An Imperfect Librarian (13 page)

“Not quite. Ever hear of William Buggage, Bookseller?”

“Name doesn't mean anything to me.”

“Finally, I found something you don't know.”

“You're allowed one tidbit of information more than me,” he says. “There wouldn't be a measure of my own greatness without a relative indication of the degree of your intelligence and knowledge.”

“William Buggage: Rare Books, Charing Cross Road. He's a character in one of Roald Dahl's short stories called ‘The Bookseller.' Buggage scans the papers daily for death announcements of wealthy gentlemen. He cross-references with the
Who's Who.
From there, he picks a widow to defraud for some of the late husband's money. His assistant, Miss Tottle, prepares letters for the widows to offer condolences and to demand thousands of pounds for outstanding book purchases supposedly made by the late husband:
Why Teenage Girls Prefer Older Men
or
How To Please Young Girls When You Are Over Sixty
.”

“I must pick up a copy of that last one for myself,” says Henry.

“Without exception, the widows always pay up. Then, one day, something unexpected occurs. A Mrs. Somebody, I forget the name, it doesn't matter, arrives in the shop with her son and two other men. Buggage has made a mistake by sending her a letter. It's simply not believable that her husband could have purchased those volumes. Tottle and Buggage launch into their adopted roles. They lecture her about how men will be men and there's no harm in it. Then, the widow asks if the books were in Braille. Tottle and Buggage have no reply. The
other two men are from Scotland Yard.”

“The moral of your story?” Henry says.

“You could call the shop Tottle and Buggage: Booksellers. I always thought that would be a brilliant name for a book shop.”

“Took you long enough to make your point. I've already chosen the name: The Crimson Hexagon. There'll be no other bookstore of its stature and quality in the country, perhaps across the entire continent. You never know, if business is swift, I might be needing an assistant such as yourself.”

“There's a Crimson Hexagon on Norah Myrick's property.”

“We'll have to keep an eye on this woman, won't we?” says Henry.

“Only a few minutes ago, you were warning me not to have anything to do with her. Now, you're telling me the opposite. Then I suppose you'll accuse me of being confused.”

“I'll take no responsibility. Anyone who knows you is well aware of your ability to fog things up on the finest of days.”

“Who cares about a Crimson Hexagon anyway?”

“According to the writer Borges, it contains all-powerful, magical books.”

“Sorry, Henry. You've lost me. I don't have your imagination. My native blood is Cartesian, you know.”

He raises a handkerchief to his forehead. “Cartesian? You? What's your motto?
I don't think much, therefore I might not be much?
” He laughs. “Dust off your imagination, take it out of the closet, allow it to see some light for a change.”

“I'll put it on my priority list.”

“Write at the top: find out about that hexagon and stop sitting around drinking coffee and staring down into Room.”

“You did tell me not to get mixed up with her. You may not remember–”

“There's a difference between watch her and latch onto her. One's a w and–”

“I get it, Henry. No need to explain.”

He rises up from his chair then heads towards the door.

“Before I forget, a quick question for you. I'm conducting an informal poll. You know
Fahrenheit 451,
right?”

“The destruction of collective awareness by the book burners. Author Ray Bradbury. Classification: dystopic science fiction. Appeared in serial form in
Playboy
magazine, later published by Ballantine Books, 1953. What about it?”

“If I responded with that much detail you'd say I was boring.”

“You are boring,” he says.

“Supposing you were in a
Fahrenheit 451
situation and you could save only one book to memorize, what would it be?”

“That's easy.
The Joy of Sex
.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

A
LWAYS AT 3:45, ALWAYS IN
the same reading carrel, always out of the line-of-sight of the cameras. I visit the carrel where she used to sit. I turn my back to it the same way Francis did when I was watching him through the binoculars. One of the surveillance cameras points to the counter, the other at the front door, the final one at the other end of the Room. I show the clerk the notes from a scrap of paper in my pocket:
Mainwaring, H.: Collected papers.

“That's archival material,” he says. “I can get it for you but you have to sit at the table there. Material that old has a line-of-sight restriction on it. Oh yeah, and there's also a glove restriction.”

“You must have it mixed up with something else. I saw a woman borrow the same thing not long ago. She took it to that carrel over there in the corner. I work here. I'm Head of Digital Library Systems.”

“The rules are the same for everyone. Doesn't matter if you're a head of lettuce, that material has a bunch of restrictions
on it. Do you still want the gloves?”

“It was you. I remember now. You're the one who served her. You let me look at her request slip.”

“You're that bibliosomething guy.”

“Yes. You gave the woman a file that she looked at there in the corner carrel. It's the same one you're telling me is restricted.”

“I don't make the rules.”

“I know. I'm asking why have the rules changed?”

“You'll have to talk to Francis Hickey about that. Do you want me to see if he's around?”

“I'll wear the gloves. Forget it.”

He disappears into a room behind the counter. A woman walks up to the counter. I move out of her way. The clerk returns with a folder. He lays it on a desk while he answers the woman's questions. Finally, a man appears from behind the counter and asks if he can help me.

“I'm waiting on the folder there on the table.”

He passes it to me and I sign the slip on top. He brings me to a table behind the counter. The white gloves remind me that my hands are much longer than most people's. The disorganized pile of letters, maps, illustrations, diary entries and ship logs remind me that I'm not really sure what I'm looking for. Now and then, I stop to read transcribed pieces like the diary entry from 387 years ago to the month.

April 21, 1613

Today we executed two atrocious villains for sodomy

and another six for mutiny. Yet another 8 were given

70 lashes each. During the executions, the First

Lieutenant concerted with the crew in argument

against me for acquittal due to want of evidence. This

traitorous behaviour won him favour from the men.

Likewise, it made more ardent their disaffection

towards me and gave them further pretence to

mutiny. I sought no redress nor did I make him

answer for his seditious conduct and for his design

to place my authority at hazard. Newfoundland

remains 5 or 6 days out of reach. The winds and

current conspire against progress towards land.

My brain takes fire at the worry of the schemes

against me.

After more than an hour of sorting, I still don't know what I'm searching for. I hand the material to the clerk. He writes something on my request slip. Before I go back upstairs, I make a detour past Francis' office. His door is ajar. I saunter by, knock, wait, knock, then poke my head inside. I see it right away on the shelf near the door – the same photo at Norah's house. Will and a young boy – Francis and Will. There's another photo of Francis, smiling, with his arm around Norah. I move towards it for a closer look.

“You don't give up do you, Brunet?” his voice says from behind me.

“It's not what you think. I wanted to talk to you about Special Collections inventories. Your door was open.”

He's not smiling. “I've already explained about my inventories. I thought you would have remembered our meeting on the stairs–”

“Eventually, you'll have to give me access whether you want to or not, Francis. Things are changing around here and it's for the good.” I edge my way out through of the door.

“Listen, Brunet. Let me give you some advice. Just because you have an accent and a PhD doesn't make you welcome around here. On the contrary. Now get the fuck out of my office.” He starts closing the door before I'm even all the way out. The
sign reads:
Francis Hickey, Special Collections Head
. I'm tempted to cross off
Head
and put
Ass
in its place, but the hall's surveillance cameras would never let me get away with it.

When I tell Henry about the incident, he replies with his usual “I told you so.” I shouldn't have said anything about the photos in Francis' office. That only gives Henry ideas. “There's a cook at the Faculty Club who moonlights in security and surveillance,” he says. “Put him on Francis' scent. Find out what he's up to after hours.”

“Maybe I could convince the cook to poison him,” I propose.

“Wouldn't bode well for his career as a cook. I have a better idea. Why don't you have him keep one eye on that Reading Room woman at the same time?”

“You mean Norah?”

“I mean the woman I hope you're not shagging round with. The woman in the photo with Francis. The woman whose father was caught stealing. The woman you saw stealing in the Reading Room. Do you need me to read you the textbook on this, Carl, or are you waiting on the footnotes?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

M
ERCEDES AND CYRIL INVITE ME
for supper to celebrate my first summer in Newfoundland. On the menu is jigg's dinner with a side plate of flipper pie and fresh greens. I have no idea what I'm eating but they're so enthusiastic I can't refuse. “It'll give you a powerful spring cleaning,” Cyril proclaims.

Mercedes describes it as a tonic. “There's more fortifying iron in that meat than in any other.” It's Cyril's dogberry wine that's fortifying. The more I drink, the more I can tolerate the taste of the flipper pie.

Cyril asks his usual questions about the flat to make sure the sink hasn't clogged up again, that the leak from the pipe in the ceiling is under control and that the pesticide worked against the carpenters and earwigs. Mercedes wants to know if I'm still willing to consider nurse Nancy as a potential date. “You should see her new hair style. She had it straightened and gold streaks added. If I looked that gorgeous I wouldn't
have to be with the likes of Cyril. Don't mind me. Cyril knows I'm only joking with him.”

“She's wrong there, Carl. The women are always after me. I had to marry Mercedes to stop them chasing me.”

“Nancy mentioned something about being invited to a wedding this summer,” Mercedes says. “Second weekend in August. Are you available? She's dying about your accent.”

My summer plans don't include anybody by the name of Nancy. Ray Harding is going to Alberta to work for the summer. He's offered Norah use of the pond and rowboat in exchange for checking on his house. I promised to lend her a hand with the chores and help with her catalogue. In exchange, she's teaching me to swim and to row.

“I'm not free in August but I know someone who is. Remember my friend Henry? Works at the library with me? He has a much better accent than mine. It's Irish. Nancy will love that right away.”

“Anyone but an Italian,” Mercedes says. “She went out with a tile layer a couple of years ago. He finished every floor in her house in ceramic. When she broke it off, he hung on like he was grouted to her.”

“I know the feeling. Henry wouldn't behave like that though. He's always accusing me of being too sentimental.”

“Women love sentimental men,” Mercedes says.

“Depends on the woman, I guess. I'm sure Nancy will find him attractive if she gets to know him. He can be coarse on the outside but he's a marshmallow underneath.”

“Enough about Henry. What about this one Norah? Who's her family?”

“Her father's dead, but I know plenty about him. There's a family friend, Walter. I haven't actually spoken to him. He doesn't talk much to anyone, apparently. There's Ray, her
neighbour. I sort of know him. We don't get along. Norah and I have only known each other a short while. I haven't met her friends yet. She hasn't met you either.”

“Invite her over any time,” Mercedes says.

“I'd rather wait till I find my own place. I love the flat, I mean the apartment, but I might need something larger soon, like a home of my own.”

Mercedes and Cyril know when I come in, go out, flush the toilet, do laundry, shower, go to bed and wake up. Likewise, I know if they're arguing or in amorous agreement, cooking or cleaning, watching the news or a movie. Sometimes, I wear earplugs. I forgot to take them out once when I went to the office. It's tempting to leave them in. Libraries are much quieter than most places but noise becomes more conspicuous – like Cyril's snoring when there are no competing sounds.

“What do you need to go moving for? I've been living a quarter of the century with the wife and the daughter. It's good to have another man around.”

“By and by, Carl will be wanting a place of his own and a woman of his own,” Mercedes adds. “You know what they say: A woman is to the hearth what blood is to the heart.”

“Or maybe it's a woman is to the heart what water is to a live wire.”

“What does that mean, Cyril? You'll have him confused with that talk.”