THE BOOK THIEF

PART 1 – The Pledge

Chapter 1 – The Magistrate

Don’t believe anything anyone tells you. Except for me. I’m reliable. But take this video as an example. It’s all over the internet and it shows a well known musician being shot dead with a crossbow. It isn’t true. And I should know because I’m the person who shot her.

What a fortnight? What day is it? Tuesday the 5th, November 2024. I’m worn out after a night hiding away in a French hotel, which was very nice, typically French with wrought iron and peeling paintwork. Then a clandestine meeting with my line manager to explain everything, and then off to my lawyer in Luxembourg City and I have to say I loved the various expressions on his face dealing with shock, disappointment, some amazement. Now, it’s late in the evening, I’m checking my lock up one last time, make sure no one suspicious can get in, Deep State operators, that sort of thing. You might ask, Valery, Deep State in Luxembourg? Well, yes, I know it’s a bit of a stretch and I know they had nothing to do with my prosecution, blame Henri Touliere for that. Here’s a tip for you, don’t steal a book from a bookshop owner who has a sixth sense. I still don’t know how he figured I had the book. Maybe it was luck, but we’ll come back to that later. I’m going away for a few days and I wish I was taking Mabelle with me, but she isn’t here anymore. She would have been perfect for this trip. Plans to replace her are in progress, however, it’s ten, ten what . . . ten forty-four at night, so that will have to wait.

And I’m getting off the point here. I was talking about the week which started two weeks ago, Friday, the 11th. I got back from Bavaria on the Wednesday, had Thursday off, pushed my guitar lesson back to Saturday which my tutor was okay with because I gave him lots of advance warning. Normally he’d be saying ‘Oh, I don’t know, oh, I’m not sure about that, oh, Valery this messes things up for me.’ Give the man a problem and he turns it into a crisis. Let me give you an example. Four weeks ago he wanted me to practice a song, House of the Rising Sun. I gave it a go. Everybody plays House of the Rising Sun when they’re learning the guitar and I wanted to practice something else. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to run before I can walk, but my tutor, Sergei, he’s originally from Russia, by the way, he’s a textbook kinda guy. It’s all Tom Petty and Bob Dylan and, who’s that other one, Van Morrison. And when I get home I prefer to practice Grant Green, Joe Pass and Wes Montgomery. I mean, they’re poles apart. But Sergei says I don’t have the finger stretch to play in those styles, so stick to what I can achieve. I think he’s wrong. From index to little finger I can reach four frets.

I digress! I came back from Bavaria, took Thursday off and pushed the guitar lesson back because on the Friday I had a ‘prior engagement.’ I was in court. It was not a pleasant experience, but it could have been worse. I took my toothbrush with me just in case, but my lawyer, Maurice, said that was overkill.

“Why have you brought your toothbrush?”

“In case I go to prison.”

“You’re here because you stole a book from the Touliere Bookshop. You’re not going to prison.”

“I wish I had your confidence.” I was a bit fidgety that day. The chairs in the magistrate court waiting room were hard, I suspect designed to make you agitated so that the magistrate can accuse you of being unhinged and give you a longer sentence. And for some strange reason, my toothbrush looked more dishevelled in a public place than it did at home. Maurice told me to put it away.

“Concentrate. Remember what I told you,” he said. “If the magistrate asks you to say something, tell him you are sorry, it was completely wrong, you’ve learned your lesson.”

“I said that last time.”

“I know. That’s why you’re facing a suspended sentence.”

“That’s why I brought my toothbrush.”

“You won’t go to prison, but even if you did they provide toothbrushes. You don’t need your own.”

Maurice ate too much. He was probably fifteen to twenty per cent too heavy for his height and he was already tall. Basketball player tall. Then with all that weight he was like a giant. When he sat next to me it was like sitting next to a truck. I presume his matter-of-fact attitude was meant to reassure me, but when he said I’d be provided with a toothbrush, I thought that was a subtle way of saying ‘prepare yourself for the worst’ and I think that’s when I started shaking.

“You’re shaking.” (Having a perceptive lawyer was worth the extra money I was paying for him.)

“I’m nervous. People have gone to prison for less.”

“Like who?”

“Like,” I couldn’t think of anyone. “How long would a suspended sentence last for?”

“My guess is twelve months.”

“You’re guessing?”

“Based on experience, Valery. I’ve been doing this for fifteen years.”

The phrase fifteen years turned my stomach.

Some would say count your blessings, others would say there’s always someone somewhere worse off than yourself. Which isn’t that comforting, but the door to the waiting room opened and another criminal walked in with his lawyer. He was badly dressed – the criminal not the lawyer – old tracksuit sort of thing. I’m sure his lawyer should have recommended something a bit smarter. I wore a clean pair of jeans, for example. This other man was about twenty-two or possibly twenty-three, quite nondescript except for his chin which was very very square as if he’d trapped it for a prolonged period of time in a vice or a small metal container. I didn’t know I was staring at him until he confronted me from across the room.

“What are you staring at?”

“Was I staring? Sorry.”

“Yes. You were staring. Didn’t your parents tell you it’s not polite to stare at people?”

“No, they didn’t. They told me to trust no one, treat everybody in the world as if they’re an idiot, take care of myself because no one else will. And then they died.”

“I don’t care.”

“I don’t expect you to care, I’m just telling you some of the things they told me. There’s a lot more.”

“I told you I don’t care. Stop staring at me.”

“Sorry. It was your chin.”

“My chin? What’s wrong with my chin?”

“It’s very square. It looks like it was made from a block of wood and glued to the bottom of your face.”

“What?”

He twitched as if he couldn’t decide whether to walk over and punch me, but he’d have to get past Maurice first, although, I’m not sure if Maurice was a fighting man. He didn’t have any visible bruises or a broken nose. If the other criminal was here charged with assault he would have been shackled or handcuffed, but he wasn’t so my guess was drug dealing or insurance fraud, which is a bit of a white collar crime and his tracksuit top didn’t have any kind of collar, so it was probably drugs. His lawyer cleared his throat as if to say calm down, don’t let her get to you, but I wasn’t trying to get to him. At that moment I wanted to ask him if he was born with a square chin, but thought better of it.

“You’re staring at me again. What’s your problem?”

“I’m sorry, but your chin is really square.” I had a mirror in my bag. I stepped over to him so he could see his reflection, but Maurice intervened.

“Valery, this is not the time.”

“He’s obviously never seen it.” Then . . . “You’re not a vampire are you?”

“Who is this lunatic?” He wanted an answer from Maurice.

“Valery, sit down and calm down. The gentleman doesn’t need to see his reflection. I’m sorry for my client’s behaviour.” Maurice spoke to the other lawyer. “She’s very nervous.”

“You’d be nervous if you were facing a prison sentence.” I sat down.

“She isn’t facing a prison sentence.”

“What have you done?” The other criminal stroked his chin.

I conferred with Maurice before answering. “Am I allowed to tell him?”

“Tell him what you want.”

“I stole a book.”

“You stole a book? And you think you’re going to prison for that? What did you do, kill the owner?”

“No.”

“What was so special about this book?”

“It was The Year 1000. What Life Was Like at the Turn of the First Millennium. Robert Lacey and Danny Danziger.”

“Why are you going to prison for stealing that?”

“She isn’t going to prison,” said Maurice.

“I’m a repeat offender. I’ve done it before. Been caught, I mean. Not the same book.”

“Yeah, you’re definitely going to prison. They put all the career criminals in prison.”

“What are you here for?”

“I tried to avoid paying the plastic surgeon who did this to my chin.”

I knew it. I knew it. I knew there was something not right about it. Before I could extract any more information the magistrate was ready and the court person, the usher or vice-magistrate, whatever they’re called, wanted me to go through to the court room.

As I followed Maurice, the other criminal said, “I’ll come visit you in prison if you tell me where they’ve sent you.”

“She isn’t going to prison.” Maurice had too much confidence in the criminal justice system.

The last time I was here the courtroom was an office with a big table in it. I thought my repeat offence might be treated more seriously, but it was another office. Not even bigger than the last one. The magistrate sat in the middle with the crest of Luxembourg on the wall behind him. I think god really hated me that day because the position of the magistrate’s chair meant it looked like the rampant lion was standing on his head. Maurice obviously didn’t see the funny side, but he nudged my arm before the magistrate spoke, hoping it would stop me grinning. I started shaking again and felt inside my bag for the toothbrush. If I changed chairs the angle would shift and the magistrate’s head would be free of the decoration, but it was too late. He was already speaking in a low mumble. He was almost inaudible.

“Is this your real name?” He left his finger on the screen of his tablet.

“I don’t know. What does it say there?”

“Valery Valérie?”

“Yes. My parents had a sick sense of humour. Well, my father. It was his idea.”

“What was his idea?”

“His surname was Valérie, so he thought it would be hilarious to call his first daughter Valery.”

“What did he call his other children?”

“Other children?” He never told me he had other children. “What other children?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Maurice sat with a blank look on his face. I’d have to ask him later.

“Valery Valérie, you were arrested on the 15th May 2024 and charged with the theft of a book under Penal Codes 371 to 377.” So many. Six in total. “You have submitted a not guilty plea.” He looked up at me. “Do you have anything to say?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, it was completely wrong and I’ve learned my lesson.”

“That’s what you said last time.” He referred again to his tablet. “And the time before.”

“I’m a creature of habit.”

“This is the third time you have appeared after being charged with the theft of a book.”

“I like books.”

“That’s not the point. If you like books you must pay for them like the rest of us. Or do you have some special craving that we do not suffer from?”

The magistrate wore a very expensive suit. Commensurate with his salary, no doubt. If he had a full head of hair I’m sure he would have had a very expensive haircut. What let him down was his stubble. It wasn’t long enough to look deliberate and it suggested to me he had been working all night.

“Is there something wrong?”

“No. Well, yes, obviously. I’ve been charged with theft.”

“My client is truly sorry for the theft, sir.”

“I wasn’t talking to you. Valery Valérie, you’re becoming a career criminal.” Here came the sentence. I was going down. “Let me read you a submission from the owner of the bookshop. It makes for interesting reading. The individual, he says, is a regular visitor to my shop and I know from speaking to other owners that she is a frequent visitor to theirs. She browses, but rarely buys. When she talks it’s as if she is trying to distract you. I have no idea how many books she has stolen from my shop over the years or if she has an accomplice or is part of a gang. But after this latest incident I acted to bring together other bookshop owners in Luxembourg City to create ways of protecting our stock from this nuisance. We know what she looks like, we will be ready if she visits again and will ask her to leave. Unless of course you impose a prison sentence, which in my opinion, will be the only deterrent to this obviously selfish, self-entitled individual.”

My eyes began to water. I like books. I only wanted to read them. I didn’t mean any harm.

“You cannot go on doing this.” The magistrate laid his tablet flat on the table.

“There is the reference from my client’s employer.” Maurice thought the magistrate would have it on his tablet, but he waited for Maurice to produce his own version. Now would be a good time for him to pull it out of his coat sleeve, but it was on his laptop which was still in his laptop case which was in his briefcase, which wasn’t really a briefcase, more like a small rucksack. The magistrate and I waited patiently for Maurice to sort himself out and produce this glowing revelation.

“My employer likes me.” I tried to fill in the gap. “All my reviews are excellent.”

“Does he know you steal books?”

“He’s never said. He’s very honest and direct so I’m sure he would have said something if he knew.”

Maurice was ready. “The character reference is from Olivier Venta, Owner of Et Olivier.”

“Et Olivier?”

“It’s a long story. Quite tragic,” I said.

“Is that the name of his company?”

“Yes.”

“What is his business? Fashion design?”

“IT systems. Development and management. I’m a web programmer or software engineer depending on how pedantic you want to be. We also manage social media accounts, ecommerce accounts. One of our biggest clients is Rudi Voelks.”

“Who on earth is Rudi Voelks?”

“He buys and sells superyachts. He’s worth two billion euros. We manage his digital presence.”

“The reference?”

“Yes.” Maurice spoke again. “I can confirm that Valery Schroeder has been an employee of Et Olivier for four years. In that time she has been a diligent and committed member of staff with a consistantly good work rate and client satisfaction performance. She is prone to solitary behaviour, does not socialise with the staff and at times displays the behaviour of a fantasist. Her claim to be part of Ursula von Schumann’s inner circle is a source of humour in the workplace, but so far her runaway imagination has proven to be harmless. In spite of her idiosyncracies I have no hesitation in providing this reference for Ms Schroeder’s tenancy application.”

“He called you Schroeder?”

“I don’t like my real name.”

“Does he know your real name?”

“I hope not. He’ll laugh like everyone else does.”

“I know it and I’m not laughing. A tenancy application?” He turned on Maurice. “It’s a reference for a tenancy application?”

“My client provided it. I saw no reason not to bring it here.”

“You could have submitted it with the not guilty plea.”

“A last minute decision.”

“I thought it was quite a good one,” I said trying to help, but the magistrate looked confused. “Remember what I said about him being direct?”

“And are you a member of Ursula von Schumann’s inner circle? I thought her name was Gudrun.”

“She changed it. And yes I am. I can show you a video-“

“I don’t want to see a video. When is this reference letter dated?”

“The fourth of October,” said Maurice.

“Why didn’t you ask for a reference for this appearance?”

“He has standards,” I said. Perhaps if I gave Olivier a character reference it would make his character reference for me sound better. “I think he’s religious. Thou shall not steal and all that. If he knew I was here he might have written something completely different. More judgemental.”

The magistrate sighed and shook his head. “I am imposing a sentence of six months in prison,” Maurice was wrong. “Suspended for twelve months.” No he wasn’t. My stomach was at it again, bubbling and twitching at the possibility he might change his mind. “Stay away from bookshops Valery Valérie. Buy books online or write your own. You will also pay court costs of 735 euros. Your lawyer will advise you on the procedures for paying. He will also advise you what happens if you are charged with a criminal offence again.”

I nodded.

Maurice stood to go. I waited for the magistrate to hit the table with his gavel, but he didn’t have one. “Can I go now?”

“Yes, you can go now. And don’t come back.”

Before I left I said, “The criminal who is coming in next hasn’t paid his plastic surgeon who left him disfigured . . .” Maurice physically pulled me out of the room.

Outside the court, back in the free world, Maurice loosened his tie and headed towards an unknown destination. “I hope all that sunk in.”

“What do you mean?”

“Six months in prison, suspended for twelve months. That means if you are caught stealing again you will go to prison for that theft plus the six months imposed today.”

“I know.”

The Clerk’s office was next. It wasn’t clear if the court costs were a fine. Maurice said no. “A fine would become part of your criminal record.”

“I see. Court costs don’t?”

“No.”

“That’s good.”

“The six month sentence suspended for twelve goes on to your criminal record.”

The woman in the Clerk’s office gave me a choice. Paper form or online version. I had a pen, an elaborate fountain pen bought from an art gallery in England. In spite of appearances, I didn’t steal everything. This was a very special pen. The first time I met Gudrun von Schumann, she was Gudrun then, not Ursula, I offered her this pen when I asked for an autograph. She was impressed. Gudrun von Schumann impressed with something I owned. She asked me where I bought it (see, she assumed I paid for it) and I told her. I always felt as if this pen was a link between her and me, a common appreciation of craft and quality. In fact I paid quite a lot of money for this pen in pounds sterling and it was only later when I did a currency conversion did I realise how much it had cost. But it was touched by the hand of Gudrun von Schumann. She wrote her name with it.

I started to fill in the form. Maurice came back to me with a cup of coffee. “Are you okay, Valery?”

“Yes. Why?”

“This habit of stealing books, you can get help for that.”

“I know.”

“I’m not a psychologist, but I can put you in touch with people who can help you.”

“Thank you, but I’m okay.”

He sat down. Some of the coffee dripped onto his trouser leg. Luckily it didn’t land in an embarrassing position. “I’m serious, Valery. You can’t go on doing this. You don’t want to go to prison for something silly like stealing a book. Even though I’m your lawyer I feel I have a responsibility to you if you do anything that could land you on the wrong side of the law. If you do decide you want help, call me, consider me the first point of contact and I’ll put you in touch with the right person.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“I don’t understand you. You have a good job, yes?”

“Yes.”

“You inherited your parents’ house, but don’t live in it. That must be worth a fortune, why don’t you sell it?”

“It’s the family home.”

“You have money. It just seems such a waste to be doing this. You risk going to prison for a cheap book. Is it a dare, a thrill, what?”

“I don’t know. I can’t help myself. I see a nice book, there’s no one around, so I just take it. How many do think I’ve stolen?”

“You tell me.”

“I have over five hundred books at home. I’ve stolen maybe a dozen. Hardly a career criminal as chinny boy said.”

Payment options were limited to bank transfers, debit and credit cards. They didn’t handle cash anymore. Blame the World Economic Forum for that. What did they say, ‘you will own nothing and be happy for it?’ I suppose in that system there would be no such thing as theft because theft is the permanent depriving of property. No ownership, no property, no theft. I bet Klaus Schwab hadn’t thought of that.

Maurice followed me to the payment desk. “They don’t give you a receipt for sales tax.”

“Was that a joke?”

“Yes. Not a very good one.” When I opened my purse Maurice nearly dropped his coffee cup.

“Is that a White Card?”

“What? No.” I closed my purse. “It’s white in colour, but not a White Card if that’s what you mean.” I handed my very very ordinary credit card to the woman at the desk.

“You’re an enigma? You,” he lowered his voice, “you steal books and you have a Stratus White Card? Did you steal that too?”

“I haven’t stolen anything, no. Apart from the book. Books.”

My receipt for payment didn’t mention the sales tax. Maurice was right twice in one day. He didn’t speak again until we were outside. The rain came down as hard as ever. I think we were entering another Dark Ages mini ice age. It hadn’t stopped raining for two months. Mind you it was autumn, so what can you expect? Maurice had his lawyer’s umbrella with the partnership name printed on it. Fulkrug Leopold Klein. Maurice’s surname was none of those.

“Hopefully I will not see you soon,” he said. “But I mean that in the professional sense. Remember what I said.”

“Which part?”

“About getting help.”

“Oh, yes. I remember. Thank you. I will get help. I promise.”

“Don’t promise me, promise yourself, Valery. You could enjoy a happy life without all this hassle if you just sorted out this problem. Think of all the habits you could have, drugs, smoking, alcohol, things that could damage your health or kill you. Instead, you keep stealing cheap books. Is it worth it?”

“No. I promise you, in three months time I’ll call you and tell you the results of my therapy. I’ll start tomorrow. No, I won’t, tomorrow’s Saturday. I’ve got my guitar lesson tomorrow. Monday. There you are, I’ll start Monday. I’ll make an appointment to see someone and who knows.”

“Good. I have to go now. When I receive a copy of the sentencing report I’ll forward it to you. Take care, Valery.” He looked behind him as he jogged into the rain. “And remember what I said.”

I waved my toothbrush at him.

My coat had a hood, but the fabric wasn’t waterproof. Five minutes was enough for the rain to soak me through, but it’s only water. I get wetter when I’m in the bath or the shower. Mind you, I’m not wearing my clothes in the bath or the shower so it’s not quite the same. My mother used to say, there’s no such thing as bad weather, unless you live in Iceland. She had ancestors from Sweden, so she knew what she was talking about, but I was taught never to fear the rain, never to avoid it, but to live with it and treat it like a friend because all life on earth would end without it.

What I particularly liked about rain, heavy rain, was the way the light dimmed when a thick raincloud passed overhead. The gloom, the eery quality, like a solar eclipse. And then the rain would wash the ground, the surface would give off its unique aroma depending on where you were – who can resist the smell of grass after a rain shower, go on, tell me – and then the rainbow would appear. It was there now, ahead of me, joining one half of the city to the other, a sparkling prosceneum arch turning us all into actors.

Before I went home, my house was nearby on Rue du St Esprit, I took a detour to a small bookshop owned by Louisa Clerc. I considered it my local, a convenient place to run and grab something to read while the kettle was boiling. Louisa was silly enough to leave her displays on the pavement in the pouring rain. I was happy to get a soaking, but books didn’t deserve that kind of neglect. I wanted to rescue them, but the six month sentence hung over me like the raincloud. From twenty metres away I could see a book, a hardback, with a beautiful cover. The lettering suggested it was historical or maybe dealing with some hermetic or occult subject matter. Muted blues and greens with an ornate border, as I stepped closer the title revealed itself. Hauntings. The author Neil Oliver. It was a thick book, substantial, filled to bursting with fascination. My radar was going haywire, the sense that here was a book with something to say, some engrossing secret or code.

Henri Touliere’s letter to the magistrate called me selfish. I’m not selfish. I simply don’t care about other people because in my life no one has ever helped me. There was a girl at high school who would occasionally stand up for me when the bullies were reminding me about my name. I don’t know what happened to that girl. I can’t even remember her name, but in twenty-six years she was the only human being who came close to helping me. Selfish? I don’t owe anything to anyone.

The shop was dark inside, a few lights on, but from the street the shelves and tables and displays languished underneath dim light bulbs. The owner was busy with a display sign, a promotional poster for a new release: What’s the Point of Regret by Tabitha Kieler-Somners. Regret. Yes, I’m told it increases with age. I’ll cross that bridge when I get there. For now, Neil Oliver is coming home with me. Or rather his book, I’m not sure who Neil Oliver is, but over the next few days I’ll find out.

Selfish? Thief? Let’s say I rescue books from the rain. I slipped the hardback inside my coat, and headed home.