An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy [58]
“Goodbye. Good luck with Sophie. Tell your parents thanks for the fine meal at their home on Saturday night. Thanks to Marlene for the luncheon.”
She tugs on my shirt. “Your flight is not for another forty-five minutes. Stay with me here. We can talk.”
I throw my backpack over my shoulder, pick up my laptop then walk towards the queue of passengers. “Not unless the conversation is about completing the paperwork for the divorce. You’re only prolonging matters, making them more complicated and costly.”
Elsa follows by my side. “My husband wants to divorce me, does not want to have children. What about that cost?”
“I’ll say hello to Papa and Tatie for you.”
“How will they feel when they learn that their only child is not planning to give them any grandchildren?”
“Tatie’s not my mother. You know that. The lawyer will be in touch.”
I stop, then turn to face her before I go through security. “One last question – it’s just a little poll I’ve been doing. If you were in a situation where all the books in the world were going to be destroyed and you wanted to memorize one for future generations what would it be?”
“There won’t be future generations if people like you and me don’t have children.”
“Assuming there were, what book would you choose?”
“You wonder why I’m always talking about babies. I wonder why you’re talking about books. What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m curious that’s all. Name one book you believe should be passed on.”
“I’ve been reading so many lately, I’m not sure which I’d pick. There’s Dr. Spock but he’s–”
I bend forward quickly and kiss her on the cheek. “Thanks, Elsa. Makes sense. Bye.” I step forward into security. The glass door slides shut behind me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
georges & georgette
FROM OSLO TO PARIS THEN to the Gare du Nord, I don’t waste a step. Papa will be upset if I’m late. I arrive right on time just as the TGV pokes its aristocratic nose into the station. The porter motions us to move aside. Brakes squeak, whistles blow, people swarm around the opening doors. I sort through the passengers: tired backpackers, rushed businessmen, dazed tourists, eager immigrants and weekend commuters. There’s no sign of Georges and Georgette – twins in their seventies.
“Is this the train from Avignon?” I ask a backpacker. He nods. Finally, I see them. They’re moving slowly with their heads lowered. Tatie is holding onto Papa. I call to them but they turn in the wrong direction. “Papa! Tatie! It’s Carl. Over here!” I wave then elbow a path towards them.
Tatie reaches for me with her arms outstretched like someone about to fall. “Don’t squeeze me too hard,” she says. “Look at you. All the way from Canada.”
Papa gives me an official peck on both cheeks. “Five o’clock this morning we left Cavaillon. We spent an hour stuck in traffic then we almost missed the train. Georgette read the schedule wrong. She was looking at the weekend schedule instead of Monday’s.”
Tatie smacks Papa on the arm. “Stop talking about that. Say hello to him.”
We push through the crowds. We pass by the signs for taxis, busses, metro, parking, then by the massive arrivals and departure board that stretches to the ceiling. Tatie lets go of my arm. She rests her fragile fingers on my cheeks then draws my head down to kiss me. I catch a trace of the wintergreen ointment she uses for her arthritis. The knuckles on her fingers are swollen. Her veins are visible through the skin. We go outside the gloomy station to scout for a place to eat and plan our day together.
“After the train arrived, I was afraid I mixed up the times. I couldn’t remember if you said you were staying in Avignon yesterday or today.” We cross the street in front of the station, watching for taxis, motorcyclists and careless Parisian drivers.
Papa responds before Tatie. “You worry and forget exactly like Georgette. One in my life would be plenty, but I have both of you.” The hump in his back