by Paula Guran
Then the door did open with a rush of cold air, and Mary looked up. In stepped a multicolored blob. Mary straightened her glasses, bringing the binoculars up to her eyes. She raised her eyebrows. Oh, this is interesting. Very interesting. No mere bird can compare.
The creature was a man, the man a jester. The belled cap, the striped velvet-satin tunic, the patched pantaloons, had been colored by an aficionado of urban camouflage: red graffiti rioting against cement and earth tones, the oily sheen of dirty glass. The boots, black and worn, pointed towards the eagle’s eye. The air changed as he moved, a rising wave of . . . purity? She could not quite put a name to it. On the second floor the drifters broke into a jig.
Now Mary could see his face: a strong jaw, cheekbones ruddy with cold, softened by a well-proportioned nose and eyes which skipped from aisle to counter to shelf like pebbles glancing over water. His mouth curled into a perpetual smile, held in place by lines carved into the skin. The body attached to the face was strong and wiry. Mary’s chest constricted and she realized she was hyperventilating. She sucked in deep breaths, tried to relax, hands aflutter. She had fallen in Intense Like.
Mary Colquhoun no longer believed in love at first sight. Both husbands had been hooked that way. No, one did not throw oneself at another human being. One did not exchange glances across crowded rooms and instantly become intimate. Now I choose more sensible ways, Mary reassured herself, when in fact she deliberately and with some effort blocked every path. Except one: Intense Like, which could evolve into love, or more probably, mild disdain. The buzz of her former husbands’ advice threatened to overwhelm her, but she shook it off. Something deep within her had been rekindled upon seeing this ridiculous jester.
The man stepped up to her desk. Mary put down the binoculars and closed her mouth. Swallowing, she took off her glasses, smiled.
“What can I do for you?”
His grin broadened.
“Well, Miss . . . Mrs. . . .?”
“Oh. Miss Mary Colquhoun.”
“Miss Mary Colquhoun, my name is Cedric Greensleeves—professional calling, you understand—and I am searching for my frog.”
“Your what?”
“My frog.”
“Oh?” she said.
Cedric Greensleeves’ chuckle chased away her silence.
“Yes,” he said, his tone teasing her. “I work for the . . . the Amazing Mango Brothers Circus, currently touring the Greater Chicago area. I provide entertainment for the children and, sometimes, for lucky parents. My Familiar, so to speak, is a frog. A big one—five feet long and four wide. Stands three feet at the shoulder. Found him myself in the South American rainforests. Very rare. And smart, devious—even Machiavellian—in his intrigues.”
“I see,” interjected Mary, simply to catch her breath. Her heart still beat fast, but she couldn’t shed her skin. She had labeled herself, she realized, the unfamiliar brushed off as petty irritation. She shivered.
On the second floor, the drifters danced to slow rhythms, birthing shadows which left their masters and undulated down to the first floor, over the guard rail.
Cedric glanced up, eyes narrow: the gaze of an ancient man.
“It’s the homeless,” Mary said. “I let them use the second floor fireplace. It’s electric.” Her jaw unclenched somewhat.
Cedric nodded. “I know. And the chosen shall dance.”
Mary could have sworn she saw fire reflected in his eyes.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Nothing.” The fire, if she had not imagined it, had vanished.
“Anyway, we were driving past here on our way to the show and the car was caught in a snow drift.” He said car as if it were a foreign word, a word without meaning. “I opened the door, the frog made a break for it—as if I don’t treat him with kid gloves already—and I’ve been looking for him ever since.”
Cedric leaned over Mary’s desk, stared at her. His eyes were cinnamon-colored, flecked with gold. “Have you seen him?”
“No. No. I haven’t seen your frog. Sorry.”
In her mind, a forgotten part of her past said, “Stay, stay and have a nightcap in this silly mausoleum of learning, under the eagle’s eye . . .”
A vision of conquest possessed her: a way to re-enter the world triumphant, on the wings of clocks and computers, with this man beside her, perhaps traveling on ghost trains, subduing misfortune through the passage of years, the green hum of television screens. A bustling consumerism, a wonderful new nightclub, perhaps, magic rising from the machinery of the Samuel Devonshire, her husbands swept away, little stick limbs and all.
But the vision faded and she was back inside her skin and she knew the library’s special properties were not transferable or exportable, that it simply was, like—she guessed—the man who stood before her. Cedric was talking.
“—sure this was the place, but if you do see him, please give me a call.”
Cedric rummaged through the many pockets on his vest.
“He can giggle and he can sing. ‘Greensleeves,’ of course. Rather, he can whistle it.”
He picked a card from its hiding place and offered it to Mary. As he leaned towards her, the smell of salt spray and sandalwood washed over her. Mary closed her eyes to catch the scents. Cedric’s hands touched her, shocking, burning. Vaguely, as if from a tunnel of snow, Mary heard him say, “This was the right place, but for now . . . goodbye.”
She opened her eyes. Cedric Greensleeves had reached the doors. Mary lunged for the red button that would lock them, but her hand wavered, a terrible thought freezing her. He knows. He knows I’m hiding. He saw it with his own eyes. How could she keep anything from those cinnamon eyes? The jester passed into the night, leaving jumbled impressions in her mind and a silence the color of sandalwood.
Mary tried to relax, shoulders untensing, fists flowering into hands. Giggles and Greensleeves, she thought, glancing down at the card. A frog with belled cap graced the front. On the back, it read, “Greensleeves and His Magic Frog: Services of Whimsy Available at Typical Prices. Call 777-FROG for details. Or contact the Amazing Mango Brothers Circus. Humor on demand.”
Probably a womanizer, she thought, but felt hollow inside as she remembered his eyes, the perpetual smile.
Mary hardly noticed the last bibliophiles shuffle off into the night.
At nine, the clocks dutifully chimed and ate their tongues for another hour. The computers amused themselves by placing obscene phone calls to the CIA, while the heated air ducts wheezed from perpetual sore pipes. An unease had stolen over Mary. The quality of silence had changed once again. It was somehow . . . green?!
Slapslapslap! Green swathes swept by her sixth sense, wrapping themselves in her hair, hitting her face like the pages of a wind-blown newspaper. She spluttered, rose from her chair. Damn it! Something was out of synch. Straightening her skirt, she began to walk towards the entrance. A left-behind brat had probably overturned a whole shelf of Better Homes and Gardens, spilling this dreadful silence from the second or third floors and down onto her.
Then a sound which was a sound began to rise and Mary stood transfixed, an expression of wonder illuminating her face. For two hundred years, the building that housed the library had played host to other institutions: banks, hotels, synagogues, post offices, but never—never!—had this sound been heard among the balconies and hallways, stacks and marble statues.
The clocks burped and hiccupped in surprise as the sound twisted its way towards the ceiling. A whistle, or brace of whistles intertwined, clear and vibrant, broke Mary’s silence, unraveling thread by thread the cloak she had woven for so many years. “Greensleeves”’ melody filled the Samuel Devonshire Memorial Library, softly, softly, then louder and deeper, until Mary lost herself in the mournful notes. On the second floor, the drifters halted in mid-step of a Caribbean mamba and bowed to their partners, now sweeping across the floor in synchronized simplicity. Their shadows stayed with them, teaching the steps, before separating to
form their own company. No laughter, but the men and women facing each other stared into opposite eyes and felt the thrill of intimacy. The fireplace crackled a counterpoint.
Below, Mary stood entranced, remembering past romances and the possible one which had slipped through her clumsy fingers. Slowly, awkwardly, she began to dance, hands held as if in an invisible partner’s grasp. Her high heels slid effortlessly across the floor, her moves more and more elegant as she lost herself to the music.
She spoke to her invisible partner, but the fantasy soon soured. She shoved it away, but it shoved back. It was no use; despite her best efforts, her husbands’ stick figure faces took on depth, color, substance. Now both danced with her, silent while she apologized to them: I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Just, please, please . . .
Mary stopped dancing. Her shoulders slumped. Why did she always apologize? Why? It always made her feel terrible. She’d done nothing wrong. Angrily, she brushed tears away; the eagle looked on without mercy. She tried to stop crying, failed, and bit on her lip, arms wrapped around her shoulders. God, she thought, what am I doing here? The eagle, possessing the only eye of divinity in the cavern, did not answer. There was no need. She knew the answer, no matter how she blocked it out with silence. And still “Greensleeves” rose and fell upon her ears, breaking every covenant she had made with herself. The sound, piercing the roof through the eagle’s broken eye, emerged into the cold night air to nudge the memories of passersby. Mary whispered the words, eyes shut.
The last note echoed, died away. The whistler giggled. Giggled and broke the spell. Giggled and was answered by a tentative burble from the checkout machine, only too happy to gossip. Mary’s eyes blinked open. The frog! The frog was here, between the aisles. Her librarian instincts came to the fore. Search and destroy! Find the intruder! Return the intruder to Cedric. . . .
Mary rolled up her sleeves and walked down the nearest row, shoes clicking on the marble floor. She reached the end, was faced by more stacks. A loud, obnoxious giggle sounded to her left. A solid green bullet. An emerald Volkswagen Beetle. A whump! and the thing she had seen bowled her over, its skin clammy, its breath damp.
Face red, Mary got up and dusted off her skirt. All thoughts of “Greensleeves” left her. For the first time in several months, Mary Colquhoun was mad. Either that, she thought, or start crying again. She stomped down the aisles. She came to the end: a wall lined with portraits. No frog. Mary started to turn around when a chorus of voices spoke up.
“He went that-a-way!”
“Divide and Conquer!”
“Up the kazoo with Tyler too!”
“He’s heading North by Northwest!”
“Get a net!”
“Get a gun!”
“Get a life . . .”
She stared at the wall. A dozen pairs of eyes stared back from the paintings. Governors and hotel managers, postal generals and noveau riche millionaires. Mary was too mad to be shocked, too wise in the library’s ways.
A man with bushy eyebrows and a beard streaked white said, “Ya know, when I was in the army, we smoked ’em out. That worked real good. Take my word for it.”
“SHUT UP!!” shouted Mary. The sound rebounded from the walls and almost knocked her off her feet. A hand went to her mouth. A garbled echo sounded: “Sush op . . .”
She, Mary Colquhoun, usually quiet as a dust mouse, had raised her voice, broken her own silence. A ghost of a nightclub owner flickered in her features. She smiled. She laughed. She chortled. Nothing was particularly funny, but she couldn’t help herself. She’d call Cedric, tell him his frog was in the library. Grinning, she left the disgruntled portraits still whispering advice.
“Get it in a headlock. Get it in a headlock.”
“Make it play Simon Says . . .”
“Promise it ice cream—or orange marmalade; frogs like marmalade.”
She turned a corner. The voices faded.
II.
“Satchmo,” Mary said, the second floor electric fireplace raging behind her, “I need your help. Please?”
She spoke to the tall, grizzled black man who served as the drifters’ unofficial leader. Mary had called Cedric, only to get his answering service and an extra helping of frog giggle.
Although Satchmo had lived on the second floor for almost two years, Mary did not feel comfortable speaking to him. He called himself Satchmo sarcastically because he owned a saxophone, and she had observed him long enough to realize that, if eccentric, he wasn’t crazy. But he was mute, and that created a special silence in itself. When he had first arrived, Satchmo had greeted her with a notecard that read, WHY ARE YOU SO SAD? Three weeks later, it had been, YOU DON’T TALK MUCH. And still later, WERE YOU A MUTE ONCE? At which point, she had to giggle despite herself.
Gradually, he had revealed himself through the cards: I HATE VEAL. CAT FUR MAKES MY EYES WATER. MY PARENTS DIED WHEN I WAS FIVE. MY HERO IS MARCEL MARCEAU. Is THERE FUZZ IN MY BEARD? Last week the message had been more complex: SOME OF MY ANCESTORS WERE BARBARY PIRATES ON THE WEST AFRICAN COAST. DO I LOOK BLOODTHIRSTY TO YOU?
She did like him, though his questions often tempted her to write back, LEAVE ME ALONE! Satchmo’s music stopped her. His saxophone was a curious instrument. It had been hollowed out, keys stripped from it. But he would put the reed to his lips and the silence would ripple, dance with color. No library visitors ever heard him or saw the music, but his fellow drifters could, and so could Mary.
“I need you to help me catch a . . . a rather large frog.”
Satchmo grinned, revealing uneven yellow teeth. He scribbled a note, handed it to her.
WHY SHOULD I PLAY TOADY TO A FROG?
She frowned. Now was not the time for word games.
“Please, Satchmo. It’ll ruin the books, possibly bring down the stacks, and then I’ll be in real trouble.”
Satchmo’s eyes widened.
Scribble.
HOW BIG IS THIS FROG?
She sighed. “Big. Three or four feet at the shoulder.”
Behind him, the drifters muttered darkly. They had been interrupted in the middle of a Romanian polka.
Scribble.
WILL YOU ORDER ME BOOKS ON BARBARY PIRATES?
“Anything . . .”
Satchmo motioned for her to wait, and walked over to the other drifters. He scribbled something on a card, gave it to a pale, stocky woman.
“He says,” she said, “do you want to help this nutso woman catch a frog the size of a large dog or do you want to keep dancing?”
Mary groaned. She had hoped Satchmo would give them no choice. Almost to a man, this particular group of drifters had . . . eccentricities. Behind Satchmo were pretenders to the name of Nixon, Nader, both Shelleys, Thatcher, Kubrick, Marx, Antoinette, and many more. Visitors to the library soon learned to avoid the second floor. But Mary kind of liked it there.
Much to her amazement, after a prolonged huddle, Satchmo walked over and handed her a note that read, WE WILL HELP—EXCEPT FOR THE ONE KNOWN AS MARY SHELLEY. Mary Shelley was a tiny, bird-like woman with a stutter.
“I-I-I tthh-think we shh-should ll-ll-let it go. I-I-I like mon-mon . . . Monsters!”
Thus began the first (and last) Samuel Devonshire Memorial Frog Hunt. While the clocks churned out seconds like organ grinders, the drifters spread across the first floor. Mary watched and coordinated from the second floor. Satchmo played the sax, hoping to entice the beast with swamp-green music. Thatcher tried to set an ambush. Marx formed a collective with a reluctant Marie Antoinette. Nixon built a trap with himself as bait. Kubrick sat in a corner and made psychotic faces. Nader ran around pleading for humane measures. Or at least that’s what Mary thought he was doing.
Mary had unleashed a monster—an ineffective monster, for the frog remained At Large. Very large. The portraits were no help either. Insulted, they now screamed abuse at her.
Finally, as the scene below developed into a free dance experiment with Maggie and Marx doing the tango, she heard a giggle. A su
spiciously green giggle. From above her. Through an air duct. An air duct leading to the fourth floor. Aha! Aha! She would have to deal with it herself. Alerting the lunatic drifters would only result in losing the element of surprise. Quietly, she backed away from the second floor railing . . .
Mary feared the fourth floor. People disappeared while on it: spinsters or young louts, babies or dogs, it made no difference. At least three, four times a year someone made the trip up . . . and never came down. She had never called the police because the missing person always turned up at some later date . . . but they didn’t come down. Why try to understand it?
Besides, it was too late now. She was walking onto the fourth floor, brought by the pre-Civil War elevator, a clanking contraption which belched smoke and drank three cans of oil a week.
She shivered; it was colder here. And so gray. The fourth had once housed rare books, but a fire had finished them and the debris had never been cleared. Scarred book spines poked out from gutted shelves. She could feel a watchful silence, not at all green, as she drew her arms tightly together. Ghosts lived here. Phantom janitors with spectral mops, or perhaps the books themselves would rise, the pages flap-flapping like wings. Get a grip, she thought, suppressing the urge to slap herself.
She sped wraith-like through the stacks, headed for the railing which overlooked the first floor. When she reached it and stared down at the dancing drifters, she wondered if she shouldn’t have told someone where she was going. The grayness, the silence, unnerved her. The frog wasn’t dangerous, was it? Above her, she could see the eagle, spread continent-wide across the dome.