An Imperfect Librarian Read Free Page A

take turns. We shut off the lights so we can’t be noticed by anyone in the Room.
    â€œThat’s enough, Henry. You’re not even watching her. If anyone ever caught you, they’d hang you. Pass them to me.”
    He pushes the binoculars into my hands without looking my way. He rises out of his chair, grabs his crotch then shakes it as if someone had dropped something into his trousers that he wants to dislodge. I lean forward in my chair and play with the focus.
    â€œIf I didn’t know better, I’d think I was gazing into a Gothic cathedral.”
    â€œIt’s Edwardian, not Gothic,” says Henry.
    â€œWhatever. Why is the Room antique when the rest of the library is modern? Is it older?”
    â€œIt’s Edwardian, not antique or Gothic. It’s younger notolder. The Reading Room was added onto this side of the building ten years after the library first opened. Your office window once overlooked blinding sunlight on snow in April and capelin weather in June. The benefactor dictated the style: stained-glass windows, vaulted ceiling, hardwood floors, fake Persian rugs around the couches and chairs. All that’s missing is the fireplace, chandeliers and marble staircase. It’s not the Rose Reading Room in the New York Public Library, but it has grandeur and sophistication.”
    I scan along the walls, straight ahead, slowly. “I expect a pigeon to come flying off one of the arches.”
    â€œThey’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.”
    â€œThe binoculars are designed for bird-watching. They’re too hard to focus indoors.”
    â€œIf 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.”
    â€œSounds like Francis,” Henry says.
    â€œIt’s him all right. He’s bending down to whisper in her ear. Do you think he coats that bald scalp in makeup?”
    â€œIf 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.
    â€œ 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.
    â€œJesus! 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.”
    â€œYou shouldn’t have indeed,” says Henry.
    â€œThe binoculars were your