An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy [65]
between Borscht and Borges.
HENRY: How about An Imperfect Librarian: The
musical?
CARL: Wouldn’t be a hit.
HENRY: How about BiblioBrunet or BiblioBlunder?
Or we could scrap the alliteration and settle on
Bibliofiasco. What’s your take on it? You’re the central
character in the production after all.
CARL: I’d prefer a more nuanced character.
HENRY: Not possible. Not among the company you
keep.
CARL: What I mean is that supposing my mother
hadn’t given me up at birth and I didn’t have to be
raised by a pair of squabbling twins?
HENRY: Then you’d have no excuse for how you are.
CARL: Imperfect?
HENRY: With an upper case I. If we weren’t imperfect,
we’d be gods.
CARL: I’m relieved to learn I’m no different than
anyone else.
HENRY: Don’t jump to conclusions.
CARL: Maybe I’m the one who’s perfect and everyone
around me is imperfect.
HENRY: Delusional is more like it.
CARL: What’s the cure?
HENRY: No cure for the delusion. As for the imperfection,
get out more, feast your eyes on the lasses.
CARL: Not everybody is as horny as you are.
HENRY: What do you understand about horny
besides toads? Passion. Imagination. That’s what
makes being imperfect worthwhile.
CARL: I’d prefer to make it disappear.
HENRY: Start by reading a book. You’re surrounded
by them and you don’t even read.
CARL: I probably read more in the first twenty years
of my life than most people do in a lifetime.
HENRY: You’d never say.
CARL: Where do you fit on the scale of imperfection?
HENRY: I’m part of a minute minority of superior,
all-seeing, all-knowing beings. If you hang around
me, who knows? Some of the perfection might rub
off on you.
CARL: Will I end up with a belly like yours?
HENRY: Wouldn’t hurt you to have a few bulges on
your skeleton. While you’re at it, find yourself a
better set of binoculars, move out of the hole under
Gower Street, listen to the mirror’s advice once in a
while, eat something besides your nails, push Francis
out of your way.
CARL: Is that all?
HENRY: Grow a prick while you’re at it.
CARL: And then what?
HENRY: Take your mind off your worries by aiming
at something.
[They stare ahead. A ray of sunshine cuts through the
stained-glass windows into the Room before them like
the curtain rising in a dark theatre to reveal the stage.]
CHAPTER FORTY
yellow snow
IT’S HARD TO IGNORE THE season of silver bells and jingle bells, drummer boys, turtle doves and pear-treed partridges, especially when there’s a giant synthetic Christmas tree in the centre of the Reading Room. What used to be an oasis in the middle of the library is now a forest. The tree changes our view slightly. It does nothing for our conversation. “Have you been inside the hexagon, Carl?” Henry asks. “What are you going to do about Francis?”
There’s little sign of Christmas at Cliffhead. “I celebrate it every four or five years,” Norah says. “I have enough to do without wasting my time decorating.” The snow and cold temperatures came faster than she expected. She’s behind in her chores. The rectangular bales of hay for the horses have to be stacked in the barn’s loft. Normally, Walter takes care of that job but he left on short notice to go around the bay for a few weeks to take care of a family emergency. The water levels in her well are low.
“I knew I’d end up paying for all those hot summer days without rain,” she says.
On the weekend, we drive back and forth to a stream up the road where we fill containers then bring them back to her house. The chores are not her only problem.
“I can lend you money for the vet bills,” I tell her. “And for the roof repairs. I don’t mind contributing.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says.
We’re shovelling the path from her house to the barn, then to the Crimson Hexagon.
“Why is the path to the hexagon shovelled if it’s not in use?”
She doesn’t stop shovelling to answer my question. “Ask Francis,” she says.
I stand the shovel in the snow then lean on it. “Do you have a key?”
“Hanging in the porch in case of an emergency.