An Imperfect Librarian (7 page)

“The only thing Henry should feel threatened by is the administration. If they could be rid of him, they would. If he's not careful, he'll give them grounds that even the union won't be able to help him with.”

“Such as?”

“He's rude to the students. If they don't know what he thinks they should, he insults them. Remember our creed. A is for access, B is for borrowing, U is for understanding. We're expected to have as much knowledge of our readers as we do of books. He's an embarrassment to the profession.”

“I'm sure he was a great librarian in his earlier days. I've never met anyone with such passion for books and reading.”

“That'd be fine and dandy if he'd share his passion with library patrons, but he doesn't. Not unless it's one of those darling young duckies with the bulges in the right places.”

For Valentine's Day, he had given a rose to every woman on staff. I saw the red flowers on desks and counters all over the library, with a card that read,
Be mine, Valentine! HK.

“Henry is lonely.”

“More like lecherous,” she says as she reaches for the ketchup.

He once told me he longed for a Spanish or Italian woman, a long-haired brunette with tight cleavage and a heart that's warm as the nicest of grandmothers on a Sunday.

“He has no family here. He's in pain constantly because of his sciatic nerve. He's frustrated with the changes in his role, changes in the–”

“Why are you defending him?” she says.

“Why not? He watches out for me.”

She places her hand on top of mine. “I watch out for you too.”

Someone she knows comes to the table to chat. After they leave, I dig into my fish and chips while Edith launches into
her plans for my first summer on the island. “We'll drive across the island, go to Gros Morne, climb the mountain. It's a world heritage site. We could stay in B&Bs if you're not the camping type.”

“I don't have any holidays accumulated yet. Remember, I came here in September and it's only April.”

“You're allowed statutory holidays. That would give us three long weekends. We could visit the archaeological site at Ferryland. We'll have a ball.”

“I didn't say I was going.”

“You'll change your mind once summer comes and I show up at your office, all tanned, in my shorts and hiking boots – the sun splitting the rocks, the air filled with the smoke and smell of barbecues, the bugs and fish biting.”

If I have my way, I'll be back with Elsa by then.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I
T
'
S THE TIME OF YEAR
in England people call spring: tulips already faded, lilacs about to blossom, Easter bonnets stored away. In Newfoundland, the tulips are still in hibernation, icebergs are dotting shorelines, studded snow tires and skidoos are not yet stored away. The snow has melted and left the city littered with discarded coffee cups, lost mittens and scarves – as if we needed proof that the winter storms were so strong they'd blow the clothes off your back. For my fiftieth birthday, Mercedes and Cyril gave me a t-shirt with the caption:
I survived the winter of '99-2000
under a sketch of someone holding a shovel next to a snowbank.

Inside my office, without an exterior window, the only sign of spring is the change in Henry's mood. He's more determined than ever that he'll convince a woman to go on a date with him before the summer comes. If his track record is any indication of future success, I'd encourage him not to get his hopes up.

“She told me to check with her fiancé,” Henry says. “What does a darling like her want with a husband?”

“What did Mrs. Kelly want with her Henry?”

“I would never have wed in the first place, but her breasts made more than my eyes bulge. All the lads wanted to feel her up. When her Da caught us, he gave me two choices: marry her or marry her. I chose the latter. I was eighteen and almost as clueless as you are.”

“How was it?”

“Grand at first,” he says. “Sex to die for, unlimited quantities. After three babies in less than four years, I didn't want sex anymore. All I cared about was one measly moment of calm alone with a book, without the howling, crying, fighting and the Jesus-knows-whatever-else I suffered for too long. When the children grew up and moved out, Mrs. Henry Kelly went with them. Mister accepted a job at a library in Canada where he's been celebrating the respite from the storm ever since.”

“You know what I think?”

He shakes his head. “I couldn't possibly fathom the likes of your mind, Carl.”

I pretend to be watching the Room. “I think there's a woman waiting for you out there.”

He glances at me sideways.

“She's eager, pleasing and just down the hall.”

He abandons his usual slouch and widens his eyes. “Who?” he asks.

I cross my legs then sit back in my chair as if the topic wasn't really that important. “The woman of your dreams.”

“Who?”

I turn to face him. “Edith.”

He resumes his deflated position in his chair with his hands folded over his belly. “You can inform her on my behalf that she's wasting her precious time.”

“Why not? She's smart, she knows tons of people, she's–”

He shoos me with the back of his hand. “Invite her out
yourself if you're so crazy about her,” he says.

“Have you ever considered dating Edith?”

“She's not on my radar. Besides, I'm attracted to cleavage. Hers is about as well-defined as yours.”

I look down at my chest. “Stop that, Henry. People will start talking about us.”

“That'd be a blessing for you – give them something else to gossip about besides your conspiracy to spy on them with your databases and Bibliomining Project.”

“That's not what I'm doing with my project. You know that.”

He leans away from me. “Ease off. They're the ones claiming conspiracy, not me. I don't care if you're conspiring. Do what you want. I'm only trying to resuscitate you.”

I turn in my chair to face him. “What do you expect to receive in exchange?”

“Half-decent coffee. Could be better. The view. If you'd give me the binoculars. You're my charity case, my volunteer work, my university service. We're expected to do a certain amount. I dare say you've exceeded my quota.”

I shake my head. “I'm not counting.”

“You're not doing
anything
worthwhile. Francis is chasing after you. Meanwhile you're too busy crawling on your hands and knees after your Scandinavian princess to care about anything else.”

“I do care. I simply have to deal with Elsa first.”

“You don't have time. Francis is rallying the troops. His war-cry has a distinctive anti-Brunet tone. Haven't you heard his privacy ditty? It goes to the tune of ‘Yankee Doodle.'” Henry abandons his usual slouch. He sings the ditty with his hands on his waist, elbows pointed out to the sides. “Biblio Brunet spies on us, using a computer. Hide your files, watch your back. He's an information looter. Or do you prefer something to the tune of ‘Camptown Races'? I always liked the Doo-da, Doo-da in the
song.” For this one, he sways side to side to mark the rhythm.

“Don't let Brunet spy on you, on you, on you. Don't let Brunet see your files, any time of day. He's a bumbling fool, drowning in his drool. Don't let Brunet see your files, any time of day. What do you think, Carl?”

“I think you shouldn't joke about it.”

“What would you know about joking?”

“My project is not proposing anything anyone has to fear.”

“Francis' prime strategy's making people afraid. What's your strategy? Or are you going to watch him undermine you while you waste away after your princess? What exactly are your priorities again?”

“They're fighting with each other, scrambling for first place.”

He raises his fingers in my face. “Priority number one: deal with Francis.” He raises a second finger. “Priority number two: deal with Francis.”

“I did a search of his name in the database.
Information not found. Try refining your search.
That's all I got.”

He laughs. “Try refining your search. There's a meaty morsel of advice for a man in your condition. Search for a miracle, or, at the minimum, for some sense to sort out the mess you're in.”

“Half or quarter of a miracle would do. Anything for Elsa to contact me. Once she does, I'll manage from there.”

Henry shakes his head before he rises from his seat. “Why do I bother? Especially on a day like today when the view is below average and the coffee has the texture of sandpaper because you're too cheap to buy proper filters. If you want to waste your miracle on Elsa instead of Francis, I don't give a shit what happens to you.”

“Thanks for the reassurance of your friendship.”

“No additional charge,” he says.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I
T
'
S THE END OF A
dragged-out day that started late. Most people have gone home. The Reading Room is dark. I sign out of the databases then put the lid on the cookie tin. I count them first because I have a suspicion that the night cleaners, security, whoever, are pilfering them when I'm not around. The phone rings. It can't be Henry. He wouldn't call this time of day. Tatie and Papa would be in bed because it's four and a half hours later there. Edith usually emails me or knocks on the door. It could be Mercedes calling to invite me to join them on the weekend for their regular meatloaf and red Jell-O with bananas followed by a game of 120s.

“Hello?”

“It's Elsa. I've been meaning to call you for so long. How are you?”

It
has
been so long. Every time the phone rang for the last year, I hoped it would be her. Every time I opened my email, I searched for her name in the addresses.

“It's Elsa calling you from Oslo. Hello? Carl?”

I haven't forgot how her voice sounds – confident, clear, soft with a sing-songy intonation. I always liked her English accent and the way she pronounces my name as if it has no vowels.

“Carl? Are you there?”

“Hello, Elsa. Yes. It's me.”

“I've been meaning to call you but things have been hectic here. How are you, Carl? What have you been doing? Tell me your news about your new job, your flat, everything.”

“Flat's nice. Job's great. I'm getting used to the weather. How have you been?”

“There's not too much to tell. Thank you for the birthday gift. I was going to send you a note. Mother and Father gave me new ski equipment. They were skiing a lot this year.” She sighs. “They're growing older, like me. How is your health?”

“My colleague Edith invites me for meals occasionally. She's only my colleague. There's nothing between us or anything.”

“You know it's so important to eat well, especially as we grow older, especially for women when they reach a certain age. Like me. It's a worry sometimes, growing old and wondering who'll care for us. Do you ever think about that, Carl?”

“Yes. I do.”

“My parents are so lucky. They have me to take care of them. I'm not surprised that they're asking when I will have children. I am not too old yet but in a few years...”

We had talked about being a
mor
and
far
with
datter
,
sønn
or both. I couldn't see myself as a
far
but if that's what Elsa wanted, I was only too willing to make her happy.

“...I don't want to adopt, not when I could have the baby myself, not when I still have a healthy husband and I'm a healthy woman who...”

Elsa was proud of me when we first married. I'd won a scholarship to go to graduate school. Elsa hadn't gone to
university. In school she excelled in the gym and slept in the classroom.

“...and I want to have the experience of giving birth. Do you understand me?”

“Of course, you want to have the baby yourself.”

“You always said you'd do anything for me and I knew you were sincere. I remember when you said...”

I had tried to be the way she wanted me: more talkative, more affectionate, more outgoing, more assertive, more athletic. I could be agile with a database. I was a power-lifter for numbers, flexible with scientific concepts. I could manoeuvre my way through the most complex electronic library systems, yet I'd trip over my own feet if I jogged or played ball sports.

“This is what I'm calling you about. You did say you'd do anything for me, right?”

“Yes, Elsa.”

“Oh, Carl. You are such a sweetheart. Marlene said you were like a puppy. Do you remember Marlene? She has two girls now. They're adorable. By the time the first one was five months old...”

Elsa had plenty of friends. I didn't have much time for socializing while I was studying.

“...but I wouldn't want to have two girls. A boy and a girl would be nice. What do you think?”

“I haven't really thought about it.”

“A son with a father like you and a mother like me would be tall, intelligent, athletic. What colour hair do you think he'd have?”

“What colour would you like?”

“Can we do it?”

“Do what?”

“Make a child like this?”

“You mean hypothetically?”

“I'm forty, Carl. You can't imagine how much I want to do this. I think of nothing else–”

“Don't cry, Elsa. I didn't know this was so important to you. I'm sorry.”

“Can we make a child?”

“You mean you want to have a baby with me as the father?”

“Please, Carl. Don't say no to me. Do it as my husband. Do it for me, please!”

“Yes, Elsa. We can talk about it–”