Read Online The Little Paris Bookshop by Nina George - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nina George
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I’d have loved to cast them at his feet.’) She sometimes touched the hollow of her throat, as though searching for something, maybe a necklace that the other woman was now wearing too.
‘And what are
you
up to at the moment?’ she asked.
He described the
Literary Apothecary
to her.
‘A boat with a low-slung belly, a galley, two sleeping berths, a bathroom and eight thousand books. It’s a world apart from our world.’ And an arrested adventure, like any moored ship – but he didn’t say this.
‘And the king of this world is Monsieur Perdu, a literary pharmacist who writes prescriptions for the lovesick.’
Catherine pointed to the parcel of books that he had brought her the previous evening. ‘It helps, by the way.’
‘What did you want to be when you were a little girl?’ he asked before his embarrassment could get the better of him.
‘Oh, I wanted to be a librarian. And a pirate. Your book barge would have been exactly what I needed. I would have solved all the world’s mysteries through reading.’
Perdu listened to her with growing affection.
‘At night I would have stolen back from evil people everything they’d tricked the good ones out of with their lies, leaving a single book that would cleanse them and force them to repent, turn them into good people and so on – of course.’ She broke into laughter.
‘Of course,’ he fell in with her ironic tone. That was the only tragic thing about books: they changed people. All except the truly evil, who did not become better fathers, nicer husbands, more loving friends. They remained tyrants, continued to torment their employees, children and dogs, were spiteful in petty matters and cowardly in important ones, and rejoiced in their victims’ shame.
‘Books were my friends,’ said Catherine, and cooled her cheek, which was red from the heat of cooking, on her wine glass. ‘I think I learned all my feelings from books. In them I loved and laughed and found out more than in my whole non-reading life.’
‘Me too,’ murmured Perdu.
They looked at each other – and then it simply clicked.
‘What does the J stand for?’ asked Catherine in a huskier voice.
He had to clear his throat before he could answer.
‘Jean,’ he whispered. The word was so unfamiliar that his tongue collided with his teeth.
‘My name is Jean. Jean Albert Victor Perdu. Albert after my paternal grandfather, Victor after my maternal grandfather. My mother is a professor, and her father, Victor Bernier, was a toxicologist, a socialist and mayor. I’m fifty years old, Catherine, and I haven’t known many women, let alone slept with them. I loved one. She left me.’
Catherine studied him intently.
‘Yesterday. Twenty-one years ago yesterday. The letter is from her. I’m scared of what’s in it.’
He waited for her to throw him out, strike him or look away. But she did none of those.
‘Oh, Jean,’ she whispered instead, full of compassion. ‘Jean.’
There it was again.
The sweet sound of his own name.
They looked at each other; he noticed a fluttering in her eyes and felt himself growing softer too, letting her enter and understand him – yes, they pierced each other with their gaze and their unspoken words.
Two small boats on a sea, both thinking they’d been drifting alone since they’d lost their anchors, but now …
She ran her fingers fleetingly across his cheek.
The caress struck him with the force of a slap – a wonderful, marvellous slap.
Again. Again!
Their bare forearms brushed as she set down her wine glass.
Skin. Downy hairs. Warmth.
It wasn’t clear which of the two was more startled – but both of them immediately realised that it wasn’t the strangeness, the sudden intimacy and the touch that was startling.
They were startled by how good it felt.
11
Jean took a step until he was standing behind Catherine and could smell her hair and feel her shoulders against his chest. His heart was racing. He laid his hands
‘And what are
you
up to at the moment?’ she asked.
He described the
Literary Apothecary
to her.
‘A boat with a low-slung belly, a galley, two sleeping berths, a bathroom and eight thousand books. It’s a world apart from our world.’ And an arrested adventure, like any moored ship – but he didn’t say this.
‘And the king of this world is Monsieur Perdu, a literary pharmacist who writes prescriptions for the lovesick.’
Catherine pointed to the parcel of books that he had brought her the previous evening. ‘It helps, by the way.’
‘What did you want to be when you were a little girl?’ he asked before his embarrassment could get the better of him.
‘Oh, I wanted to be a librarian. And a pirate. Your book barge would have been exactly what I needed. I would have solved all the world’s mysteries through reading.’
Perdu listened to her with growing affection.
‘At night I would have stolen back from evil people everything they’d tricked the good ones out of with their lies, leaving a single book that would cleanse them and force them to repent, turn them into good people and so on – of course.’ She broke into laughter.
‘Of course,’ he fell in with her ironic tone. That was the only tragic thing about books: they changed people. All except the truly evil, who did not become better fathers, nicer husbands, more loving friends. They remained tyrants, continued to torment their employees, children and dogs, were spiteful in petty matters and cowardly in important ones, and rejoiced in their victims’ shame.
‘Books were my friends,’ said Catherine, and cooled her cheek, which was red from the heat of cooking, on her wine glass. ‘I think I learned all my feelings from books. In them I loved and laughed and found out more than in my whole non-reading life.’
‘Me too,’ murmured Perdu.
They looked at each other – and then it simply clicked.
‘What does the J stand for?’ asked Catherine in a huskier voice.
He had to clear his throat before he could answer.
‘Jean,’ he whispered. The word was so unfamiliar that his tongue collided with his teeth.
‘My name is Jean. Jean Albert Victor Perdu. Albert after my paternal grandfather, Victor after my maternal grandfather. My mother is a professor, and her father, Victor Bernier, was a toxicologist, a socialist and mayor. I’m fifty years old, Catherine, and I haven’t known many women, let alone slept with them. I loved one. She left me.’
Catherine studied him intently.
‘Yesterday. Twenty-one years ago yesterday. The letter is from her. I’m scared of what’s in it.’
He waited for her to throw him out, strike him or look away. But she did none of those.
‘Oh, Jean,’ she whispered instead, full of compassion. ‘Jean.’
There it was again.
The sweet sound of his own name.
They looked at each other; he noticed a fluttering in her eyes and felt himself growing softer too, letting her enter and understand him – yes, they pierced each other with their gaze and their unspoken words.
Two small boats on a sea, both thinking they’d been drifting alone since they’d lost their anchors, but now …
She ran her fingers fleetingly across his cheek.
The caress struck him with the force of a slap – a wonderful, marvellous slap.
Again. Again!
Their bare forearms brushed as she set down her wine glass.
Skin. Downy hairs. Warmth.
It wasn’t clear which of the two was more startled – but both of them immediately realised that it wasn’t the strangeness, the sudden intimacy and the touch that was startling.
They were startled by how good it felt.
11
Jean took a step until he was standing behind Catherine and could smell her hair and feel her shoulders against his chest. His heart was racing. He laid his hands
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