An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy [5]
“That’s enough, Henry. You’re not even watching her. If anyone ever caught you, they’d hang you. Pass them to me.”
He pushes the binoculars into my hands without looking my way. He rises out of his chair, grabs his crotch then shakes it as if someone had dropped something into his trousers that he wants to dislodge. I lean forward in my chair and play with the focus.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was gazing into a Gothic cathedral.”
“It’s Edwardian, not Gothic,” says Henry.
“Whatever. Why is the Room antique when the rest of the library is modern? Is it older?”
“It’s Edwardian, not antique or Gothic. It’s younger not older. The Reading Room was added onto this side of the building ten years after the library first opened. Your office window once overlooked blinding sunlight on snow in April and capelin weather in June. The benefactor dictated the style: stained-glass windows, vaulted ceiling, hardwood floors, fake Persian rugs around the couches and chairs. All that’s missing is the fireplace, chandeliers and marble staircase. It’s not the Rose Reading Room in the New York Public Library, but it has grandeur and sophistication.”
I scan along the walls, straight ahead, slowly. “I expect a pigeon to come flying off one of the arches.”
“They’re columns in the Ionic order, not arches,” he says. “Edwardian, remember. Not Gothic. You should outfit yourself with the equivalent of binoculars for your ears.”
“The binoculars are designed for bird-watching. They’re too hard to focus indoors.”
“If that’s the case, give them to me,” he says as he tugs on my arm. I ignore him and stand next to the window. I search for her carrel then focus in and out again. Something blocks my view. I adjust the focus, step closer to the window and feed Henry the play by play. “Looks like a baby’s bum, pink and shiny.”
“Sounds like Francis,” Henry says.
“It’s him all right. He’s bending down to whisper in her ear. Do you think he coats that bald scalp in makeup?”
“If Francis Hickey, mighty Head of Special Collections, went outside on a clear day, his head would be visible in remote galaxies. He’s pedicured, manicured, UV-rays cured. You should see him jogging down Water Street in his black spandex suit. A few years ago, he tried to pass a motion at Library Council to introduce a dress code. He said we can’t expect patrons’ respect if we’re dressed like bums and smell no better. You can imagine who he was staring at while he said it. You won’t catch me wearing spandex. If I had his face, I’d wear it inside out.”
I step forward for a closer view. She’s sitting with her back facing me on the other side of the Room under one of the stained-glass windows. Francis is leaning over her with his arm on her shoulder. His black turtleneck sweater and naked head block my view again. He turns, and before I realize what’s happened, he’s staring straight at me.
“Merde!” In a panic, I make one of those impulsive jerks backward like I’m reeling from a dangerous object. In the process, I bang into Henry’s chair, trip, then hit his arm before I fall.
“Jesus! My shirt. Look at the mess of coffee on there now. You don’t understand, Carl, the binoculars only make objects seem closer.”
His hairy navel is staring at me like a Cyclops. I drag myself up off my office floor, binoculars in one hand, holding onto my desk with the other. I look down into the Room. “I bet Francis is en route to my office right this second. I knew I shouldn’t have bothered with the binoculars.”
“You shouldn’t have indeed,” says Henry.
“The binoculars were your idea. What are you talking about?”
“Who cares about binoculars? Stand up to the prick!” On the word prick, crumbs shoot out of his mouth. He brushes them off one leg of his trousers and splatters coffee over the other.
A number of people, Henry included, are opposed to the library’s strategic emphasis on computers. I can’t blame them. If there’s one role that the Internet is going to