Mark Pryor
The Bookseller
To my wife, Sarah
Author's Note
As much as I love Paris, I have been forced to take occasional liberties with its history and geography. Events have been created and streets invented to suit my own selfish needs. All errors and misrepresentations, intentional and otherwise, are mine and mine alone.
Chapter One
The largest of Notre Dame's bells tolled noon just as Hugo reached the end of the bridge, the brittle air seeming to hold on to the final clang longer than usual. He paused and looked across the busy Paris street into Café Panis. The yellow carriage lights above its windows beckoned as dim figures moved about inside, customers choosing tables and waiters flitting around like dancers.
Hot coffee was tempting, but this was the first day of a vacation Hugo didn't want, with nothing to do and nowhere to go, and he didn't much want to sit at a table by himself and think about that.
He squared his shoulders against the wind and turned right, leaving the café behind, heading west alongside the river. He glanced over the parapet as he walked, the growl of a motor launch floating up from below as the boat's propellers thrashed at the icy waters of the Seine. On cold days like this he wondered how long a man could survive in the river's oily waters, struggling against the deceptively strong current before succumbing to its frigid grip. It was a grim thought and one he quickly dismissed. After all, this was Paris; there was too much boat traffic, too many people like him admiring the river from its multitude of bridges, for a flailing man to go unnoticed for long.
Five minutes later he spotted a riverside bookstall, four green metal boxes bolted to the low wall and crammed with books, their colorful spines like the feathers of a bird fanned out on the shelves to attract passersby. The stall's owner was stooped over a box, the hem of his worn, gray coat brushing the pavement. A shoelace had come undone but the man ignored it, even as his fingers scrabbled through the postcards, inches away.
A barrage of shouting made the seller straighten and both men looked toward the voices, ringing out from a stall about fifty yards away, across the entrance to the Pont Neuf bridge. A man, squat and burly, poked a finger and yelled at the stall's owner, a crimson-faced woman who was bundled against the cold and determined to give as good as she got.
The old man shook his head and turned back to his box. Hugo coughed gently.
“Oui, monsieur?” The seller's voice was gruff, but when he looked up and saw Hugo he cracked a grin. “Ah, it's you. Where have you been, mon ami?”
“Salut, Max.” Hugo slipped off a glove and took Max's proffered hand, warm despite the chill of the day. They spoke in French even though the old man knew English well enough when it suited — like when pretty American girls were shopping. “What's all the fuss about?” Hugo asked.
Max didn't respond and together they turned to watch. The woman was waving an arm as if telling the stocky man to leave her alone. The man's response shocked Hugo: he grabbed her wrist and twisted it hard enough to spin her around, and in the same movement kicked her legs out from under her. She dropped straight onto her knees and let out a plaintive wail as she threw her head back in pain. Hugo started forward but felt a strong hand holding him back.
“Non,” Max said. “It's not for you. Une affaire domestique.”
Hugo shook him off. “She needs help. Wait here.”
“Non,” Max said again, grabbing Hugo's arm with a grip the American could feel through his winter coat. “Let her be, Hugo. She doesn't want your help, believe me when I say that.”
“Why not? Who the hell is he?” Hugo felt the tautness in his body and fought the desire to release it on the bully across the street. Something in Max's plea had resonated, the implication that by getting involved he could make things worse. “What's it about, Max?” he repeated.
Max held his eye for a long moment, then let go of Hugo's arm and looked away. The old man turned to his stall and picked up a book, then put on his glasses to read the cover.
Hugo turned to face him and saw that the left lens was missing. “Jesus, Max. Please tell me that guy didn't pay you a visit.”
“Me? No.” Max ran a sleeve under his bulbous and pockmarked nose, but didn't meet Hugo's eye. “Why would he?”
“You tell me.” The quai was front and center for crazies, Hugo knew, drawn like mosquitoes to the water and tourists that flowed through the heart of the city. And the bouquinistes were easy and frequent targets.
“No reason. If you're worried about my glasses, I just dropped them, that's all.” Max finally looked Hugo in the eye and the smile returned. “Yes, I'm getting old and clumsy, but I can still take care of myself. Anyway, your job is to keep your ambassador safe, protect your embassy, not worry about old men like me.”
“I'm off duty, I can worry about whomever I want.”
Again Max put a hand on Hugo's arm, this time reassuring. “I'm fine. Everything's fine.”
“D'accord. If you say so.” Hugo looked across the street to see the woman on her feet again, the man's arms flailing all around her, but not touching. Reluctantly, Hugo decided to leave it for now. He turned to the books on display. “This is how you take care of yourself, by fleecing tourists, oui? Do you have anything actually worth buying? I need a gift.”
“I have key chains, postcards, and petit Eiffel Towers.”
“It's for Christine.”
“Ah.” Max raised an eyebrow and waved a hand at his stall. “Then nothing I have out here.”
“You keep the good stuff hidden, eh?” Hugo looked over his friend's shoulder and watched the burly man stalking down the quai, away from them, hands in his pockets. His victim, the bouquiniste, looked unsteady on her feet and Hugo saw her collapse into a canvas chair beside her stall, her face sinking into her hands. As Hugo watched, she reached into a plastic bag beside her and pulled out a clear, flask-sized bottle.
When he looked back, Max was watching him. “That, in her hand, is her biggest problem,” the old man said. “But around here, it's best to mind your own business.” He gestured toward his books. “So, are you buying or just wasting time? And by that, I mean mine.”
Hugo turned his attention back to Max. “A gift, remember?”
“Bien, let me see.” Max picked up a hardback, a book of black and white photographs of Hollywood stars from the 1920s to the 1970s. He showed Hugo the cover, a picture of a smiling Cary Grant, all teeth and slick hair. “Looks like you, mon ami.”
Hugo had heard that before, from his wife, though he assumed she was just making fun. The caption said Grant was forty-one at the time of the picture, a year younger than Hugo. At six foot one inch, Grant was also an inch shorter than Hugo. But the men shared the same thick hair, though Hugo's was a lighter brown — light enough to camouflage a few recent strands of gray. His was thick hair that had never been touched by the globs of gel, or whatever those guys used. In the picture, Cary Grant's eyes glittered like jewels, a hard look Hugo could emulate when he needed to, but normally his eyes were a darker and warmer brown, more thoughtful than magnetic. The eyes of a watcher, not a player.
“Here.” Max took the book back, then stooped and lifted a stack of newspapers off a battered leather briefcase. “I have some books in there. Help yourself.”
Hugo knelt, unzipped the case, and peered in. “An Agatha Christie?”
“Oui,” Max nodded. “A first edition, so très cher. A humble diplomat like you cannot afford it, I fear.”