An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy [13]
I slide both our chairs away from the window. “And what would you have diagnosed?”
He returns with a refill. Matter-of-factly, he lays it on my desk as he moves his chair back where it was. “We haven’t discussed my fee yet,” he says. “Give me a précis of the diagnosis and move up here to the front so I don’t have to pay for conversation with a sprained neck.”
I slide my chair forward next to his. “The psychologist figured I was clinging to my wife because I was afraid she’d abandon me like my mother did.”
“What does your mother have to do with anything?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I’m the patient, not the psychologist. What do I know?”
“Not much by the sound of things. What you need is a good shag to take your mind off your worries. And when you are worrying, it shouldn’t be about a wife who wasn’t attracted to the opposite sex. Not when you’ve got Francis spitting in your face.”
“I think Elsa cares for me. She’s simply passing through a premature mid-life crisis. One of these days, I’ll open up my email and there’ll be a message from her.”
“What are you expecting that email to offer? ‘Hi, Carl. Come back to Norway at once. I’ve decided I’m not a lesbian anymore. I want to give you a blow job tout de suite.’”
“I don’t care what the email says. I simply need to believe there’s hope.”
“Put your hope in a basket alongside your worrying, pour some petrol over the lot and set it ablaze. Your delusional hoping is worse than your festered, infected worrying. The sooner you clue into that fact, the sooner you’ll be feeling like a new man.”
“That’s more or less what the psychologist said. And what good did that do me?”
“But I’m not a psychologist.”
“Then what qualifies you to speak with such authority?”
He shakes his head. “You don’t need a psychologist to see what’s wrong with you any more than you need a meteorologist to advise you to open or close your umbrella when it’s raining.”
“All right. I forget about her. Then what?”
“Put your energy into dealing with Francis. Before you know it, you won’t remember her name.”
“You make it sound too easy.”
He nods again then raises the type of hand that bestows a blessing. “You have me to guide you.”
“Thanks, Henry. If you didn’t have such a fat belly, I’d put my arms around you and hug you.”
He leans away from me. “If you weren’t such a fragile, fucking wimp, I’d give you a boot in the arse.”
CHAPTER NINE
the loose-knit librarian
ELSA’S STAY IN ENGLAND WAS supposed to last a year or until she managed better in English. She was working as a waitress until she found a better job. Her flat was rented by the month until she could afford a better place. I followed her to Norway where she agreed to until death do us part, which evolved into until Brutus do us part. Elsa called her Sophie. They did lots together: went to the gym, talked on the phone, skied, and attended a judo competition in Stockholm for five days. They worked in the same travel agency.
Brutus showed up at our Oslo flat one day. “Come with me now, Elsa, or it’s over,” she said. I listened to them quarrel. What’s over? I wanted to ask. For months after, I walked past her flat and office daily until I wore the pavement thin. It was also Brutus’ flat and office. Whenever I called or emailed, she answered.
Norway felt overcrowded all of a sudden. I considered moving back to London but there’d be far too many memories of Elsa. Tatie didn’t live there anymore. England was a country of uncultured monarchists without manners or taste. That’s what she told me after she moved back to France to live with Papa. She wanted me to move there too. “Come home and take care of us,” she said. If it hadn’t been for the ad in the librarian’s journal, I might have done exactly that.
KING EDWARD UNIVERSITY LIBRARY,
St. John’s, Newfoundland, Canada,
invites applications for the permanent position of
Head of Digital Library Systems.
Preference may be given to bilingual applicants.
Appointment effective