Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [13]
“I’m Annabel Reed-Smith. So, you’re the intern? And would you mind putting that lethal weapon down?”
“What? Oh, this. Sorry.” She backed up and placed the cutter on her small desk. “They always have me opening boxes,” she said, returning to Annabel, “so I bought this myself at a hardware store.” She chuckled. “Yup, that’s me, the intern.”
“I just arrived,” said Annabel. “I’ll be here for a couple of months.”
“That’s great. Consuela told me all about you. That’s exciting, writing about Columbus for Civilization.”
“Yes, I am excited about it. I understand you’re cataloging Cuban newspapers.”
“That’s not so exciting, but it’s part of learning, I guess. I spend a lot of time in the main reading room. I really like it there. I’m studying to be a librarian.”
“A noble profession. I read somewhere that the first Librarian of Congress only made two dollars a day.”
“That’s okay. I don’t want to become a librarian for money. It’s because … it’s because I love books. I really, really love them. I mean, there’s something special about bringing people and books together, serving others, like the living and the dead. Some day I want to be the Librarian of Congress.”
“Run the whole show.”
“Run the whole show. When I do, you’ll always be welcome. I won’t keep you from your work, and I have to get back to those Cuban newspapers. Great meeting you.”
“Same here.”
The intern’s high spirits lifted Annabel’s momentary concerns about Mac’s knee, about the dour Dr. Michele Paul, about her own ability to research and write about Las Casas. She was suddenly restless, and decided to take a walk through the Jefferson Building, which had reopened in May of 1997 after more than a decade of modernization and restoration. When it originally opened in 1897 to house the overflowing collection of books and manuscripts that had been stored haphazardly in the Capitol Building, it was called the most beautiful public building in America. As far as Annabel was concerned, the building itself was yet another of LC’s treasures.
She returned a little before noon, enjoyed lunch in the cafeteria with Consuela Martinez, and spent the entire afternoon in the Manuscript reading room in the Madison Building. Before being granted access, she had to fill out a registration form and secure all personal belongings, including outerwear, pens, pencils, and newspapers, in a locker. The only item she was allowed to bring into the room was a laptop computer without its case. Annabel was provided the division’s own paper and pencils and a pair of white gloves and assigned a desk, where she waited for one of the Library of Congress’s most precious pieces of early Americana to be brought to her, secured in a special clear plastic sheath.
The Book of Privileges arrived. It was a privilege in itself.
Viewing the document had a visceral impact upon Annabel, creating a sustaining physical tension. The rarity and fragility of the document played a role in this reaction, of course. But more pervasive was being transported into Columbus’s world through the thoughts and words he committed to the vellum. She went word by word, soon realizing that even her intensive Spanish lessons of the past three years would not provide her with the ability to fully comprehend what the discoverer of the New World was saying.
Still, she plugged away, making extensive notes on the paper provided by the reading room’s personnel.
At four-thirty, the Book was returned to its climate-controlled vault, and Annabel collected her belongings and returned to her space in Hispanic. She was alone on the upper gallery. Below, men and women doing research at reader desks packed up in preparation for leaving. The room’s quiet was omnipresent, even unsettling.
She placed some items in her locker, secured it with the padlock, and came downstairs. Consuela Martinez was in her office.
“Productive afternoon?” the division chief asked.