An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy [64]
I look down at my pants and see the grease stain from the bacon seeping out through the napkin. Folio watches us through the glass door. I wink at her. After we finish eating, while Norah is in the basement doing the laundry, I open the porch door to give the bacon to Folio. She rushes over to the table before I can stop her.
“Come here you little imp.” I kneel on the floor then reach under the table for her collar. She sniffs my pocket. I take out the bacon and feed it to her.
“Carl!” Norah shouts.
I straighten up with a start. My head hits the underside of the table. “Sorry, Norah. Folio! Come out of there.”
“I asked you not to let the dogs in the house. I told you not to feed them table scraps. Can you get the dog out of there while I go make the bed, please?”
“I said I’m sorry.”
“What good is sorry when the damage is done?” she says as Folio licks the last traces of bacon off my fingers.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
man, the imperfect librarian
NOT MUCH HAPPENED AT THE library while I was away except that Margaret left a message in my voicemail. She wants to schedule an appointment for me with the Chief once the privacy policy is approved. I tell Henry about the message.
“It’s only a matter of time now.”
“What were you saying about a miracle?”
“Enter that Crimson Hexagon, fetch me some evidence and I’ll deliver your miracle on a platter,” he says. “I bet you Francis is stashing Special Collections materials in there.”
“You’re so keen, why don’t you do it?”
“I’m not the one who has to worry about Francis. In no time I’ll be far away from him, far from this library. Four years, two months, one week and two days to be exact. I’ll be retired, and if all goes well, sitting behind the desk in my bookstore.”
“And you scold me for counting?”
“Are you any good with accounting?” he asks.
“You don’t need to be good at accounting anymore. There are very sophisticated computer programs that will do it for you.”
“I’ll have better things to do than counting, accounting or computing. When I’m not tending to the business, I’ll be busy with writing. Did you know I have a brilliant idea for a play already? The main character is modelled after you. It’s called The Imperfect Librarian. ‘Man, the imperfect librarian may be the product of chance or of malevolent demiurgi.’”
CARL: What’s that supposed to mean?
HENRY: Ask Borges.
CARL: Did you have in mind a tragedy or a comedy?
HENRY: Only high drama could capture the severity
of evil gods. This nonsense with Elsa could lend it a
melodramatic character. There’ll need to be an
element of comedy, otherwise it wouldn’t be true to
your character. I want to give it a Borgesian quality. I
wonder if I could pull that off in a one-minute play
with six scenes of an equal ten seconds each.
CARL: Or ten scenes of six seconds each or three
scenes of twenty minutes each or–
HENRY: How do you say the word enough in Spanish
and Italian?
CARL: Basta.
HENRY: Again, three times in a row.
CARL: Basta, Basta, Basta.
HENRY: Let that be a lesson for you the next time
you get carried away with arithmetic.
CARL: It’s not arithmetic, it’s–
HENRY: I could always do some acting on the side.
You’ve never seen my Borges’ recital have you?
[Henry pauses, passes coffee mug to Carl, rises out of his
seat, turns to face Carl, legs astride, ready to pounce, hand
in the air, head cocked to the side staring up at hand.]
...the sky turned the rosy color of a leopard’s
gums. Smoke began to rust the metallic nights.
And then came the panicked flight of the animals.
And the events of several centuries before were
repeated...With relief, with humiliation, with terror,
he understood that he, too, was all appearance, that
someone else was dreaming him.
[Henry lowers arm.]
CARL: I don’t know if you’re worse as an actor or a
playwright.
HENRY: What do you expect with Carl Brunet
for an audience? Since when did you read Borges?
You thought his name meant soup the first time I
mentioned it.
CARL: You