”
David shook his head. “He doesn’t know most things. In his office, the garbage can is always empty. I don’t think he actually does any work.”
It was nearly midnight. My legs were wobbly, and I didn’t want to go home, where I’d be alone.
“What’s it like to sleep here?” I asked, fishing for an invitation to stay.
“Cozy,” he said as he put our wineglasses in the sink. “You should stay.”
In the Afterlife, he put a few beanbag chairs together and covered them with a blanket for my bed.
“You were brave tonight.” He lay down on the couch.
“I was scared.”
“Understandable.”
I settled onto my makeshift bed. The light rubbing sound of the beanbag’s stuffing beads made me feel like a kid again. “I like it here, surrounded by books.”
“It’s nice to have someone to talk to,” he said as he fought a yawn. “I hate sneaking around. I’m glad I could confide in you.”
“I promise I won’t tell anyone you live here.”
“I know.”
The next morning, while David vacuumed and returned the tables to the reading room, I updated the Entre Nous literary series statistics. Forty books sold! Fifty attendees!
I should’ve been proud of myself, but then I thought about other statistics:
Hours a week I tutored: 20
Hours a week I was paid to work at the ALP: 20
Hours I actually worked at the ALP: 40
Amount I was paid for those extra hours: zero
Times I’ve been threatened at the ALP: 1
“David told me what happened,” I heard Meg say. “Are you all right?”
I nodded. She hugged me.
“Roth’s lucky I wasn’t there.” She pulled a canister of pepper spray from her pocket. “Don’t let the white hair fool you. He would have got a face full.”
“Isn’t pepper spray illegal here?”
“Accosting women is illegal, but it happens,” she said bitterly.
“You never want to be at a man’s mercy.” She put the spray in my hand and closed my fingers around it.
“The library may not be able to ban Roth, but we can be prepared. Keep the spray on you at all times. Danger often comes from the people you know.”
Her words made me wonder who’d hurt her. Was she Odile’s Margaret? How could I broach the subject? Did I have the right to bring up painful memories?
“On my way in, I spied a certain young man with book head,” she said, her voice restored to its chipper tone.
“Really?”
“I noticed the newsletter slot was empty. Do you want to make more copies or should I?” she added with a knowing grin. Meg really did know everything.
Chris studied at his usual spot. Should I go over, or stride by as if I hadn’t seen him? A coward, I made a beeline for the circ desk, keeping my back to the reading room for good measure. I checked the paper tray and programmed thirty copies, then let the gentle whir of the Xerox machine lull me.
I heard Chris say, “Hey, I’m glad to see you out here.”
I forced myself to concentrate on the number pad, 19-18-17, so I wouldn’t turn around and gush that I was glad to see him, too.
“I figured you wouldn’t want me to bother you at your desk,” he said.
8-7-6. I composed myself.
“Sorry I wasn’t able to come earlier,” Chris continued. “A sick co-worker needed me to take his shifts.”
3-2-1. I turned. “Hope he’s okay now.”
“He is. I wish I’d asked for your number, though.”
“Me, too.”
“Do you want to go out tonight?”
Piccadilly Books had decorated their entire window with a catchy book on dating called The Rules.
I’d skimmed through it and found thirty-five directives to achieve wedded bliss.
Don’t call a man. Don’t ask a man to dance.
Don’t accept a Saturday night date after Wednesday.
The Rules gals would want me to say that I was busy.
They’d insist on not accepting any last-minute invitations.
Their motto: Pretend to have a life, even if you don’t.
But I was tired of playing games. I wanted a boyfriend. I wanted Chris.
“I’d love to. How about couscous for dinner?”
“Perfect. I’ll pick you up after your shift.”
At seven, I straightened the newsletters and event flyers on the information wall near the entrance.
“Going out with Chris?” asked Lorenzo from the circ desk.
I frowned. “How’d you know?”
“My dumb little dumpling. I know everything.”
“Doubtful!”
“Do you want the Dewey Decimal number for serial killers? That way you can look him up.”
“If anyone’s on that list, it’s you.”
“Only one way to find out,” he said with a sly grin.
Chris approached. “Hey,” he said, giving me a peck on the cheek and a nod to Lorenzo.
Lord, he was handsome in his duffel coat. I longed to snuggle close, but with Lorenzo looking on, I threw open the door and said, “Let’s get out of here.”
“It’s 364-1523,” Lorenzo shouted after us.
“Was that his phone number?” Chris said.
“It’s the call number for murderers.”
“He has it memorized? That’s intense.”
“Lorenzo’s a time bomb in a sweater vest,” I said.
“I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
“I’m not. He’s tired of dealing with the public.”
“Maybe he needs a vacation where he doesn’t have to talk to humans.”
“He needs a change,” I agreed. I explained that the ALP had over two thousand members and only eleven employees, most of us part-timers.
“How is that even possible? You’d never guess. Everything runs so smoothly.”
“I’m glad it appears that way. We have an army of volunteers, and staff put their hearts and free time into the place.”
At the restaurant, the lights were dimmed.
Our table was set with a votive candle and two small colored glasses.
After taking our order, the waiter brought a clear teapot of peppermint leaves steeping in water.
With great flourish, he held it at his shoulder level and poured a stream of tea into each glass.
Chris reached out and took my hand in his. It felt right. I could hold on to him my whole life and wanted to know everything about him. I wondered why he was studying for a French exam at the American Library.
“How did you first discover the ALP?” I asked.
“My grandpa used to take me when I was a kid. He said he wanted me to learn English, but I think he wanted to chat up the children’s librarian.”
“So flirting with staff is a family tradition?” I teased.
“Not until now.” His thumb grazed the inside of my wrist and I thought I would melt.
“He and Bitsi were just friends,” he continued. “I think they’d both been through a lot during the war, though neither would ever talk about it. She taught me English. I spent more time at the library and at the precinct than I did at home. My dad worked nonstop.”
The waiter set a feast before us—a stew of root vegetables, a platter of chicken thighs and merguez sausage, and heaping plates of golden couscous. Though I was starving, I reluctantly let go of Chris’s hand and grabbed a fork and knife.