An Imperfect Librarian (9 page)

Even in Norway, where I hardly spoke the language, no one ever singled me out. They didn't say, “Who's your family?” or “Where do you belong?” I know they think I'm slow when I don't respond to their questions: “How ya doin?” or “Where ya been?” or “How ya getting on?” I've made a list of them. Somehow, they never sound right when I say them.

“I'm an Englishman with espresso genes.”

We find a place for two between tables crowded with students, backpacks and laptops. She throws her sweater over her chair. Her t-shirt shows a seal with a speech bubble:
Have cod, will travel.
When I ask her what it means, she launches into a spiel about how the scientists at Fisheries and Oceans aren't doing enough to protect the fish and how the Greenpeace protestors are corrupting the facts. “You obviously haven't been here long,” she says.

“Obviously. And you?”

“I'm from the bay. A place called Cliffhead.”

“Population?”

“At last census, there was one goat, three sheep, two horses, seven – or is it six – chickens, three dogs and me.”

“Is it a farm or a zoo?”

“It's a point of land near Cape Spear,” she says. “Twenty
minutes from St. John's in good weather, no traffic.”

“Main attractions?”

“A pond with rowboat, the highest meadow, widest view, when the fog isn't around, and the greatest attraction...” She pauses. “My book collection.”

“History books?”

“Lewis Carroll, mostly... as in Alice-Mad-Hatter-White-Rabbit-Tweedledee-and-Tweddledum-Jabberwocky-Cheshire-Cat-through-the-looking-glass-down-the-rabbit-hole-inWonderland Carroll. Two thousand five hundred thirty-four volumes plus two patients at the book hospital. That's a small collection. Smallwood, our provincial premier, had 18,000 in his library. Judge Furlong's library...” She gives me a mini history of libraries in Newfoundland.

“Are you a historian or a librarian?”

“I could use a librarian's skills for managing my collection. I'd like to create a catalogue so I can compare features, document how the editions differ.”

I explain, probably in too much detail, how she could create a searchable digital catalogue. “I'll get you a copy of the software.”

“I wouldn't know where to start. Nor would my computer. What are your rates like?”

I laugh. “Exorbitant but I have a special promotion on now. Free lesson.”

“You need to see the collection first. Cliffhead is not that far from town. Do you know the route to Cape Spear?”

So far I've only dared explore the distance between campus and my flat. Henry took me to Signal Hill the first week I arrived. The panoramic view was hidden in the fog. Henry watched the couple necking in the car parked beside us. “He'll be sliding his hands up her sweater any minute,” he said. They noticed him, scowled then drove off. We sat in his car with the engine purring,
the heater on tropical and the radio humming in the background while we watched seagulls pluck leftover French fries from fast-food containers in the parking lot trash bin.

“Why don't you send me the directions by email.” I take my card from my wallet and hand it to her.

She checks her watch then stands. “I've got to head to a meeting,” she says. “I'm glad I ran into you.”

“I'll order tea next time, fit in with the ex-pats, be more British.”

“Don't be more of anything,” she says. She grabs her bag and reaches over to touch the side of my head. “Take care of the bump.” She nudges around the table then slips into the crowd of students.

I stare ahead with the cup hugged between my hands. Someone moves, unblocks my view and I see him for an instant. It's not hard to miss his bald pink head. A student moves, blocks the view, and I can't see him anymore. When the student moves again, Francis is gone. I crumple my cup then toss it on target into the waste basket, my most successful accomplishment for the day. Students shuffle off to class; the space clears. I catch a glimpse of blue through the window. The curtain of fog has lifted to reveal a city behind it.

The change reminds me of a fable about two brothers. They begin their day as usual, starving. That night, they profit from confusion over a dog's name, Estula, which also means
are you there?
to steal cabbage and a lamb from a rich and stupid neighbour. Moral of the fable: he who laughs in the morning, cries at night. What is sadness and despair at night, is happiness in the morning.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

N
ORAH EMAILS DIRECTIONS:
D
RIVE TO
the end of the harbour front, past the railway station, take the first set of lights left up the hill past the whale mural, then follow the signs for Cape Spear.
What's the end or what's the beginning of the harbour front? Signs for Cape Spear? What signs? I backtrack to the other end, drive past a train station without trains, turn left at the light then head uphill by the whaling wall.
After about 5km, you'll see a road heading to the ocean.
Five kilometres from the lights? From the end of the harbour? From the start of the mural? Details are important.

The first road leads me to a metal graveyard with mangled carcasses of rusted car wrecks stripped clean to the chassis.
You'll come to a concrete post with a sign saying: Cliffhead private road.
I back up, wonder if I have a spare tire then swing left onto the next road that points to the coast. Private road? More like a private path with private potholes, bordered by stunted, private vegetation. I manoeuvre a sharp private turn, dodge private ditches filled with runoff from the public rain of the night until
I reach a clearing where I see three buildings that make me think of windmills without the mills or lighthouses without lights.

I park next to another car. Three large dogs race towards me barking. Norah calls to them and they go to her side. She holds the collars of the two biggest dogs, one in each hand. The third beast poses at her side, looking like a butler or an official greeter. “Welcome to Cliffhead,” she says as I climb out of my car. “Say hello to Octavo, his brother Quarto, sister Folio, the runt of the litter. One black, one yellow, one chocolate, colour-coordinated Labrador retrievers. Gently guys. Octavo. Be nice, Octavo! Bad dog, Octavo! Heel, Octavo!”

Dogs with names of book folds poke their noses between my legs, circle me then dart off after each other. The smallest hangs behind to sniff my boots.

Norah turns to face the building behind her. “I promised you it was a magical place. Ever seen a hexagonally shaped building?”

“Never even imagined it.”

Her hair is tied into a ponytail which makes her face more visible. Her freckles overlap on her cheeks near her nose. “You have to think snowflakes, honeycombs, crystals,” she says.

“Red snowflakes?”

“The red one, the smallest of the three, is for storage. It's not mine. We call it the Crimson Hexagon. Next to where you parked is the barn. The bigger one straight ahead is where I live. My horse Biblio is grazing in a meadow behind that grove of spruce trees. I don't give names to anything I eat. Here we have three sheep, a goat, a few chickens and too many fleas to count. That's it for the intros.”

I tag along after her up the slope to her house. In the other direction the path leads to a rocky beach. The goat glares at me. I try not to picture it at the end of a fork and knife.

We crowd into a porch filled with firewood, outdoor clothes, rain gear and dog gear. From the porch we walk into a kitchen with wooden floors and ceilings. We go round the table in the middle then into a living room with an area rug, two wooden rocking chairs and a worn, blue couch with a patchwork quilt thrown over the back. We stand in front of floor-to-ceiling windows. She points to Signal Hill and Freshwater Bay, then in the other direction to England. Sunlight filters through the fog. I watch its shadow moving in the beam on the floor.

“Depending on the wind and the light, the water can look green, blue, grey, black, white, silver or any combination of those,” she says. “Very rarely, it's smooth as glass. More often, the wind is savage and the waves are wild. This place sets more records for extremes of weather than any other place on earth.”

“I've been reading about the weather lately. Foggiest, windiest, coldest.”

“For Cliffhead, add wildest, fiercest, moodiest, and then, when we least expect it, the finest.”

She leads me through a French door to a study with wall-to-wall bookshelves that reach to the ceiling and a desk at the centre.

“I feel like I'm inside a book.”

She shows me a first edition of Carroll's
Alice in Wonderland.
“It's insured for twelve thousand dollars. Nobody touches it unless their hands are clean as a surgeon's.”

“I don't suppose you lend them out?”

“You might as well ask a parent: ‘Do you lend your children?'”

I follow her back to the kitchen then to the living room. The stairway is so steep I'd call it a ladder. The top floor is a bedroom and sitting room combined.

“Welcome to the peak,” she says.

It reminds me of a wooden tepee. Six beams rise from the floor and join at the top. I tilt my head to look out through the windows.

“At night, with the lights off, you can lie in bed, gaze at the stars, constellations and the moon through the skylights. I call them star-lights. Sometimes I can see satellites.”

Her bed is a double mattress on the floor with a puffy duvet and more pillows than I want to count.

“Most nights, regardless of the weather, I leave the windows open while I sleep so I can hear the waves. When the winds are right, I can hear the foghorn.”

When I lie in bed and gaze up at the ceiling pipes, there are no stars or satellites visible. There's a housefly that flits from corner to corner. I've watched him so much, I can almost predict his moves. As far as sounds go, there's the occasional trickling of water through the pipes and Cyril's snoring from the living room above.

We gaze at the sky through the star-lights. A patch of blue appears from out of the fog.

“Congratulations! You brought the fine weather,” she says. “Just in time for our hike.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

O
NE OF HER DOGS BOLTS
past and knocks me over into the bushes. I climb to my feet, brush off my clothes, then another races by and nearly drives me into the branches of a tree. Norah waits at the crest of the hill. “We're heading to Gull Pond, property of Ray Harding,” she says. “He had it stocked with trout a couple of years ago. People have been poaching from it ever since. He posted a no-trespassing sign but that didn't stop them. Then someone convinced him that the poachers were actually the gulls, so now he sets traps for them on top of three- and four-foot poles around the pond. Most often, it's other birds or small animals like squirrels that get trapped.” She turns her head to the side so I can hear her talk while she walks. “I found a dead crow in the traps once. Another time, a kingfisher. I put it in a box in the barn, gave it food and water. It died in two days.”

I follow close behind then stop to catch my breath. “What did you do then?”

She turns round to wait for me. “Held a wake, invited his
buddies. Drank like fish, they did. Next day, everyone flocked to the funeral. Cremation, of course. I sprinkled the ashes over the pond, remained in control of my emotions during the ceremony, fought off the memories kind of thing.” She winks, smiles then goes on ahead of me again.

I try to keep up. The last time I went hiking was in the Pyrenees during an elementary school trip. My energy levels were higher then. The terrain wasn't as unpredictable, nor as steep. Every so often I glance over my shoulder in case the dogs are behind me. When the trail levels off, I shorten the distance between us.

“The bushes lining this part of the trail are blueberry,” she says, talking over her shoulder again. “Up at the pond, you'll see marshberry bushes. I picked so many berries last year, my fingers were black for the season.”

I stop and rest my hands on my knees to catch my breath. “I've never picked berries.”

She stands next to me. “When the season comes I'll give you lessons if you want. Like with blueberries, I'll teach you not to pick the red ones, because they're green.”

“I'm lost already.”

“In Newfoundland, green is a synonym for unripe. You'll catch on.”

“People keep telling me that.”

She lays her hands on her hips then looks up into the trees. “Listen. It's a white-throated sparrow.” She sings. “Oh sweet Canada, Canada, Canada.” The birds are quiet. The dogs run past again. Norah runs after them. “See you on ahead,” she says. “Take your time.”

A branch from the side of the trail makes a good walking cane. Long legs make it easier for stepping over small boulders. While I walk, I stare down at the rocks, the moss, the dark brown powdery soil and the roots of trees that surface, sinewy
like veins in an old hand. The dogs run up behind me. I can almost hear the screeching of their paws when they stop suddenly then backtrack to sniff my cane. One of them clamps its teeth around it.

“Stop that now. Immediately. I said stop it. Did you hear me?” We play a tug of war. I make a quick pull. The stick hits a rock and cracks in two. The dog bolts to the side then runs off. I run to catch up with Norah. “Sorry, did you say something?” I ask her.

She's sitting on a boulder waiting for me. “I was talking to myself. Ever hear of
Fahrenheit 451
. Destruction of books by fire?”

“Every librarian knows it.”

She doesn't leave me time to catch my breath. She hops off the boulder. This time, she walks slowly but turns her head to the side so I can hear her. “I liked the idea of people memorizing books to save them from the book burners. That's where I got the idea. When I'm on the trails, I practice reciting portions of Carroll's work that I've memorized. It takes my mind off the climb. Your
Fahrenheit 451
choice?”