An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy [23]
The wave that came upon me again buried me at once twenty or thirty feet deep in its own body, and I could feel myself carried with a mighty force and swiftness towards the shore – a very great way; but I held my breath, and assisted myself to swim still forward with all my might. I was ready to burst with holding my breath, when, as I felt myself rising up, so, to my immediate relief, I found my head and hands shoot out above the surface of the water; and though it was not two seconds of time that I could keep myself so, yet it relieved me greatly, gave me breath, and new courage.
I curl the ear of the page, tuck the book partway under the mattress then turn out the light. It’s only a story after all.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
flavoured accents
NEITHER ELSA’S BETRAYAL NOR CARL’S delusional hoping makes headlines in the following weeks. No state of emergency or day of mourning is proclaimed. People behave as usual and I try to do the same. When I tell Henry about Elsa’s call, he says they should establish an award to recognize men like me. “Outstanding-cuckolded-husband-of-all-time award. The recipient has shown evidence of unfailing tenacity in his efforts to cling onto his cheating wife. His superhuman efforts to play the devoted husband earned high esteem for his semen.”
I don’t have time to gloat over the award. Not when I’m so busy writing reports, reading reports, shredding reports and ordering reports. There’s nothing like a report to take your mind off an award, except maybe a meeting. My weekly planner is littered with those. Ordinarily, I reserve the 3:30 to 4:00 block for afternoon break with Henry. Sometimes meetings come up unannounced – which means I have to cancel coffee. Since Henry doesn’t use email or voicemail the best way to reach him is to go directly to the booth. He doesn’t spend much time in the LAB, so if he’s not there, he could be anywhere.
I head to the Information Services booth to change break time from afternoon to morning. Henry is walking away as I arrive. “Be right with you, Carl. The student wants help finding a book on ‘metaphorns.’ Wait at the booth.”
The donut-shaped booth can fit three or four librarians at one time. It’s at the centre of a commons area they call the Atrium. When I tilt my head up, I can see the five floors of library stacks. If I were on the top floor looking down, I’d see rows of tables with four chairs on each side. That view will change if my proposal is approved to equip every table with Internet-ready computers.
I browse the booth’s computer while I wait. I go to the most interesting part, where the files are too often unorganized. We can create all the information we want, but if we can’t effectively access it, what’s the point? How can I convince people to be passionate about information management when they don’t appreciate proper file–
“Excuse me,” she says.
I shift my attention from the screen. The last time I saw her that close was in the Reading Room.
She holds a slip of paper in front of me. “I found this listed in the catalogue. It’s supposed to be in the stacks. I checked high, low, under, about, up, down, but it’s not there. Can you help me?”
Henry’s nowhere in sight. I don’t bother searching too hard to find him. “I can try. How about if we visit the stacks?”
We take the elevator to the top floor. We stand side by side facing the door.
“I should be honest, Henry Kelly is the Information Services Librarian on duty, but he’s gone off searching for metaphors. I’m a librarian too but I work in another department. You’re a historian?” The final n is out. There’s no way to undo it.
“How’d you guess?”
“Because of the book you’re searching for.”
“That’s clever,” she says.
The elevator jerks upwards then halts. We exit.
“Your accent is English but