Sophie's Last Book

Paul pulled a book from a small cupboard outside and opened it. Rain leaking into the curb-side library had stained the pages. Dark streaks ran down them, and the book was swollen with moisture. He flipped to the copyright page. He was right: it was a first edition. This library was one of many, and people generally didn’t know what they were putting in them. He had found several old books like this one and sold some in worse condition online.

The craze to build outdoor boxes to share books had swept through the country about 30 or 40 years before. The little libraries popped up throughout the country, and not just along roads. They could be found in apartment complexes, beach fronts, train stations, and even fast-food restaurants. Librarians were interviewed about them on television, and people were split on their contribution to society. Fodder for a discussion was never ignored and always appreciated in France.

The government tried to standardize the design of the boxes but failed. Some of them were very elaborate, like little Taj Mahals in bright colors. Most, however, were crude structures made from cast-off building materials. The one in front of Paul was framed in weathered wood and sided with unpainted plywood. Its door was rescued from a kitchen cupboard, and it had a window made from clear plastic sheeting. It was held shut with a nail bent into a hook. The box was one of the better ones that he had found.

Paul became interested in the share boxes after his father died. His dad had one in front of his house. It was like visiting him when the son went through a box. Paul had an idea to make a phone app that would show the locations of the libraries on a map. He didn’t do anything with it, though. The idea was a thought that occupied him through a long train ride in Paris. It was an omnibus that stopped at maybe 30 stations before his destination. He had weighed the pros and cons of the app along the way, before being distracted by a panhandler near his stop. He wouldn’t make that trip again now that his mother was dead.

Finding the boxes was becoming increasingly harder. Only a small percentage of them still remained, and the survivors were usually neglected and poorly stocked. One could browse through thousands of books in a mobile phone app more easily than wandering around a neighborhood in the hope of finding someone’s discards in a leaky, rickety cupboard attached to a fence or power pole along a sidewalk. Some boxes were left empty now, and often animals used them. He had found one that had been turned into a pigeonry.

Paul looked at the book in the dim light from nearby lampposts. It had apparently been someone’s favorite. Notes filled the margins, and a few pages were dogeared. The copyright showed 1952. It was probably the writer’s last book, and he had gotten awards for it. Now the author was gone. The book was written by one generation and passed along to others. Paul could be the only living person to have held the book.

A raindrop struck the copyright page. The water soaked into the paper immediately. Paul bent forward to protect the book from the rain. It was winter, and he wore a parka with its hood pulled over his head. He shut the book and stuffed it inside his jacket. He quickly scanned the other books in the box before closing and latching its door. With the book tucked inside his jacket, he looked along the street for a place to sit indoors. There was a fast-food restaurant just down the way. Checking traffic, he quickly crossed the road and walked to the restaurant. It was bright and warm inside, and the air was heavy with grease from the grill. He found a table away from the serving counter and sat down. No one would bother him. Even the people behind the counter didn’t want to be here. This place was a temporary black hole in their lives.

Paul pulled the book out and set it on the table. He also got out his mobile. He did a search for the book on the phone, and Wikipedia confirmed what he knew about the author and the book. Paul had read it as a child and enjoyed the story, but its symbolism had escaped him. Thinking back now, he understood what the writer wanted to convey. He smiled as he remembered the school lectures. Teachers always sought the hidden meanings in books to the detriment of their enjoyment.

He opened the book and flipped through its pages. The damage looked worse in the bright light. Every page was streaked with water stains, and some of the ink had diffused into the paper. He started to read the notes handwritten in the margins. Initially, he thought they were all about the book. However, most were personal notes, as if someone hadn’t had access to paper and used the book as a notepad. At the beginning of the book were lists of things and the names of people, some with phone numbers. Farther into the book, the notes started to become concerning. They contained statements such as “No one likes me here” and “They’re trying to make me leave.” One of the last notes was “They’re taking my books!”

On the inside of the back cover was written the name Sophie Arnoulde. Paul searched for it on his phone. The browser found information for Sophie Arnould, a French opera singer from the 18th century, far before the book was published. He refined his search by adding Paris as the location and some of the names written in the margins. Finally he found an obituary for a Sophie Arnoulde, who had died several years before. She was born before World War II, and spent her life in Paris. She was survived by only her grandchildren, as her children had died before her. The obit had been reported by a residence for seniors in Créteil, a town just south of Paris.

Paul closed the book and looked at its cover, which was faded blue and embossed with the author’s name. It originally sold with a dust jacket that showed a stylized rendering of a group of huts at the edge of a calm sea. This book was Sophie’s, he thought. It might have been the last thing she held in this world.

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