An Imperfect Librarian (21 page)

HENRY:
Then you'd have no excuse for how you are.

CARL:
Imperfect?

HENRY:
With an upper case I. If we weren't imperfect,

we'd be gods.

CARL:
I'm relieved to learn I'm no different than

anyone else.

HENRY:
Don't jump to conclusions.

CARL:
Maybe I'm the one who's perfect and everyone

around me is imperfect.

HENRY:
Delusional is more like it.

CARL:
What's the cure?

HENRY:
No cure for the delusion. As for the imperfection,

get out more, feast your eyes on the lasses.

CARL:
Not everybody is as horny as you are.

HENRY:
What do you understand about horny

besides toads? Passion. Imagination. That's what

makes being imperfect worthwhile.

CARL:
I'd prefer to make it disappear.

HENRY:
Start by reading a book. You're surrounded

by them and you don't even read.

CARL:
I probably read more in the first twenty years

of my life than most people do in a lifetime.

HENRY:
You'd never say.

CARL:
Where do you fit on the scale of imperfection?

HENRY:
I'm part of a minute minority of superior,

all-seeing, all-knowing beings. If you hang around

me, who knows? Some of the perfection might rub

off on you.

CARL:
Will I end up with a belly like yours?

HENRY:
Wouldn't hurt you to have a few bulges on

your skeleton. While you're at it, find yourself a

better set of binoculars, move out of the hole under

Gower Street, listen to the mirror's advice once in a

while, eat something besides your nails, push Francis

out of your way.

CARL:
Is that all?

HENRY:
Grow a prick while you're at it.

CARL:
And then what?

HENRY:
Take your mind off your worries by aiming

at something.

[They stare ahead. A ray of sunshine cuts through the

stained-glass windows into the Room before them like

the curtain rising in a dark theatre to reveal the stage.]

CHAPTER FORTY

I
T
'
S HARD TO IGNORE THE
season of silver bells and jingle bells, drummer boys, turtle doves and pear-treed partridges, especially when there's a giant synthetic Christmas tree in the centre of the Reading Room. What used to be an oasis in the middle of the library is now a forest. The tree changes our view slightly. It does nothing for our conversation. “Have you been inside the hexagon, Carl?” Henry asks. “What are you going to do about Francis?”

There's little sign of Christmas at Cliffhead. “I celebrate it every four or five years,” Norah says. “I have enough to do without wasting my time decorating.” The snow and cold temperatures came faster than she expected. She's behind in her chores. The rectangular bales of hay for the horses have to be stacked in the barn's loft. Normally, Walter takes care of that job but he left on short notice to go around the bay for a few weeks to take care of a family emergency. The water levels in her well are low.

“I knew I'd end up paying for all those hot summer days without rain,” she says.

On the weekend, we drive back and forth to a stream up the road where we fill containers then bring them back to her house. The chores are not her only problem.

“I can lend you money for the vet bills,” I tell her. “And for the roof repairs. I don't mind contributing.”

“I don't want to talk about it,” she says.

We're shovelling the path from her house to the barn, then to the Crimson Hexagon.

“Why is the path to the hexagon shovelled if it's not in use?”

She doesn't stop shovelling to answer my question. “Ask Francis,” she says.

I stand the shovel in the snow then lean on it. “Do you have a key?”

“Hanging in the porch in case of an emergency.”

“Why don't we go inside and have a look?”

“Why don't we have lunch?”

We finish shovelling the path then store the shovels inside the barn. She rounds up the dogs and we return to the house.

“What's it like inside?”

She pokes her head inside the fridge, pulls out leftovers then lays them on the table. “Small, six sides, two stories, open concept, filled with boxes. I haven't been in there in ages. Will didn't include me in his projects. I explained that to you more than once already.”

I add wood to the stove then join her at the table. “What's in the boxes?”

She fills my plate with salad and quiche then pours me a glass of white wine. “Books, more books, papers. Will's papers.”

“Would I be able to have a visit?”

“Ask Francis.”

“You know as well as I do that's not possible.”

“Why? He won't bite you,” she says.

“He's always interfering in my work.”

“I thought it was the other way round.”

“How can you say that when he's set up an entire committee to fight my project?”

“The committee is fighting for privacy rights,” she says.

I lay down my fork and knife. “Are you agreeing with him?”

This time, she's the one who stops eating. “What if I was?”

“Then I'd say you need to reconsider whose side you're on.”

She pushes her plate away and stands up from the table. “I'm going for a walk in the cove before this turns into one of those arguments.”

I follow her to the porch. “Those arguments?”

She pulls on her boots and a jacket. “The ones that start with your questions about Francis. The last time we had an argument like that, we didn't see each other for a couple of months.”

“We haven't finished lunch and we just came inside.”

“I told you before I'm not interested in talking about Francis.”

I put on my boots and jacket. “Why?”

She opens the door. The wind rushes in. The dogs rush out. She follows them. “I'm not interested in talking about this.” She shouts to me over the noise of their barking. “It's simple.”

I run after her. “It's not so simple.”

She walks on ahead of me on the narrow path. “Why?” she asks.

Our conversation is being swallowed up by the howl of the wind, the barking dogs and the roar of the surf. I lay a hand on her shoulder to stop her from walking away.

“Because people have to protect themselves, that's why. Let's go back to the house and finish lunch.”

“Protect themselves against what?” she asks.

I draw her close to me. She rests her head on my chest. I bend my head to kiss her. “Against the cold. Come on.”

Folio jumps on me. Octavo jumps on Folio. Quarto jumps on Octavo. We fall like dominos into a fresh drift of snow. The dogs bounce up and down, trampoline style. I cover my face while they stir up a miniature blizzard. The oversized crystals of snow fall so slowly I wonder if they shouldn't be going up rather than down. I can't tell where the sky begins and the land ends. I lick the snowflakes off her cheeks. She holds a snowball up to my mouth. I take a bite then spit it out because it tastes bitter. She laughs.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

I
'
M GOING TO THE OFFICE
to pick up student papers,” she says. “I'll be home in a couple of hours. Don't let the dogs inside while I'm gone, please.”

I wave goodbye from the door. On the wall, next to where my hand rests, is the rack of keys. I go back to the kitchen to browse the weekend newspaper article on online music sharing. I take the scissors from the kitchen drawer to cut it out so I can post it on the bulletin board in the lunchroom at the library. The dogs are barking outside. I open the door and call to them but they don't come. My eyes shift to the key rack. Each key is labelled:
barn, Walter, basement, CH, car spare
. I put on my jacket and boots. I check my watch, look outside, then back at the keys.

The only witnesses are the dogs. The wind scatters the powdery snow over my footprints on the path behind me. I check over my shoulder before I push the key in. The click comes, I shove with my hip, the door opens. I slide the key out of the lock. It's the filing cabinets that I see first then the tables
with boxes and a computer. The space is not much bigger than her living room. It's two floors as Norah said. The top storey is nothing more than a walkway around six sides of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, half of which are empty. The walkway is bordered by a black wrought-iron railing that leads to a spiral staircase opposite where I'm standing in the doorway.

It's not a quiet space, not with the hum of an air exchanger or air conditioning unit that's beeping. The beeping changes to a shrill alarm while I'm poking my nose into a box labelled
binding materials
. I panic, grab an armful of books from the table then slam the door behind me. I run to the car and hide the books in the trunk. The alarm stops soon after I enter Norah's house. I can feel my heart pumping. I look out through the window then go back to reading the paper. It's not easy to concentrate. I expect Norah, Francis or the police to appear any minute to demand an explanation A couple of hours later, Norah's phone rings and I jump. I don't answer. I go to the porch to look through the window. Outside, there's no sign of anyone. Not long after, my cellphone vibrates in my pocket.

“Hi. It's me, Norah. Just got to the office a while ago.” She pauses. “Hello? Carl?”

“Hello, I'm here, yes.”

“I tried calling you on my line. I wanted to ask you to take the chicken out of the freezer. There was no answer. Where are you?”

“I'm here. I was in the bathroom when the phone rang.” I was
near
the bathroom. Changing one preposition doesn't make it a lie. I may have become a thief but I'm not a liar.

The books stay in my car for the night. The next morning, I drive straight from Cliffhead to the library. I open the trunk, put the books in my briefcase then lock the car. Just before I enter the library, I change my mind. I return to the car and leave
the books in the trunk. This time, I don't bother to lock it. The books are still there the following day. So are Henry's reminders. “Won't be long now before the privacy policy has its final approval,” he says.

“I don't care anymore. I've given up.”

“You can't give up when you haven't even begun. What are you going to do? Resign? Go back to Norway and live with your princess?”

“There are worse fates.”

“Such as working under Francis,” he says.

“We'll see about that.”

The books are still there later that day after I finish work at the library. I leave the car unlocked on Gower Street. When I finally fall asleep that night, I dream I'm back in Norway and Elsa is holding the books in her lap. Then Francis is driving my car. We're heading down Cathedral Street. The brakes aren't working. He's cursing. When I wake, I'm sweating so much, the bed sheets are wet. I feel nauseated. I dress quickly then go to the car before I have breakfast. I open the trunk. They're still there. I put them in my briefcase and bring them back into my flat while I get ready for work.

That afternoon when Henry shows up for coffee, the four volumes are on my desk. He pats me on the back. “You're a clever man, Carl.” He begins with
Newfoundland Notebooks, Dr. Cluny Macpherson
, inventor of the prototype of the gas mask. He holds one of its pages under the lamp. “There's the Special Collections stamp. See it?” he says. He does the same for the three remaining volumes. The stamps are on all of them: on the
James D. Ryan diaries (Bonavista,1874-1919)
, on a collection of original sketches by Roger Tory Peterson called
The Birds of Newfoundland
and on
Sir William Whiteway: Correspondence and Papers.

“Call Margaret and confirm that you'll meet with the Chief as soon as he's available.” He holds one of the books in the air. “Let there be evidence!”

“Careful. Someone will hear you.”

“Hear me they will and they'll hear you when you holler victory.”

“Calm down, Henry.”

“Now is not the time to be calm. Now's the time to be active. Put on a pot of coffee. We've plenty to do here.”

“And then what?”

“We'll go home to our suppers.”

“I mean what will we do with the books?”

“Not what will we do. What will
you
do?”

“Well?”

“Show the Chief the books, tell him where they came from, where they belong, make a snappy link with Francis as owner of the Crimson Hexagon, walk away with a smile on your face. Four steps.”

“That's five, not four. Were you counting the smile?”

“Back off with the fucking details,” he says.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

M
ARGARET SAVES ME THE TROUBLE
of scheduling a meeting. “The Chief wants to see you before Christmas holidays,” she says when she calls. “How about Friday, the twenty-second? The party's at three. Are you coming?”

“To the meeting?”

“You have to come to the meeting,” Margaret says. “I meant the party. Edith will be there.”

On the day of the meeting, I arrange the books neatly in my briefcase. I arrive ten minutes early.

“He's got someone with him. Glass of eggnog while you wait?” Margaret says.

“No thanks.”

“Fruitcake?”

I shake my head.

Margaret abandons the chair behind her desk to sit next to me. She doesn't stay there for long. The phone has to be answered. “Who's calling this time of day?” she says. The cakes and treats spread on the credenza need tending. “You can't
leave here today without a doggy bag. Sure you wouldn't like some eggnog? No harm in relaxing now and then. A small glass? If you don't like it, you don't have to drink it...” Her voice trails off as she leaves the room.