An Imperfect Librarian (3 page)

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 change, it's the librarian's. You don't need to be Nostradamus to predict that. Who needs a librarian if all the knowledge in the world is at your fingertips? I'm not surprised that the other librarians are wary of what I do. They didn't support spending a chunk of the budget on a new digital systems unit. But they don't take it out on me personally.
They
don't. Francis does. One of the first moves I made when I began my position was to get access to all administrative databases on campus. I can't be expected to do
my job efficiently without it.

I wanted to explain that to Francis so I asked for a meeting with him. He invited me to his office. I went straight to my purpose. I told him I'd set up access to all the databases; I'd visited the different units and understood how they operated. Next, I described my vision to digitize Special Collections materials in five to ten years. I explained that I'd need access to his databases, inventories of materials, information about how materials were presently organized and catalogued, plans for future acquisitions and so on.

He listened carefully and didn't interrupt or ask any questions, even when I explained some of the more complex details about how the access would be centrally controlled by software designed especially for the library. I finished what I had to say then waited for his reaction. He was leaning so far back in his chair, I was afraid he'd tip over. He brushed something off his shoe. When I asked him how that sounded to him, he told me it sounded like I was telling him how to run his unit. I explained that wasn't what I meant. This was a great opportunity for collaboration, I told him.

“You mind your affairs and I'll mind mine. How's that for collaboration?” he said then rose out of his seat, opened his office door and motioned for me to leave.

If I had my time back now I probably wouldn't have complained to the Chief Librarian. I would have waited a few days instead of firing off the letter that very instant when I was frustrated and angry. I shouldn't have cc'd Francis on it. The Chief called the two of us in for a meeting. Francis said he'd be more than willing to work with me. Not a problem. Of course I could have access to his databases and inventories, whatever and whenever I needed. “Come for a tour anytime,” he said.

I left the meeting after the three of us had shaken hands. As a rule, I take the stairs, not the lift. I have to remind myself to
substitute elevator for lift, cellphone for mobile, truck for lorry, apartment for flat and so on. The stairs are adjacent to my office, whereas the elevator is at the other end of the corridor by Edith's office. I don't want to encourage her by walking past. She doesn't need an excuse to think I might be interested in her. The stairwell door closed shut behind me. I trudged up the dirty concrete steps. I'd almost made it to the main landing and was thinking this was another occasion where I'd completely misread the situation. I'd fussed about Francis for nothing. The door opened and closed below. Someone was rushing up the steps behind me. I stopped to let them pass while I caught my breath. It was Francis.

“I forgot to mention a few items at our meeting,” he said, standing on the steps next to me. “Don't think you're going to play with my databases, inventories, future acquisitions anymore than you're going to play with my dick. The sooner you get that straight, the sooner we'll be able to tolerate each other. In the meantime, throw sand in my face again like you did with that letter to the Chief and I'll bury you in concrete.”

That was my last face-to-face conversation with Francis. I've been avoiding him ever since.

I don't want to open my office door if it means having to explain what I was doing with the binoculars, but the knock is persistent. “Hello,” the voice on the other side calls. The pitch is too high to be Francis. I open. She's leaning against the wall, arms folded, frowning. “I knew you were here. I saw you come in after lunch. Oh, I see. Henry's here with you.”

“Edith, come on in,” Henry says. “I'm sure Carl would be delighted to welcome you. He was remarking recently how much he enjoys your company. See you two lovebirds later.”

“Sorry, Edith. Henry's teasing again.”

“No need to apologize. I'll be your lovebird any day.”

Henry winks at me then goes out the door, leaving me to clean up after him in more ways than one.

CHAPTER FIVE

I
COULD HAVE GONE BACK TO
the Chief to tell him what Francis said on the stairwell. But it's reporting that upset Francis in the first place. I should have known that would happen. The last time I reported on someone it backfired as well. It was only a couple of years after Papa and I moved to France from Quebec. There were three boys in particular who were causing me problems. What they lacked in centimetres they made up for in brazenness. Sometimes I thought their only pastime was playing tricks on me. I'd come home from school with my clothes torn, my face, arms or legs scratched and bruised. Papa would say, “You're taller than boys twice your age. Fight back!” My height didn't work as a weapon. On the contrary – that, plus the remains of my Québécois accent, made me an easy target for their pranks. It didn't help that they knew I was a bastard child. They'd figured that much out – heard it from their parents probably.

They used similar ploys each time. “She wants to touch your dicky,” they said once. I was on my way home in my new
outfit. Papa had bought it for the beginning of the school year. “Don't let me find a spot on it,” he warned me. He didn't need to worry. I was so proud of my long pants, new vest and shirt, I wouldn't even allow dust to touch them. The bowtie was uncomfortable but I was afraid I'd lose it if I took it off. I was the finest dressed of anyone that day. I thought that's why the boys seemed to be behaving differently towards me.

“She's in the park,” they said as they led me there. “Wait on the bench. We'll get her for you.”

I leaned back on the bright green bench and waited. At the time, I used to believe things happened faster if you closed your eyes. The time did go fast with my eyes closed, but I couldn't wait forever because Papa would be upset if I came home late. Eventually I left. Not long after, I met up with the boys again. “She didn't come,” I told them. They said nothing. They were too busy laughing to talk.

Papa was there when I arrived. He was at home every afternoon because he didn't have a job yet. “Where were you?” he said.

“In the park.”

“Go take off your good clothes before you sit at the table to do your homework.”

I headed to my room. I couldn't wait to take off the bowtie.

“Carl!” he roared. As soon as I saw the expression on his face, I knew what I was in for. I did what he said. I stripped down to my skin. My clothes lay in a pile on the floor with the horizontal stripes of green paint facing upwards. Papa felt better after giving me a spanking. I felt better knowing he felt better.

It didn't end there, although I wished it could have. He packed the soiled clothes in a bag and we went to see the principal the next day. The principal gave me an apple to chew on while Papa shouted at him. When Papa left, I went to
my classroom with the principal. He carried the bag and held my hand. He didn't grip it tightly the way Papa usually did. The three boys were in the back row. I stood by the principal's side and ate my apple.

He pulled my clothes out of the bag. “Who is responsible? Who?” He knew who they were, but he asked anyway. He held my trousers, shirt and vest in front of him, shaking them. We weren't used to him shouting. No one said anything. He turned to face me. I thought he was going to order me to stop eating the apple.

“What did the boys do to you, Carl? Tell everyone,” he said.

“They told me to sit on the bench, sir.”

“Why did they tell you to sit on the bench?”

“To wait for the girl, sir.”

“What girl?”

“The girl I was waiting for, sir.”

“Why were you waiting for the girl?”

“Because they told me to, sir.”

“Yes, but
why
did they tell you? Why did you need to wait for the girl?”

“Because they tol–”

“I know they told you, Carl,” he said. He shook his head and smiled at the class. They seemed more relaxed after that. In the row on the side, Marianne let out a giggle then cupped her hand over her mouth to hide it.

“Tell me why you wanted to wait for the girl, but don't say it was because the boys told you to do it.”

“No, sir. I won't say the boys told me to do it, sir.”

He turned to face the class once again, shaking his head. The boys who'd made me do it shook their heads too.

“Tell me why!”

“Because you told me not to, sir.”

I put the half-eaten apple in the pocket of my jacket and
looked up at him. He seemed to be trying not to laugh.

“One last time. Tell me why you wanted to wait for the girl. Was she going to bring you candy, a book, a message? Why did you sit on the bench to wait for the girl?” At that point, I'd almost forgot the conversation had anything to do with the bench.

“Because the boys–”

He let out a small chuckle. That was all the audience of six-year-olds needed. They broke out in laughter like a sudden applause at the end of a great performance. Even Marco was laughing and I don't think I'd ever seen him laugh before. I laughed because I thought I should do what they were doing. That made it funnier for them, but I'd rather be laughed at than stand in front of the class and admit I was waiting for a girl to touch my dicky.

Not long after the incident, Papa decided it would be best for me to live with his twin sister Georgette. Tatie or Auntie is what I called her. When she followed her husband Philip to England not long after my ninth birthday, she took me with her. I couldn't live with my mother because there was no mother beyond the one-night stand between Papa and another graduate student. They met at a party a few months after he arrived in Quebec to go to university. They got drunk, had sex and he never saw her again. Nine months later, she called him from the hospital to ask if he wanted to take the baby.

Her Catholic family in Spain would have disowned her if they knew. There were English-speaking, Protestant families in Montréal who would have taken me, but in 1950, no respectable French-speaking Catholic family would have anything to do with an illegitimate child. Papa didn't care that the potential adopters were Protestant. And he didn't mind the Irish. “We go way back,” he said. But he'd never in a million years allow his lineage to fall to anyone with Anglo-Saxon ties.

When I turned eighteen, Papa gave me her name. That was all he could remember. Then the web came along. Suddenly, the world was so much smaller. I typed her name into a search engine. Within a few clicks, she appeared on the screen. She's a retired anthropology professor at the University of Barcelona. Her photo is on their web site. For a while, I used it for my computer background so I could see her picture every day.