Page 12 of The Secret Librarian
He shook his head. ‘I don’t have long, I just wanted to call in and see if you’d received any newspapers today?’
Camille swallowed, feeling very much as if she might be walking unknowingly into a trap. Her overseas delivery today had been uneventful, herCombat,a paper produced by the French Resistance that she’d almost been caught reading, coming in via a newly arrived Jewish refugee rather than the scheduled delivery. She cleared her throat as nerves wound their way through her body.
‘Was there something in particular you were after?’ she asked, keeping her voice even. ‘I did have a box with British postmarks arrive, but I’ve been so busy I haven’t had a chance to look through it.’ Camille quickly realised the error of her words, the inconsistency that a man such as Kiefer would be sure to notice. ‘Other than the short break I took just now to read my book, of course. I figured I deserved fifteen minutes of sitting after being on my feet all day.’
She held her smile even as her stomach lurched. But she was well used to showing restraint when it came to her true feelings, and it seemed her performance had been satisfactory.
‘Good. I was hoping forThe Timesor theDaily Telegraphif you have them.’
‘Let me see,’ she said, squeezing his hand one more time and receiving another smile. ‘There’s every chanceThe Timeswill be in this package.’
Camille walked away, hoping that he was too fixated on watching her figure to notice how many papers she had tucked behind the counter, or to see the paper she’d been reading. She also hoped he hadn’t noticed the unusually high pitch of her voice.
Kiefer stood with his legs apart, hands folded in front of him, and she tried not to grimace as she remembered the other men she’d seen like him – the Nazis who’d patrolled the streets of Paris and stood menacingly on street corners. Sometimes just the sight of him made her body start to tremble.
‘Ahh, here we are,’ she said, trying to sound as bright as could be as she opened the box and sorted through the packet of papers. ‘Would a copy of theDaily Expressbe helpful?’ She did indeed have theTimesnewspaper he was seeking, but she tucked it away at the bottom so he couldn’t see it, intending to keep that for another customer.A customer who isn’t a Nazi.
Kiefer put down the book he was holding and came back towards her. ‘Excellent, thank you.’
Camille didn’t ask why it would be that a German living in Portugal might be in need of a British paper – it was as good as implied that every foreign man in Lisbon was spying for his country, there to trade in secrets and collect information – but she just couldn’t imagine what truly useful information he’d find in a newspaper. She wondered if perhaps there were secret messages contained within, as far-fetched as that might seem.
‘Could I tempt you with a book as well?’ she asked. ‘Perhaps a volume of poetry? What caught your eye there?’
‘You could tempt me with a kiss,’ he said, boldly, even as the bell rang behind him.
Camille didn’t want to make a fuss, but she certainly didn’t want anyone to see her being passionate with him in the shop either, and so she planted her hands on his shoulders and stood on tiptoe, gently pressing a kiss to his cheek.
‘How about I see you tonight,’ she whispered in his ear, hoping that would be enough to please him.
From the look in his eyes, all she’d done was tempt him more, but she’d rather have to deal with him after-hours than while she was at work.
‘You’ll meet me for a drink?’
Camille nodded and smiled sweetly. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’
And she held her carefully curated smile until Kiefer had turned and walked out of the store, standing there until she could no longer see him, before letting it slide from her face. She pressed a hand to her stomach, feeling physically unwell and hating herself for her duplicity.
‘Excuse me,’ asked the new customer, a young woman with a boy on her hip who Camille recognised from earlier in the week when they’d been in looking for children’s books.
Camille’s smile was genuine this time. ‘I’ll just be a moment,’ she said, as she hurried past the counter, snatching the Resistance paper and taking it to her office, where she quickly hid it beneath the floorboards.
Don’t be so careless again. If he catches you, he won’t give you the chance to explain yourself. You’ll be floating in the harbour or hanging from a lamp post by daybreak.
And with her own words berating her, she went back out into the shop to do her job. Her only regret was that she’d agreed to meet with him, which meant she wouldn’t be able to get startedafter closing on the forged documents for the man who’d visited earlier in the day.
An hour later, Camille turned her key in the lock and checked the door to the bookstore before starting the short walk to her apartment. Whenever she was on her own, she had a sense of safety that she doubted most women walking without company felt in other parts of Europe. During the day, the outdoor tables in Lisbon were full of people drinking coffee and reading the paper, eager to discover the news of the day or simply to sit in the sunshine. But Lisbon felt like a contradiction of sorts, with natural enemies passing each other on the street; a city with fascist leanings that quietly allowed Jews to populate the square, knowing that to persecute them was to risk an uprising among the people of Portugal.
In certain parts of Lisbon, large numbers of Jews congregated, most relying on the kindness of locals as they waited for weeks or even months to sail for America. Thousands had reportedly left for New York the year before, but Camille often wondered whether there were any more ships coming for those who were waiting. It wasn’t lost on her that she’d once risked everything to get some of these families to Portugal, and some of them were still stuck in limbo in Lisbon.At least they’re alive. They might be stuck, but they’re alive.And with her help, those who’d arrived illegally, who were many, now had documentation that was almost as good as the real thing, or at least she liked to think so.
Soon she reached her apartment, walking quickly up the stairs and unlocking her door, careful to secure it behind her as she dropped her bag on the single armchair in the living room,kicking off her shoes and wriggling her toes. She longed for the soft carpet in the house she’d grown up in, remembering the way her feet had always sunk into it, but she tried not to think about that and instead concentrate on being light-footed as she trod across her threadbare rug.
Kiefer would be waiting for her, which meant she needed to get ready as quickly as possible. She sliced a piece of bread from the loaf, spreading it thinly with butter, and then went back for another when her stomach continued to growl, before hurrying into her room and taking off her work clothes.
Camille slipped into a dress she knew Kiefer would love – a midnight-blue, silk design that clung to her curves, the very same dress she’d worn when they’d first met. She’d heard that the locals thought women who dressed like her were prostitutes, hating the fact that foreigners showed bare legs and didn’t wear hats, but Camille wouldn’t be alone in dressing for a man tonight, not where she was going. She reached for her red lipstick and then looked at her reflection in the mirror, staring into her eyes – eyes that somehow no longer seemed to belong to her, a gaze that no longer felt like her own.
You can do this, she told herself.He’ll be there waiting for you, and you can do this.
But she didn’t go so far as to tell herself that it was what Hugo would have wanted, because if he were here, he’d have told her to hold a knife to Kiefer’s throat and not hesitate to use it.
