The library had exactly that mixture of seediness and comforting quiet that made me love public libraries back home. Though it was small – only two rooms – it had high ceilings and several unshuttered windows, giving it an unusually airy feel for such an old building. Several people looked up from what they were doing to stare at me, but their attention was mercifully short and one by one they went back to reading or talking together in low voices.
I had a look around and then went to the main desk to apply for a library card. A pleasant, middle-aged woman in a smart olive suit told me I would need to bring in something with my French address on it as proof of residence. She also tactfully pointed me in the direction of a multi-volume French-English dictionary and a small English-language section.
The woman wasn't behind the desk the second time I visited the library; in her place a man stood talking on the phone, his sharp brown eyes focused on a point out in the square, a sardonic smile on his angular face. About my height, he was wearing black trousers and a white shirt without a tie, buttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up above his elbows. A lone wolf. I smiled to myself: one to avoid.
I veered away from him and headed for the English-language section. It looked like some tourists had donated a sackful of vacation reading: it was full of thrillers and sex-and-shopping novels. There was also a good selection of Agatha Christie. I found one I hadn't read, then browsed in the French fiction section. Madame Sentier had recommended Françoise Sagan as a painless way to ease myself into reading in French; I chose Bonjour Tristesse. I started toward the front desk, glanced at the wolf behind it, then at my two frivolous books, and stopped. I went back to the English section, dug around and added Portrait of a Lady to my pile.
I dawdled for a while, poring over a copy of Paris-Match. Finally I carried my books up to the desk. The man behind it looked hard at me, made some mental calculation as he glanced at the books and, with the faintest smirk, said in English, ‘Your card?’
Damn you, I thought. I hated that sneering appraisal, the assumption that I couldn't speak French, that I looked so American.
‘I would like to apply for a card,’ I replied carefully in French, trying to pronounce the words without any trace of an American accent.
He handed me a form. ‘Fill out this,’ he commanded in English.
I was so annoyed that when I filled in the application I wrote down my last name as Tournier rather than Turner. I pushed the sheet defiantly toward him along with driver's licence, credit card and a letter from the bank with our French address on it. He glanced at the pieces of identification, then frowned at the sheet.
‘What is this “Tournier”?’ he asked, tapping his finger on my name. ‘It is Turner, yes? Like Tina Turner?’
I continued to answer in French. ‘Yes, but my family name was originally Tournier. They changed it when they moved to the United States. In the nineteenth century. They took out the “o” and the “i” so that the name would be more American.’ This was the one bit of family lore I knew and I was proud of it, but it was clear he wasn't impressed. ‘Lots of families changed their names when they emigrated -’ I trailed off and looked away from his mocking eyes.
‘Your name is Turner, so there must be Turner on the card, yes?’
I lapsed into English. ‘I – since I'm living here now I thought I'd start using Tournier.’
‘But you have no card or letter with Tournier on it, no?’
I shook my head and scowled at the stack of books, elbows clenched to my sides. To my mortification my eyes began to fill with tears. ‘Never mind, it's nothing,’ I muttered. Careful not to look at him, I scooped up the cards and letter, turned around and pushed my way out.
That night I opened the front door of our house to shoo away two cats fighting in the street and stumbled over the stack of books on the front step. The library card was sitting on top and was made out to Ella Tournier.
I stayed away from the library, stifling my urge to make a special trip to thank the librarian. I hadn't yet learned how to thank French people. When I was buying something they seemed to thank me too many times during the exchange, yet I always doubted their sincerity. It was hard to analyze the tone of their words. But the librarian's sarcasm had been undeniable; I couldn't imagine him accepting thanks with grace.
A few days after the card appeared I was walking along the road by the river and saw him sitting in a patch of sunlight in front of the café by the bridge, where I'd begun going for coffee. He seemed mesmerized by the water far below and I stopped, trying to decide whether or not to say something to him, wondering if I could pass by quietly so he wouldn't notice. He glanced up then and caught me watching him. His expression didn't change; he looked as if his thoughts were far away.
‘Bonjour,’ I said, feeling foolish.
‘Bonjour.’ He shifted slightly in his seat and gestured to the chair next to him. ‘Café?’
I hesitated. ‘Oui, s'il vous plaît,’ I said at last. I sat down and he nodded at the waiter. For a moment I felt acutely embarrassed and cast my eyes out over the Tarn so I wouldn't have to look at him. It was a big river, about 100 yards wide, green and placid and seemingly still. But as I watched I noticed there was a slow roll to the water; I kept my eyes on it and saw occasional flashes of a dark, rust-red substance boiling to the surface and then disappearing again. Fascinated, I followed the red patches with my eyes.
The waiter arrived with the coffee on a silver tray, blocking my view of the river. I turned to the librarian. ‘That red there in the Tarn, what is it?’ I asked in French.
He answered in English. ‘Clay deposits from the hills. There was a landslide recently that exposed the clay under the soil. It washes down into the river.’
My eyes were drawn back to the water. Still watching the clay I switched to English. ‘What's your name?’
‘Jean-Paul.’
‘Thank you for the library card, Jean-Paul. That was very nice of you.’
He shrugged and I was glad I hadn't made a bigger deal of it.
We sat without speaking for a long time, drinking our coffee and looking at the river. It was warm in the late May sun and I would have taken off my jacket but I didn't want him to see the psoriasis on my arms.
‘Why aren't you at the library?’ I asked abruptly.
He looked up. ‘It's Wednesday. Library's closed.’
‘Ah. How long have you worked there?’
‘Three years. Before that I was at a library in Nîmes.’
‘So that's your career? You're a librarian?’
He gave me a sideways look as he lit a cigarette. ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’
‘It's just – you don't seem like a librarian.’
‘What do I seem like?’
I looked him over. He was wearing black jeans and a soft salmon-coloured cotton shirt; a black blazer was draped over the back of his chair. His arms were tanned, the forearms densely covered with black hair.
‘A gangster,’ I replied. ‘Except you need sunglasses.’