An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy [35]
“Borrow them. That’s what a library is designed for.”
“As the anonymous Arabic proverb so wisely observes: ‘He who lends a book is an idiot. He who returns the book is more of an idiot.’”
“What about he who steals a book?”
“Depends whether he has the luck and smarts to get away with it.”
Henry stands then puts the binoculars back on the cabinet. He walks over to the window for a last inspection and turns to face me before he goes to the door. “They’ll replace all books with computers one of these days,” he says with a resigned tone. He raises his right hand in the air and stares up at it. “Instead of the sound of pages turning, you’ll hear the staccato of fingers plucking keyboards.” He drops the right hand then raises the left. “Instead of the seductive aroma of aged paper and leather bindings, you’ll be nauseated by the stench of burning dust from overheated circuitry.”
Next, he holds both hands waist height, palms up, in supplication. “Instead of brilliant minds engaged in reading books so thick they need to rest on a table, you’ll see light-headed drones flitting through electronic pages with as much depth as a television commercial.” With both hands raised and his head bowed between them, he adds, for the finale, “Language will be eroded, knowledge will be reduced to bits of information pulsing through wires, contact will be limited to an electronic signal, while the book...” Here, he pauses, raises his chin to gaze out onto an invisible audience then drops his hands to his side, palms facing out. “The book is abandoned, unattended like an ancient relic gathering centuries of dust.”
“Bravo, Henry. See you tomorrow,” I add as the curtain closes on another wasted afternoon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
seagulls’ dreams
MY ONLY SUIT SHARES CLOSET space with a mop and broom, four shirts and a variety of cleaning fluids. My Hawaiian shirt has mould growing on the palm trees. There is one advantage to living in the basement: I can call on my landlords for advice at any time. I merely go up the stairs, open the door and yell. “Cyril? Mercedes? Hello. It’s me.” Cyril is an electrical inspector. When I first moved in, he gave me a tour of the house to show me the rewiring job. He described the codes, explained the circuit box in detail, opened a few outlets and led me outside to see the connection to the street pole.
“How do I look, Cyril? I’m going out to dinner tonight. The pants stretched since I wore them last. Shirt’s a bit wrinkled, isn’t it?”
“You’re asking the wrong person. Mercedes!” he hollers.
I follow him into the kitchen. He tells me about his plans to start up his own business. “Do-it-yourself appliance repairs. Call Cyril for help repairing your own toasters, washers, dryers, VCRs. I’ll charge by the minute.”
Mercedes appears from upstairs. “Hello stranger. Sit down and have a snack.”
I work my way through a bowl of pea soup and a homemade roll while Cyril pokes at a toaster and Mercedes tidies the kitchen. They’re both always busy at something. If Mercedes is forced to sit, she knits. The vacuum gets so much use, I’m surprised it’s still running. I butter my roll. Mercedes is wiping out the fridge and Cyril has his nose in the toaster. A spark and smoke shoot out of it. Mercedes shrieks like she’s seen a mouse. Cyril laughs. I clean the ashes from the spark off the butter on my roll. Mercedes throws her cloth at him. “Will you take that contraption off the table while Carl is here.”
“Jesus, maid. If you’d stop making me do chores for you night and day, day and night, repair the toaster, finish the clapboard, put out the garbage, shovel the snow, rake the leaves, fix the sink, I’d be out building the shed. In no time, I’d have my own workshop. You wouldn’t have to complain anymore. Isn’t that right, Carl?”
I don’t know anything about electricity