An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy [61]
We put on our headsets. The three-hour circuit tour begins: Le Louvre, l’Hôtel de Ville, La Bastille, La Sorbonne, St. Germain-des-Prés, Les Champs-Elysées, l’Arc de Triomphe, La Tour Eiffel, Invalides. It’s too much trouble for Papa and Tatie to climb up and down the stairs so we stay on the bus when it makes its stops. I take advantage of the opportunity to conduct my Fahrenheit 451 poll. I move into the seat in front of them then turn partway around to face them. “You have to imagine a scenario where there’ll be no more books and you have an opportunity to memorize one to share with future generations.”
Papa shakes his head. “I don’t have to imagine anything.”
“What about you, Tatie? What would your book be?”
“I’m too old to be memorizing.”
“Come on! Think of something,” I plead.
“Fables and Tales of the Middle Ages,” she replies.
“That’s exactly what I’d memorize.”
“What’s the point if two people choose the same book?” Papa asks.
“It’s hypothetical, Papa. The point is simply to see what people believe needs to be passed on.”
“If that’s the case, I pick France: The Greatest Nation.”
“Is that a book?” I ask.
“It’s a book and it’s the truth.”
“I thought the Brits had the greatest nation,” I add to tease him. I should have known better. Papa takes offence. Tatie takes advantage of his anger to provoke him further and I spend the remainder of the day paying for my mistake.
Later, when it’s time for them to take their train, Tatie clings on until the last minutes. The porter signals to us with a nod of his head then a finger pointed on his watch that it’s time.
“It was in this very train station that I saw you for the first time forty-five years ago,” she says. “You were arriving from the airport after your flight from Canada. You gave me the book.”
“Fables and Tales.”
Papa shakes his head at me. “You wouldn’t let it out of your hands from the moment we left Québec City until you presented it to her here in the station.”
I was five at the time. Papa had told me about a woman in France. I assumed I was on a journey to meet my mother. Tatie held out her arms. I ran towards her to give her the book. It didn’t take long to realize she wasn’t my mother. “I wonder whatever happened to it.”
“I still have it,” she says. “I’ll take care of it for you.”
I bend over to kiss her. Papa kisses me on each cheek. The porter ushers them onto the train. Papa holds Tatie’s arm to help her up the steps. She turns to wave. I lose sight of them then they reappear on the other side of a dirty window. The train jerks forward. Tatie alternates between waving and wiping her eyes. The train picks up speed. I wave until I can’t see them anymore.
The taxi brings me to my dingy, squatty hotel room where I fall asleep shortly after dark. During the intermittent periods of sleep, I dream that I’m in a train station filled with double-decker buses. Tatie is carrying heavy suitcases. I try to lift them. I pull harder and harder until they break open. Books fly out then turn into butterflies. They swarm us, swoop over Tatie then transform into wasps. When I move to protect her, they head towards me.
Loud voices in the room next door save me from a million wasps. The voices compete with impatient car horns and squeaking brakes from the street. It’s too noisy to sleep so I alternate between bouts of reading or lying in the dark with my eyes open. I follow excerpts of conversations from the corridor and play at guessing what the language is. In the morning, someone calls from the hotel lobby to wake me. I rush downstairs and apologize to the taxi driver for being late. I feel