He’s never been inside the Music Library before, but it immediately becomes one of his favorite places on campus. The quirky building from the previous century with its many steep gables and oddly shaped windows could never have been intended to be a library: it’s broken into innumerable small spaces that were obviously once used for classrooms. As Vaniok explores those spaces, he can see how generations of librarians have tried ingeniously to accommodate the building to their needs. The water damage is in the basement, a cool retreat with arched ceilings suggesting a winery or catacombs. The library here is a maze of rooms at slightly different levels so that wooden inclines have had to be put in for the book carts. The stacks are crammed within tight spaces where the only natural light is what manages to make its way through ground level windows set into the thick walls. The place is oddly silent for a music library. From the collections of outsized old scores jutting from the stacks, thick biographies of composers and histories of individual instruments comes a smell that’s more than a blend of paper, glue and dust; somewhere in the mix are the dirt and sweat from hands and fingers that have rested on the pages over the years. Vaniok senses the presence of people long dead who once sat here reading these books, hearing music in their heads. Take your time, Royall told him, and down in this sheltered basement surrounded by books full of silent music, time almost seems irrelevant.
The damage, when he inspects it, is minor and easy to correct. Though it involves a number of trips in the van to the university’s warehouse where he’ll have to survey the available furniture and determine which pieces will fit the needs of the library, he assures the librarians that everything will be in order in a couple of hours. “You want some coffee, you just let us know,” the woman behind the desk tells him. She’s in her thirties, thin, dark-haired, not especially attractive, but her shy smile captivates Vaniok; it makes him aware of the shadows under her eyes. “I know,” she says, “it can get dusty down there. Your throat will be dry.” He thanks her and goes back to work but he’s surprised when he keeps thinking about her during the morning. You should get more sleep, he wants to tell her. In his imagination he gently touches her thin wrist as he says it. Driving back to the warehouse, he thinks about her. He’s eager to get back to the library.
The job gives a focus to the day. The librarians don’t bother him and he’s able to find his own rhythm. Once, near noon, as he’s wheeling a bureau through a corner of the stacks something catches his attention, makes him stop what he’s doing. There, standing apart from the other books on its shelf, is a thick, moss-green volume, and as he approaches it he realizes that the words he’s been reading on the spine are in the language of his country. He can’t resist taking the book from the shelf and opening it. A musty smell rises from the paper and for a moment he’s a stranger to himself, the marks on the page refuse to yield any meaning. His heart beating stupidly, his fingers move across the textured surface of the binding, he stands there with the book in his hands until at last things settle into place. The book is a study of church music written in the early years of the century. He reads the name of the author and the press, the city in which it was published, their nation’s capital. How remarkable that he should encounter a piece of the homeland in this place under the earth. He has no particular interest in church music but he nods approvingly as he studies the title, then opens the book to a random page where he reads a few sentences. Though he doesn’t fully grasp what the author is saying, the words convey a sense of the solemnity and hush of churches. When he returns to the title page he quietly speaks the author’s name, he runs his fingers across the paper, adding his imprint to those already there.
Still holding the book, Vaniok is aware of a vague image that’s floated into his consciousness: somebody is pushing a stick with all his strength, his teeth clenched in a grimace expressing satisfaction as well as exertion. It isn’t a stick, Vaniok realizes, it’s a spear and the man is pushing it into the body of someone lying beneath him. Even though the image is so vividly present to Vaniok that he can’t believe it wasn’t something he actually saw, after a moment he realizes where it came from: it was something Jory talked about at the ocean, when he described a statue of Michael the archangel driving the point of his weapon through the devil’s ribs. Yes, he said he saw it in a church on his trip to the Borderlands.
The Borderlands: the man went there and he couldn’t remember if he’d passed through Bostra. For a moment Vaniok is back in that place, that time: the sound of the bugs that filled the evening quiet, the fishy smell of the water flowing torpidly under the bridge. Yet even as his body tenses with memory he can’t dismiss that angel: how satisfying it would have felt to drive the shaft of metal through the breast of his adversary, to push, to twist the thick rod, its sharp blade tearing through flesh, muscle, and tissue.
The image of the triumphant Michael pleases him and in this state of satisfaction Vaniok allows himself to think again about the recent excursion to the sea. What if he did have a little too much to drink at a Constitution Day picnic? That would have been normal enough back in the homeland. And what if he did lose control for a few seconds? Really, that’s all that it was, just the interval from the time Ila noticed the flashing lights of the police car to the policeman’s departure—a few minutes at most, though by the time the police car pulled away, Vaniok wasn’t in the grip of that panic any longer; he was feeling remorse. A few seconds of panic was all that it was. You don’t judge a person by what happens in a few seconds, but what happens over a lifetime. From this vantage point, his behavior on the highway seems entirely understandable, forgivable, a minor lapse. He can even imagine himself telling the story in such a way as to make it comic. He smiles at the thought. Here in the basement of the Music Library the episode seems a long distance away.
The little daily tasks knit together his sense of well-being. The van coughs to a start, after a moment its engine settles into a steady throb; a bell sounds as Vaniok backs up the vehicle. Unloading a wooden cabinet at the library, he holds its sharp-angled shape steady with his gloved hands, the unwieldy bulk pulling at his arms and shoulders. Carefully he settles the piece of furniture on to a dolly, straps it on, then tilts it, the cabinet’s weight sliding off like water—all this is more real than imagined failures. What more could you ask for than warm sunlight on old brick, the smell of earth in the shade, a hidden, book-crammed corner where you can work efficiently?
“I wondered if you’d like some coffee now,” the librarian with the shadowed eyes asks him.
Yes, he would, he tells her. “You’re very kind,” he adds and she smiles shyly. She’s wearing a dark blue dress with a flower print. For a moment he thinks about complimenting her on the dress. He might even show her the book about church music. This is written in my language, he’d tell her. But he says nothing more. Instead he sips the coffee and nods appreciatively. He looks at the clock: his day here has a long way to go yet.
Alone once more in his own domain, Vaniok feels the push of his memories: the trip home from the ocean, himself in the back seat, Jory driving, talking to Ila. Something prods his consciousness again, only to elude him without taking shape fully, though it remains nearby, substantial, a presence, close enough to touch: as he drifted in and out of sleep on that trip he managed to hear some of what they were talking about, he remembers now. There was something urgent, some problem Jory had. Dream or not, it’s so close Vaniok is sure that in an instant he’ll have the man’s exact words in his hands, he clenches in anticipation; but all he can summon up is the quick, nervous rush of Jory’s voice, a blur of sound. Damn, gone again. Then, just when he’s on the point of conceding he might have dreamed it all, it comes to him: papers. Jory said something to Ila about papers, some trouble about his papers. He was talking to her about the time the policeman stopped them. Vaniok is alert now, he knows he’s on to something important. His hands are on a wooden chair but he’s back there in the car. Can Jory be traveling on false papers? The idea fascinates him. That
would certainly account for the man’s nervousness, which hadn’t escaped Vaniok’s attention. Well, Mr. Jory, he says to himself, or whoever you are, what is it you’re running away from? The prospect of encountering his countryman at work no longer disturbs Vaniok. In fact he wishes he could see him: what would his eyes reveal?
The day passes so quickly that when he catches sight of the clock he can’t believe its hands are really tilted downward toward the end of the work day. Looking up at the basement wall, he sees how far the shadow has moved and he feels a twinge of regret.
When he gets back to the warehouse he gives Royall an account of what he’s done. “Good job,” the man says. Then, dropping his voice, he adds, “Some of us are going to the Barn after work. Why don’t you join us?”
“Sure,” Vaniok answers, unable to keep from grinning. “Sure thing. I’d like that.” And soon he’s walking down the main street of the university town feeling for the first time as though he actually belongs here. The Music Library was a discovery: possibly he’ll visit it some day, maybe read a little of that book on church music. Who knows? He might find something in it. Could the author have been from the Deep Lakes? He hadn’t even thought of that. Once more he remembers the woman who gave him coffee and the corners of his own mouth turn up, imagining her smiling broadly when he returns to the library. He’s feeling so good that he even smiles at the small band of war protesters clustered on a corner. Their numbers have been dwindling, Vaniok has noticed, and even their hecklers ignore them. “Hi,” he says to one of the serious-looking young men carrying a sign. The man smiles back at him gratefully.
Even before he enters the Barn, he can see the workers at a table near the window and he waves to them from the street. Behind the glass Royall gestures for him to join them, other hands beckon as well. Inside, the place is noisy and packed. Waitresses carrying trays of food and drinks hold them swaying above their heads, deftly avoiding collisions. Because of its victory the previous day, the university’s basketball team will be playing in the championship game soon. Sudden shouts erupt from different areas of the restaurant, occasionally students burst into the team’s fight song.
The table to which Vaniok is invited has a number of pitchers of beer in various stages of consumption. Snacks are strewn across the surface promiscuously. It’s clear that Vaniok’s fellow workers have already started drinking in earnest.
“Welcome,” Royall says. “Hey, how do you say it in your language?” When Vaniok tells them they laughingly attempt it.
Before long he’s got a glass of his own and is drinking with the others. They’re seated by a large window with a view of the street—he wishes Ila would walk by now and see him surrounded by this cheerful company. A couple of men at the end of the table are talking very seriously about work, their beers almost untouched. During the week, a rumor has been going around that the university will be making job cuts and Vaniok catches enough of their conversation to recognize that that’s what they’re talking about. Instinctively, he feels a sense of threat and he turns his attention to the larger group that, to his relief, is talking about basketball. He knows the names of the important players and pronounces them carefully. He makes an observation about yesterday’s game. The men respond with approving nods.
A few swallows of beer have been enough to give him a pleasant sense of distance, the muted roar of the patrons is soothing. He can’t imagine a place where he’d rather be. He laughs to himself to think that he hasn’t done anything out of the ordinary and yet he feels a great sense of benevolence toward everyone. And only two days ago, as they drove to the ocean, he’d carried a burden of shame.
After a time, Carl, a man Vaniok has talked to a half dozen times, comes over from the other side of the table and sits beside him. He has the earnest expression of someone who’s been drinking for a while and there’s a skim of sweat above his upper lip. He looks at Vaniok a long while before asking, “Hey, what’s wrong with that guy Jory?” He gives the name a strange pronunciation but the reference to his countryman makes Vaniok suddenly attentive. His first response is irritation that Jory should intrude on his happy moment this way, but it’s clear from Carl’s tone that he isn’t bringing up the man’s name in order to praise him. And the fact is, Jory isn’t here, he wasn’t invited.
Vaniok pulls himself forward expectantly; he takes a quick swallow of beer. All at once it seems as if he and Carl are enclosed in a separate sphere while the rowdy good cheer of the restaurant is taking place behind a transparent wall. “What’s wrong with him?” Carl repeats. “That man treats everybody like they’ve got body odor or something.”
Vaniok can’t help smiling. At the same time, though, he feels he ought to stand up for his countryman. The newcomer hasn’t been here very long, he tells Carl. Besides, he’s just reserved, it’s his manner. But these defenses are muttered quickly and Vaniok makes no effort to elaborate. It would be pointless to try to explain the differences between the people from the Deep Lakes and those from the region of the capital, who actually fought each other at times during their nation’s troubled history. Carl listens, his brow concentrated into a frown. Clearly, he isn’t satisfied. “I can see what you mean, though,” Vaniok concedes. “He’s a bit stiff.”
Carl smiles thinly. “Stiff, that’s true. He’s stiff, all right.” But he frowns again, a man convinced there’s more to the story. “Sometimes it seems like he’s running away from something,” he says. “You know what I mean?”
Vaniok shrugs but the man’s words have struck a chord. “Well,” he says evasively, realizing he wants to hear more. What does Carl think about Jory? The idea that Carl is suspicious of him intrigues Vaniok. What would the man say if he’d been in the car on the highway, seen what Vaniok had seen in Jory’s eyes when the policeman pulled them over. What if he’d heard what Vaniok is now sure he heard Jory say to Ila about his papers? Yes, Carl would agree: Jory acted very much like someone who was running away from something. Vaniok takes a quick drink to quell the rising excitement he feels.
Carl is a big man with broad shoulders and a nose too small for his face. He wears a checked shirt and a billed cap pushed back on his head. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t some kind of criminal back there,” he says and looks at Vaniok with a fitful steadiness.
Vaniok’s skin prickles; his heart is pounding but he can’t put his name on what he’s feeling. What does he really know about Jory except for his jar of soil and his fondness for churches—and whatever it was he heard in that car? Yes, he could say to Carl, a criminal. Or something. But, of course, what would that mean? The truth is, he’d have to explain, they’re all regarded as criminals back there.
“I mean,” Carl leans forward, “just the way he acts, so secret, you don’t know what to believe about him.” He’s smiling loosely, making it clear he has no such feelings about Vaniok. “You know what I mean?” he insists.
Vaniok can barely keep from answering. I heard him, he wants to say. I heard him talking about traveling on false papers. You’re just guessing, Carl, but I heard him. But Vaniok keeps himself in check, he simply nods. Who are you, Mr. Jory? he says to himself. He smiles, imagining himself confronting the man from the capital with that question.
Carl smiles back, then flicks his head in the general direction of the street and says in a quieter voice, “I’m not making any accusations, I want you to understand that, but it wouldn’t surprise me at all to see him hanging around with those people out there holding signs, the ones protesting the war.” He looks at Vaniok steadily. “Anyway,” he says, “you’ve got to admit he’s not very friendly.” Another worker who happens to have turned in their direction grunts in agreement, then turns away. Carl takes a deep drag on his cigarette and exhales thoughtfully. “I mean, he could be hiding something, couldn’t he?”
Vaniok is a spectator to his own conversation with Carl. He’s still thinking about the urgent exchange between Jory and Ila in the car: he can see the silhouettes of their heads above
the backs of the seats. Yes, he wants to say, he’s hiding something but I’m sure it doesn’t have anything to do with that war—why should Jory have any interest in the conflict? “Well,” Vaniok turns up his hand, “lots of people are hiding something.” He tries to make it sound neutral and Carl seems disappointed. “Still,” Vaniok adds, “I can see why you think that about him, though. Yes, I understand that. A man you might be suspicious of.” After he’s said it he can’t believe he actually uttered those words.
Carl takes a long swallow of beer and nods thoughtfully. Vaniok wishes he were alone so he could pursue the things he’s been thinking about: the almighty Jory suddenly seems more vulnerable. “Who knows?” he says dismissively.
Carl answers with a somber nod, then he winks at him, as if the two of them have come to some agreement. Vaniok responds with a vague gesture. Nobody says anything for a while and the noise surges around them. Vaniok takes another drink of beer, then puts the glass down. The scene around him wears an element of strangeness and he wonders if he’s become drunk on a few swallows of beer.
A few feet away Carl draws on his cigarette and exhales. He’s silent, thoughtful, as the cloud of smoke thins, absorbed into the band of haze between them. At last he shakes his head. “There must have been a lot of funny stuff that went on back there,” he says confidentially, his eyes narrowing. “You know, I’ve got a lady friend at the university that can track down just about anything on her computer if you give her enough time. I’ll bet she could find out a thing or two about our friend Jory.”
“Oh?” Vaniok tries to cover his excitement. “That’s interesting.”
The 14th Day Page 12