That night I took Giovanni’s Room out of the deepest recesses of my bag and started reading it by torchlight after the others had fallen asleep. It scared and comforted me—even just the first few pages. The narrator’s guilt toward his fiancée, his desire for Giovanni, and the deep regret for whatever it is he did to him. There was something about the rhythm, the language, about the knowledge implied and the sense of internal doom, that spoke directly to me. This wasn’t distraction or entertainment: here was a book that seemed to have been written for me, which lifted me up into its realm and united me with something that seemed to have been there all along and that I seemed to be a part of. It felt as if the words and the thoughts of the narrator—despite their agony, despite their pain—healed some of my agony and my pain, simply by existing.

I lived through the narrator for the next few days, thinking of his life during my work in the field, suddenly knowing that there was a place for me to go that was mine, which was completely my own. As soon as work was over, I changed into my clothes, grabbed the book, and walked out through the gate, but not to the spot where I knew you’d be. I wanted to be by myself for a while. I found a place by the river, in the other direction, shielded by thorny bushes, and there I’d lie on my back and sink into Baldwin’s world.

One day, when I’d only just settled down to read, a shadow passed over the page. I turned around and saw you standing behind me.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding,” you said, sitting down beside me. You looked at the book, which I’d quickly shut and set on the ground. “So, it must be very good, then.”

I couldn’t say anything; I couldn’t even nod.

“What’s it about?”

My heart started beating fast.

“It’s about a boy,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “An American who lives in Paris.”

You looked at me expectantly. “And? What’s he doing in Paris?”

“He . . . He’s trying to figure out what he wants, and how to choose for himself.”

You looked at the cover. “Can I see?”

I handed it to you, regretting it immediately, as if I’d handed you something heavy and dangerous. “Why is it glued between other covers?” you asked, eyebrows furrowed.

I shrugged. “It’s sort of unauthorized, I guess.”

To my surprise, you laughed. “I didn’t suspect you of being such a rebel,” you said, handing the book back. “Can I read it when you’re done?”

My stomach dropped. “If you want to.”

“Yeah, I want to. I’ve never read an underground book.”