The Lost Bookshop(22)

We hurried down the corridor, in the opposite direction from which I’d come, to a back stair. I hadn’t time to think, only silently prayed that we would not get caught. He held my hand tightly and, once on the ground floor, we kept to the staff corridor and found ourselves running through the kitchen, where the chefs hardly had time to shout at us before we found a side door on to the street. We ran down the alleyway and crossed several cobbled streets, Armand winding his way through the shortcuts of the city like a street urchin. Past street vendors selling flowers and fruit, under bridges and then out on to a grand boulevard I recognised. We were heading towards Shakespeare and Company.

‘Wait, wait!’ I panted, out of breath. ‘Just … a moment,’ I said, grabbing a streetlamp for support.

Armand finally let go of my hand, which he’d had in a tight grip the entire time. Immediately, I felt the loss and as I glanced at his face, his brown eyes scanning the street, the night before came into sharp relief.

‘He knows about the bookshop,’ I said, ‘it’s the first place he will look for me.’

‘Sylvia wants you to come, she has a plan.’

‘You’ve spoken to her?’

‘This morning, I came to your lodging …’ he hesitated. ‘I couldn’t wait to see you.’ A brief smile lit his face. ‘That’s when I saw them take you, so I followed.’

‘But how did you know what room I was in?’

‘I didn’t,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘I knocked on every door.’

‘Oh.’ I was somewhat taken aback.

‘Now we must hurry.’

Sylvia was awaiting my arrival at the back entrance. She gave me a quick, firm embrace, then handed me a key.

‘A friend of mine has a house outside Paris, near Tours. You can stay there until—’

‘You don’t understand, I have to leave. Permanently. What I have done, running out on this wedding—’

‘Wedding?’ Armand repeated.

I opened my mouth to explain but found that I did not have the wherewithal to speak.

‘How’s everyone at Stratford-on-Odéon today?’ Mr Joyce asked in his offbeat manner, poking his head around the door. My heart jumped – he must have wandered through from the front of the shop without any of us noticing.

‘There’s no time to explain, Jimmy. Opaline must leave the country immediately,’ said Sylvia.

After some suggestive winking in Armand’s direction, he casually suggested a swift exit to Dublin city.

‘I have only ever heard you complain of your country’ said Armand, which was quite true. We’d all heard him opine about Ireland's lack of culture and their ignorance at failing to recognise his genius.

‘Yes, but I’m a writer. An artist. I am obliged to curse my home. But no,’ he said, leaning against the wall and lighting a cigarette, ‘I think Ireland could suit you down to the ground.’

I considered it. We spoke the same language. For heaven’s sake, it had been part of Britain until that business with the treaty.

‘Now that I think of it,’ Joyce said, snapping his fingers, ‘I’ve got a friend there who owns a nostalgia shop. A rare gentleman in these times, Mr Fitzpatrick. If you use my name, he’s sure to give you a job, might sort you out with lodgings too.’

‘It sounds like a bit of a long shot,’ I said.

‘What other option is there?’ Sylvia asked.

And that was that. Joyce was hurriedly scribbling the name and address of the shop, whilst promising to send his friend a telegram, so he could expect my arrival.

What he actually meant was that he would get Sylvia to do it.

Everything got lost in a blur of tears after that. I felt like I was breaking apart and no one was coming to put me back together.

‘Now, now, there’s no need for all that,’ Sylvia said, handing me an envelope with the address and my wages. ‘You’re a grown woman with a brain in your head, two good arms for carrying books and two strong legs to get you where you need to go.’

‘What will you do if my brother comes here looking for me?’ I asked.

‘Why, sell him a book, of course!’





Armand took me to the port and secured a crossing for me. As we stood together, waiting for my turn to embark, he removed a chain from around his neck. The golden, hand-shaped pendant sparkled brightly in the sunlight .

‘It is called a hamsa,’ he explained. ‘In my culture, we believe it offers the wearer protection from the evil eye.’

‘Like an amulet?’

‘Exactement. As long as you wear it, you will always be safe.’

It was time to leave.

‘You have my address – it is the safest way to communicate with Sylvia. Your brother knows nothing of me.’

I nodded. I hadn’t been aware that I’d been crying. I could now feel my tears drying on my cheek, or perhaps the sea air had caused them to evaporate. He took me in his warm embrace one last time. There was nothing left to say. He crossed the street and did not look back. I felt my heart descending rapidly, like an anchor into a bottomless sea.





Chapter Fourteen





MARTHA





I had no idea why he wanted to take me to a shop filled with pens I couldn’t afford. And what exactly was a propelling pencil? There was a sign outside the shop saying they stocked them, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask in case I ended up looking like a complete idiot. I remember somebody once saying it’s better to keep your mouth shut and look stupid, rather than open it and remove all doubt. Well, something like that anyway. Henry, on the other hand, had no such worries.