Story
Le livre emprunté
Not startedRain falls this Tuesday afternoon. Martine pushes open the door of the neighborhood library. She shakes her umbrella on the doormat. Water runs down the black fabric. She carefully folds her umbrella and places it near the entrance.
The library is small and quiet. The wooden shelves reach up to the ceiling. There's a smell of paper and dust. Through the foggy windows, one can see the grey street in the rain.
Martine knows this place. She comes here every Tuesday for years. It's her routine — she borrows books, reads them, returns them. It's simple. It's orderly. It's what she does.
But today, something is different.
She borrowed a book three weeks ago. A novel. She intended to read it. She placed it on her bedside table, then forgot about it. Days passed. The book remained closed. And now, she has to return it without having opened it.
Martine approaches the lending desk. Claire is there, as usual. The librarian is a woman in her thirties, always smiling. She knows Martine by name.
'Good morning, Madame Durand,' says Claire.
'Good morning,' answers Martine.
Her voice is calm. Her face is peaceful. But her hands are slightly tense on her bag. She prepared what she would say if Claire asks the question. She repeated the words in her head during the entire trip.
She takes a breath. The book is in her bag. She only has to hand it to Claire, and it will be done. Simple. Quick. Without complication.
But her fingers hesitate.
Martine opens her bag. She plunges her hand into the large compartment. Her fingers touch the soft fabric of her wallet, cold keys, an old metro ticket. No book.
She searches more deeply. She pushes aside objects, she feels the corners of the bag. Nothing.
Claire waits behind the desk. She looks at Martine with a patient smile. Silence settles in.
'Is everything alright, Madame Durand?' asks Claire.
'Yes, yes,' answers Martine. Her voice is a bit too fast. 'I'm just looking for... my book. I have it here, somewhere.'
Her hands move faster now. She takes objects out of her bag — her wallet, her phone, a pack of tissues. She places them on the desk, then puts them back in the bag. The book is not there.
Martine's heart beats faster. She avoids Claire's gaze. She doesn't want to see the surprise or — worse — the understanding in her eyes.
'Perhaps you already returned it?' suggests Claire. 'I can check in the system.'
'No!' The answer is too abrupt. Martine catches herself. 'No, I still have it. I... I have it here.'
She continues to search. The side pocket. No. The small front pocket. No. Her bag has several compartments, and she rummages through them all, one by one.
Claire says nothing. The silence becomes heavy.
Then, something touches Martine's fingers. A rigid and familiar shape. She recognizes the soft cover. The book is in an inner pocket she almost never uses.
She extracts it from the bag. She sighs. She wipes the cover with her palm.
'There it is,' she murmurs.
Claire smiles. 'It was hidden?'
'Yes. In an inner pocket. I... I don't use it often.'
Martine hands the book to the librarian. The gesture is simple. But as she does it, she feels a small tension in her chest. She hasn't read the book. She borrowed it three weeks ago, and she hasn't opened a single page.
Claire takes the book. She scans it without comment. The screen displays the information.
'Three weeks overdue,' says Claire softly. 'It's not serious. No late fees.'
'Thank you,' says Martine.
The book is returned. The transaction is finished. Martine can leave now. But Claire doesn't give her back her library card.
The librarian looks at the screen. Then she looks at Martine.
Martine freezes. The words she prepared escape her. She had rehearsed an answer, but now, facing Claire, the words won't come.
She looks at the book on the desk. The cover shows an image of a house by the sea. She doesn't know what happens in the story. She doesn't know the characters. She can't say if the book is good.
'It was... interesting,' answers Martine. Her voice is calm, but her eyes avoid Claire's.
'It was... different. Not what I expected.'
It wasn't a lie. The book wasn't what she expected because she hadn't read it. But each word weighed on her.
Claire asks no more questions. She returns the library card to Martine.
'Would you like to borrow another book?' she asks. 'We have new acquisitions over there.' She points to a small table with a few books on display.
Martine looks at the table. She sees three books. A detective novel with a red cover. A biography of an artist. And a cookbook.
'That one,' she says.
She approaches the table. The titles are clearly visible.
'Enjoy your reading,' says Claire.
'Thank you,' answers Martine.
She puts the book in her bag, in the main compartment. She doesn't want to forget this book like the other one. She feels the weight of the book. It's the same weight as the other book, three weeks earlier.
Martine turns toward the door. She doesn't look back. She pushes the door and steps out into the fresh air.
Rain still falls. She opens her umbrella. The black fabric opens above her head. Drops hit the umbrella. It's a regular sound, almost soothing.
She begins to walk. The library disappears behind her. The street is grey and wet. A few cars pass. Tires screech on the asphalt. Shop windows shine under the streetlights.
The new book is in her bag. She feels its weight against her side. A detective novel. She doesn't know why she chose it. The title didn't particularly interest her. The cover shows a man running in a dark street. She doesn't particularly like detective novels.
But she took it anyway.
She continues to walk. Her steps are regular on the wet sidewalk. Water flows in the gutters. Dead leaves stick to the pavement.
Three weeks. She had the book for three weeks. She looked at it every evening on her bedside table. She told herself she would read it tomorrow. Tomorrow became tomorrow, again and again.
And now, a new book. In her bag. Which will probably stay on the bedside table, too.
Martine crosses the street at the red light. She waits for the pedestrian light to turn green. She looks at the waiting cars. The drivers look tired. Everyone looks tired, at times.
She arrives in front of her building. She climbs the three floors on foot, as usual. She opens her door. Her apartment is quiet. A smell of old paper and dust floats in the air.
She places her bag on the entryway table. She takes out the new book. She looks at it for a moment. The cover shines under the light.
Then she goes to her bedroom. She places the book on her bedside table, right next to the old alarm clock. The book finds its place between the lamp and the glass of water.
She sits on the edge of her bed. She looks at the book. She looks at the window, where the rain continues to fall.
Perhaps she will read it. Perhaps she won't read it.
She takes off her shoes. She puts on her slippers. She goes to the kitchen and prepares a cup of tea. The hot water steams in her cup. She sits at her small table, near the window.
Outside, rain falls on the city. The rooftops shine under the grey clouds. People run with their umbrellas. Life goes on.
Martine drinks her tea. The book waits on her bedside table.
Tomorrow is another day.