Middle C (27 page)

The library had a basement and above it two floors. The first contained a reading room which opened to the left as you entered, a central stairway greeted you, next to which Marjorie Bruss had her desk installed, and to the right a labyrinth of beautiful oak cases, many laid against the walls where there weren’t windows or radiators, while the rest were arranged in military rows throughout the central space. These stacks were open to the public who might wander through them as they chose, though the only places one might sit and peruse a volume were the window seats, invitingly covered with soft plum pads. The public might ascend the handsome middle staircase, also of oak, to a balcony surround, behind which were further shelves and a lonely meeting space that contained several tables, an inadequate number of ladder-backed chairs, a portrait of Andrew Carnegie, and a silver coffee urn that was never used because, Joseph was told, the spigot leaked. He made a silent note to fix that.

The basement was restricted. Kept there were books that were so rarely wanted they had to be called for, or were so valuable they could not be checked out but were required to be read in the reading room where—now—Joseph delivered them. Books that needed repairs sat on a trolley, and near the trolley, which never seemed to trolley much, was a room full of volumes, donated by the heirs of the recently deceased, waiting to be checked, selected, or cast aside for sale at the library’s yearly benefit and gala. Joseph was immediately tempted to remove a few, but he decided it wouldn’t be prudent.

Miss Moss was in gossamer when he first heard, turned, and saw her in the space behind him, pale as a shadow and similarly bluish, light and frilly, insubstantial. When he tried to describe Miss Moss’s dress to Miriam she guessed it was of voile, which told Joseph nothing. Her short hair was silver, her complexion a pale airborne shade of bruise, as if her veins had become pools, or perhaps spills, beneath her skin. She did indeed whisper in response when he introduced himself. I’m Joseph Skizzen. I’m new here. Thank you, Miss Moss seemed to bob.

I’m pleased to meet you finally, he said. You’re the new … boy. Yes, ma’am. For the gar … age, is it so? Yes, ma’am, I’m to help check out and catalog and—. Not Ree … shelve, she asked with a tremor. Oh no. Not to dust? Yes, ma’am, I do dust. Oh no you must not dust till you’ve been trained. I hope you don’t Ree … pair? I don’t know how to do that, but I’d love to learn … to watch you work sometime … to restore an injured volume … to nurse to health a broken spine … oh … it would be a pleasure. A rivulet of wrinkles moved across her face and disappeared. When I … Ree … pair my door is closed, she said so softly he wasn’t certain what he’d heard. Then, as if a wide cloth were furling around a stick, she turned and fluttered away.

Miss Bruss said that if ever she saw blue moss growing on a tree, it would be Miss Moss clinging to the bark of it. Joseph said she seemed a shadow. A shadow that has dark thoughts about its source, Miss Bruss replied, she is full of suspicion—apprehension and suspicion. But a harmless old thing. She haunts, I think, because she is haunted. I certainly don’t know by what. Joseph did not say so, but he decided Miss Moss was an incredibly romantic figure and that it was splendidly appropriate to have her floating about in the dark lanes and corners of the library.

There was a backlog of little things to do as well as a lot to learn during the first weeks of Joseph’s employment. Marjorie Bruss’s library did not catalog according to any well-known scheme like the Dewey Decimal System or the Library of Congress. We don’t have that many books, and we pretty well know our card carriers’ habits and preferences. When Joey didn’t smile she had to explain what a card carrier was. His ignorance she put down to innocence, and it did not seem to annoy her. After they are assigned an entry number, new arrivals are racked along the walls of the North Room, labeled on the their plastic jackets
NA
. No one ever removes our Klean Kovers, she said as if expecting the question. Washable. His blank look forced her to add, With a wet sponge. Ms. Bruss let that sink in. After six weeks they are cataloged, allowed to relax and take their jackets off (she smiled and Joseph smiled, too, only a breath behind), and those that have been checked out most often are sent to the South Stacks where they are shelved alphabetically by author under the subject matter to which we assign them: ARTS or OUTDOORS or SELF-HELP, you see? Do the library’s patrons understand the system? Most do. We post the categories. So after a while they
get the hang. Anyway, we know how it works, and that’s what matters. Expensive, oversized, and rare books are placed upstairs and don’t go down or out. The rest are sent to the dungeon. To Miss Moss, Joseph said, smiling his own smile this time. No. She only reshelves down there. She doesn’t assign places down there. She doesn’t understand the system we have … down there. Joseph nodded, but he didn’t understand the system either, never would, really, here, there, or anywhere. FENCING was a category, for example, but he had noticed there were no books in it. Stolen, that’s why. By that skinny pilferer, Joey privately imagined. We’ll refill one day. Even FENCING. Ms. Bruss shook more steel-gray glint through her hair. Stolen by a rotten little red haired crop-headed squish who came here and started giving fencing lessons—imagine, in Whichstown—I should have called our cop when I saw him coming. Ms. Bruss says Whichstown, too, Joey marveled. Stole the whole category though the listing wasn’t large. No, you needn’t be on the lookout for him. He apparently punctured one of the little ladies under his tutelage and was run out of the county by her enraged papa. Marjorie’s smile was slight but sly, a signal. No one to my knowledge knows if she liked her lessons or not or whether she learned to thrust and parry. Ah … but her father wasn’t foiled, Joseph managed. Marjorie lit up. Good, that’s good. You may do yet.

Marjorie Bruss presented a trim figure in her white blouse, navy slacks and jacket, and her halo of hair. Joseph liked her rosy complexion, her warm yet brisk manner, her play with words. Her speech was clipped but low, her face round as a dial, her smile consequently wide, and her lips had many expressive positions. She wore shoes with very soft soles and moved about quickly but with almost as much discretion as Miss Moss managed. She saw Joseph’s ballpoint and took it from his shirt pocket where it was clipped. No pens in the library. Pens are poison. We permit only pencils with soft leads and dull points so any marks they make can be easily erased. Everybody …?

the rule?     
                                         … is for everybody.

We can’t frisk our customers—I wouldn’t want to put my hands on some—but in the reading room or anywhere—if you see someone taking notes with a pen, you must caution them. Highli—? Indeed. Highlighters—highlighters are evil, they must be immediately confiscated
and their users given a talking-to, even if they are marking up their own books or some harmless paper copies. Oh … Marjorie raised her hands to heaven. How I hate highlighters—you don’t use them, do you? Joseph wagged his head. Good, she said, good sign. The dog-ear people do it, stupid students do it, and they will grow dog-ears in due time. You don’t do dogs, do you, Joseph? We never could afford a pet, Joseph said. Good sign. Good sign. Dogs are bad for books. Don’t ever do dogs. They chew. Cats are bad, too. They claw. They love to rub their chins on the corners of covers, leave sneezers of fur. Rub their chins and grin at you. Before they fade from view, Joseph said. Oh, you are a darling, I kiss the nearby air, Marjorie exclaimed.

But it would not be for the last time. The neighboring air got many a smooch. Marjorie’s approval made Joey happy. He was a success.

Do not lean with heavy hands or rest your elbows on a book, even closed, even at apparent peace. You know why, I suppose?

Ah—

It compresses the covers against the spine and may crack the adhesive.

Oh.

Do not use a book as a writing board. Points can make indentations, especially—you’d be surprised—on jackets, many of which are waxy, slick, easily marked, for example, with a fingernail. And never put your notepaper on an open book, even to write a word—a dozen crimes in one action there.

I wouldn’t do that. Open books are so uneven.

Never mark in a book not your own, but even then, unless you think you’re Aristotle, never make a marginal note or a clever remark you will surely regret, and always assume the author is smarter than you are—have you written a book on his subject? … well?—so put down your differences on a piece of paper made for the purpose, or keep the quarrel quietly in your head where it will bother only you and never fluster another, not even your future self who will have forgotten the dispute, you can be sure, and will not wish to be reminded.

Yes, ma’am.

Marjorie. Not Miss, Mizz, or Ma’am. Marjorie.

Marjorie. It was a nice name, he thought, well syllabled.

Don’t put your palms down on illustrations, reproductions, any page at all, really, because even the most fastidious sweat—men sweat the
most, women have more discipline over their bodies—did you know that? except for their hands, their hands are public advertisements, they encounter a porcupine, a precipice, a proposal, and their palms get runny; oh yes, and in the old days, when men kissed a milady’s hand, it was the top of it they put their lips to, not the palm, you never know where the palm has been or what it’s been wrapped around. Well. Where was … Ah … Be wary. Inks may smear. Pigments flake. Thumb oils may seep into the paper, leave prints, and sweat attracts insects, did you know? also there may be a fungus in the neighborhood. Sweat is a magnet.

Gee, I didn’t know that.

Joseph. That is your last “gee.” Never even feel—“gee.” You are a grown-up.

Okay … “Okay” is also out? Gee … Okay.

Marjorie laughed like a wind chime. Good man, she said. Good man.

18

Joseph had brought some new books to the basement for shelving. Miss Moss materialized beside him. Ah … Miss Moss, how are you?

Every day is the same, she whispered, as if she were sharing a secret.

Well, I suppose they are, down here.

No. The basement leaks a little when it rains.

Isn’t that bad for the books?

It would be if the books knew where the leaks were.

I … Joseph felt himself in the middle of an admission of misunderstanding when it occurred to him that if the paper should sense and seek out nearby dampness, then—if it could—Miss Moss’s point of view might …

You are shelving these?

Yes, that’s right.

Because I Ree-shelve. I make all Ree-adjustments. I dust them first—she flourished a rag—and then I wipe them all over.

That’s capital. It was another expression he’d encountered in an En glish novel.

Miss Moss tried (he thought) to fix him with a look, but she had uneven eyes. Of what?

I meant they’d be well wiped then.

Of course, I would not wipe otherwise, she said softly but firmly while moving off. She always lowered her voice as a sign she was about to leave you. It was like slowly closing a door.

These are first-timers—for down here, I mean—new to the stacks. He had begun to explain, but she was gone. It was perhaps the bare inadequate bulbs that created her insubstantiality. In which case, he was less material, too.

You must not, Marjorie had advised him, pack the books too tightly together on the shelf. They must slide out easily. Dyes will rub off or surfaces scrape. A browser is bound to pull them out by tugging on the headcap—actually, they’ll do it anyway, their index finger shoots out and hooks the poor thing backward, weakening or even breaking the cap, tips the book out topsy-turvy, how would you like that? It’s just the way you’ll fall down trying to get uphill when ice covers our walkways. Some tend to hook the book by the tailcap, which is thereby determined to tear. Worse, women who wear their nails long, who have nothing to do but file and paint (Marjorie’s were short, neatly scissored, and smartly filed, but Joseph sensed the gleam from a coat of clear polish), love to claw books forth by clutching their sides and in the process puncture the cloth—you see?—where it rolls in at the hinge. It is loose, soft, and unprotected there. Such dismaying creatures.

I quite understand.

Read, Joseph, read. But don’t use the words you read in front of a casual public; the words you read and the way they are written are rarely meant to be spoken out loud in ordinary life the way one says “Hi” or “How are you?” with careless or indifferent intent. You may say, “It was quite large.” That’s all right.

Quite.

Good. You are a good Joseph today. You shall earn a cookie. Now then, where …? was? Oh. Books must not be shelved so loosely they
lean lazily to one side; that will cause them to become separated from their backbones and abrade their tail edges. Look here—she held up a volume by its covers and he could see how its pages hung down like fish on a string. So, remember to hold them as you hold your honey, not too loosely and not too tightly.

I haven’t got a honey.

You’ve got a mother maybe. Joseph learned that Marjorie puffed her cheeks while thinking ahead. She did that now. Then: Don’t—I’m sure you won’t—pick up a book by just one board, and be sure to carry heavy folios with both hands. By the way, you might think that turning pages is easy and obvious and needn’t be learned—a cinch to master, you might think—but people regularly tear wide pages by pulling too fiercely and too sharply down on them. I can tell because the tears will come about a fourth of the way along the top from the spine. Thick books have deep creases, consequently the book is rarely fully open. So when holding a book, especially when turning the pages, do not put your thumb in the gutter. Marjorie demonstrated. The page rolled awkwardly over even her small thumb.

Hands are important here, Joseph ventured.

Ah, yes, good. Your hands will get dusty in this world of ours, and you’ll need to wash them often. Not just for the books’ sake. You’ll suffer paper cuts. Infection sites. A nuisance but a peril of the job. You’ve probably seen the notices I’ve put up in the bathrooms, yes? Dust jackets weren’t idly named. We do risk the jackets for the first few weeks, when the books are NAs, because even protected they’ll nick or fade a little, but then, after the volumes come back here to the open stacks, we store the jackets in basement boxes as if they were winter wear. Miss Moss … if she chooses … Miss Moss can show you where. Have you encountered Miss Moss?