When I find it, however, I’m encouraged by the appearance of the building. The library’s in one of the original districts of the nouvelle ville. Its art deco fa?ade and the slightly musty smell of old books that hangs faintly in the air make me believe it could be the same one. I nod to the librarian sitting at her desk, typing rapidly at the keyboard of her computer, and tiptoe across the polished tiles, the soles of my trainers squeaking faintly in the silence.
I head for the bathroom first and give my hands a thorough wash, then make my way to a vacant desk at the end of one of the rows of books. The air is cool and the Wi-Fi efficient as I sign in and access the internet. Grace has fallen asleep, soothed by the peace and quiet of the high-ceilinged room with its air of studious concentration, and I spend an hour browsing.
I hadn’t heard of Josephine Baker before, but she was certainly famous in her day. Born in America, she moved to France in the 1920s, where she made her name performing at the Folies Bergères. When the war broke out and France was occupied by the Nazis, she left Paris and spent her time travelling in North Africa and other parts of Europe. Her image smiles at me from my screen, huge dark eyes and a sleek crop of shining hair, just as Josie had described.
I search for a picture of her autograph and compare it with the signature on the folded sheet of blue notepaper. It’s identical. I shiver as I sit there, holding the autograph in my hand, feeling a sense of awe at this tangible thread of connection to Josie’s extraordinary life. It must have been a strange mixture of glamour and fear, of liberation at having escaped occupied France and frustration at being trapped here on the edge of the African continent, waiting for the chance to leave. Josephine Baker’s handwriting on this slip of ordinary writing paper seems to encapsulate an existence that was at once bizarre and mundane.
With each day that passes, I find myself more and more drawn into Josie’s world, captivated by her storytelling. I can hear her voice so clearly as I read. But now a sense of unease dawns on me. The fear she felt, the danger that lurked just beneath the surface of her privileged lifestyle in the nouvelle ville, have wormed their way under my skin too. Sometimes I’m tempted to turn to the end of her journal to see if there are any clues as to how she and her family finally escaped. But I still resist that urge, not wanting to miss a single word of her story as it unfolds.
As if picking up on my uneasiness, Grace begins to stir, opening her eyes and smiling up at me, so I pack away my laptop and gather up my things. I wander with her among the rows of shelves, idly browsing. The vast majority of the books are modern paperbacks, but here and there older editions with faded cloth-bound covers are sandwiched between the bright spines. A thought occurs to me and I find the English fiction section, tracing authors’ names until I reach ‘S’。 And there it is, a copy of Strong Poison, by Dorothy L. Sayers. My hands tremble a little with excitement as I take it down from the shelf. It’s clearly not been a very popular title – I imagine her books are a little dated nowadays, superseded by more up-to-date crime novels and thrillers. There are only a few date stamps on the lending record sheet stuck inside the front cover. And one of the first stamps, in faded ink, is a return date of March the 5th, 1941. It could have been Josie. No, I decide, it was Josie who pulled this very book from the shelves all those years ago and carried it to the front desk for the librarian – the kind and pretty Mademoiselle Dubois – to stamp. She would have read this book in her bed beneath the mosquito net in the room under the eaves, her tin candle lantern casting its stars around her as she lost herself in the world of 1920s England.
I walk back to the front desk and ask the librarian whether it’s possible for me to register to borrow books. ‘Certainly,’ she says with a smile, handing me the forms to fill in. Once she’s taken a photocopy of my passport, she enters my details into her computer and checks out the book. Then she stamps the sheet on the inside cover and hands it back to me.
It feels like I’ve made another direct line of communication to Josie. My date stamp now sits below hers. I run my hands over the yellow cover, with its black printed title. Josie’s hands held this book. Maybe she read it to Nina, sitting in the courtyard beside the pomegranate tree, transporting herself and her friend to another world.
And at last it will sit beside the bed in the same attic room once again, as a candle lantern casts its stars on to the walls.
Josie’s Journal – Sunday 30th March, 1941
Yesterday was a pretty interesting day. Mama and Papa had decided to hold a Dinner Party. You could tell by the way they talked about it for two weeks beforehand that it was definitely not just going to be a dinner party, but a Dinner Party: capital D; capital P.