Page 8 of The Secret Librarian

‘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 the Daily Express be helpful?’ She did indeed have the Times newspaper 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 started after 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.

Barely an hour after closing the bookstore, Camille stood under the twinkling street lights outside the Hotel Aviz, squaring her shoulders before walking up to the door, her heels clicking with every step.

‘Good evening,’ said the doorman.

‘Good evening,’ Camille replied, before walking into the loud bar and peering through smoke strong enough to sting her eyes. She paused as she surveyed the room.

And then she saw him. Sitting with two other men, his head tipped back in laughter, a drink in one hand and a cigarette hanging from his lips.

But when she caught his gaze, Kiefer immediately stood, dropping his cigarette into a tray and holding out one hand, ever the gentleman.

Sometimes she wondered how a human being could be so unfailingly chivalrous, while at the same time part of a regime of such cruelty.

‘Camille,’ he said, catching her fingers in his and drawing her in to kiss her cheek when she stepped towards him. ‘I was afraid you weren’t coming.’

She noticed the champagne bottle on the table, not his usual whisky, and the two men with him considering her with appraising glances.

Camille reminded herself to stand tall – there was no way they would touch her if she was with Kiefer, which meant she had no reason to wilt under their scrutiny.

They could admire her all they liked so long as they didn’t think they could try anything on with her.

‘It was never a question, I just had to stay until closing, that’s all,’ she assured him, running her hand up his arm. ‘I see you started without me. Are we toasting a special occasion?’

‘Can’t a man just order champagne?’ he replied with a wink.

Camille smiled and held out her hand in greeting to his friends as he introduced them. Gunther. Carl. Names she committed to memory in case she ever had need to recall them, but at the same time hoping she wouldn’t.

‘You’re certain you don’t mind me joining your group?’ she asked, sliding on to the seat beside Kiefer. ‘I’d hate to interrupt.’

‘There’s always space for a beautiful lady, am I right?’ Kiefer asked, raising his brows and receiving laughter and raised glasses from the two men seated with him.

Camille realised all three men had already had a lot to drink, but she smiled along anyway, not at all surprised when Kiefer ordered another bottle of champagne at the same time as asking for a glass for her.

French champagne . It seemed he had a penchant for her country’s champagne. And her country’s women.

‘I’m so happy you could join us, Camille,’ Kiefer said, his hand falling over her leg, fingers splaying across the thin fabric of her dress.

She leaned in to him, tipping her head forward so that her hair obscured her face. Anything to stop him from kissing her in public.

Thankfully one of the men at their table said something that made him laugh, and she took the chance to glance around the hotel bar, taking in the eclectic mix of people filling the space.

Some were drinking champagne like Kiefer, others were staring into short glasses full of amber-coloured liquid, and one man seated at the bar was drinking what appeared to be an American soda in a bottle.

It was fascinating, the sheer number of men from different countries all in the hotel bar at the same time – American, British, German, Japanese and most likely more, mixed with only a handful of affluent locals.

And as fabulous as the nightlife was in Lisbon, with hotels, supper clubs and a casino nearby, she doubted they were all here for pleasure.

Camille absorbed it all, taking the smallest sip of the champagne Kiefer poured her and tuning her ear to the conversation at her table, keeping her face impassive as Carl said something vulgar about her in their native tongue.

They’d presumed she couldn’t speak their language – a pretty girl on their friend’s arm and nothing more.

But perhaps it would all be worth it, because two hours later, after drinking enough champagne to have them all staggering, Kiefer whispered in her ear.

‘Come back to my room with me?’

Fear knotted her stomach. She’d played a cat-and-mouse game with him, always putting him off, coming up with an excuse, but tonight Camille knew she was all out of excuses.

If she didn’t go to his hotel with him tonight, she feared that he would lose interest, and she would lose her chance to extract information from him.

Camille placed her palm in Kiefer’s outstretched hand and let him pull her towards him, tucking close into his side.

He swayed slightly from drinking so much, but she pretended not to notice, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm instead and hoping that he was so drunk he’d fall asleep while she was in the bathroom of his hotel.

‘I would love to,’ she whispered, as he bent down to kiss her.

Forgive me , she thought, blinking away tears as they walked arm in arm to the door, stopping only to retrieve her coat, before stepping out into the cool night air.

She only hoped it would be worth it.