by kc dyer
I hear a rustle behind me, and instinctively turn the page of my novel. When I look up, I find it’s only Horace. He shares the supervision duties of this department with a woman named Judith, but as she generally works mornings, I run into her less frequently. Horace and Judith have been here since long before I first came to discover this room, and together they are a well-oiled machine—toiling methodically and serenely to ensure no one who ever enters this room leaves unfulfilled.
Over the years, Horace and I have never discussed my need to come here, to find order when the rest of my life is a mess. We don’t have to. We are simpatico. Possibly the fact I live and work with two sixty-something gay men doesn’t hurt in this regard.
Nevertheless, it is unusual enough for Horace to float out from behind the front desk, that I turn enquiring eyes in his direction. His face, winter pale, breaks into a soft smile. Already, my own problems are fading.
“Everything okay?” Horace breathes near my ear, managing to effectively communicate his concern without violating my personal space.
“It is now,” I whisper back, knowing that’s enough. Horace never needs details.
There’s a gentle whooshing noise, and suddenly a photograph lies on the polished surface in front of me.
“This crossed my desk last week,” Horace says, his words a gentle zephyr in my left ear. “And I knew, somehow, it was meant for you. That is, for me to share with you.”
After staring at the photo for a moment, I shoot him a sideways glance. His face reflects his usual serene state, his beatific smile broadening a little.
“Where—where did this come from?” I manage.
My newly found calm, while not shattered, is more perturbed than I can ever remember in this usually safe place.
“The provenance is not completely clear,” he murmurs. “I believe it is one of a collection, taken in the Westfjords of Iceland, and photographed by a renowned traveler who goes only by the handle of Alex. Her—or his—collection, however, has been gaining notoriety over the past few years, and we have begun to amass a folio of their work.”
He smiles, and angles the photograph more precisely on the desk in front of me. I stare down at it, mesmerized. The picture is of a grey wall, scarred and pitted and altogether unlovely. There’s a tracing of ice along the ground and in one corner, a small pile of dirty snow. The wall is peppered with graffiti tags, but the photographer has focused the lens on a motto, scrawled in vivid magenta paint. It reads:
DO MORE OF WHAT MAKES YOU HAPPY
The word happy, unlike the rest, is rendered in a rainbow of colors.
“At first, I was ready to dismiss the work as trite,” breathes Horace, after a moment. “But the more I look at it, the more I find it speaks to me.”
For the first time in our acquaintance, Horace touches a hand to my shoulder.
“Perhaps you, too, may grasp the truth encapsulated within this work?” he asks.
Without another word, he rises, and returns to his desk, leaving the photo with its haunting message behind.
What makes you happy, Ramona? it whispers to me.
“This library,” I whisper back. “My work. Making order out of chaos.”
The woman two tables over looks up at me sharply. Her scarf has somehow come unpinned.
And suddenly? I know what to do.
Carefully scooping up Horace’s photo by the edges, I return it to his desk. When he lifts a fist to me, I bump it with my own, and hurry out the door.
chapter six
IMAGE: Flatiron Building
IG: Romy_K [March 16]
#ExLibris #OpportunityorDisaster #DesperateTimes
6
The following morning, the address on the crumpled flyer leads me into a building that could not be more different than the call center. After riding one of the posh chrome elevators up forty floors, I step out to find a 360-degree view of New York City. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen such a panoramic view of my home, and I pause for a moment to drink it all in. Then from behind me, I hear a quiet cough.
I turn to see a young woman with classic pre-Raphaelite features—dark hair and eyes, and skin the color of fresh milk. She identifies herself as Powell—just Powell—assistant to the CEO.
I give her my name and force myself to keep the crumpled page in my pocket. “I’m here to apply for the planning position. Is it still open?”
She rises from her seat and smiles kindly. “I don’t believe a final decision has been made as yet. Let me take you in to see the boss.”
“This is some view.” It’s impossible not to feel impressed.
There isn’t a limp flag in sight.
Powell smiles. “You should see it from the penthouse. Breathtaking.”
She walks me down a glass hallway to a set of heavy double doors. Embossed in gold leaf is a name plate which reads “Teresa Cipher, CEO ExLibris.”
This throws me a little, as I expect to meet someone from human resources, not the CEO. But Powell taps lightly on the door, then swings it open. The CEO gets to start every day by looking out over the Flatiron Building, with the East River glittering behind it in the morning sun. The room itself is a study in understated elegance; all mahogany and glass and rosewood, with a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf along the inside wall.
“Ms. Cipher, this is Ramona Keene. She’s here to inquire about the—er—new opening.”
Behind the desk, Teresa Cipher gets to her feet. She is a statuesque blonde, with platinum hair, large carefully manicured hands, and a tight sheath dress. Around her wafts a cloud of equal parts Chanel No. 5 and cigarettes. Her flawless, powdered skin puts her somewhere between forty and sixty, though she may have been there awhile. Balancing an amber cigarette holder in one hand, she has a Hermès silk scarf fashioned into a sling on her other arm.
I don’t know if I should offer to shake hands or not, and so I just stand there awkwardly as the assistant closes the door behind me. After a long moment while she takes me in from top to toe, Ms. Cipher speaks. “Please sit down,” she says, in a cultivated baritone.
As I pull up an elegantly minimalist chair, I think of the many “No Smoking” signs I passed on my way through the building, and manage to suppress a sneeze.
Ms. Cipher opens our conversation with a brief précis of the company. ExLibris, it turns out, is a firm that specializes in replicating literary journeys. “If the book has been written,” she says, “we find a way to re-create any experience depicted.”
I don’t even know how to respond to this. I can hear Tommy’s voice in my head saying, Some people have more money than sense, but I crush that thought as it rises up.
“That’s—incredible,” I manage, at last. “So, you organize all the details behind the scenes?”
Her shoulders lift a fraction. “Well, travel can always be unpredictable. It helps that I am, at heart, a bit of a gambler. But I promise you, we’ve never disappointed a client. Our record is my proudest achievement.”
She swivels her chair and gestures broadly at the book-covered wall. “ExLibris offers our clientele the journey of a lifetime. We produced the first Outlander tours in Scotland,” she notes with a smile, pointing to a row of books on the shelf behind her. “Now the series has found a whole new life on television, our influence has become a trifle less exclusive over there, I have to admit.”
I lean back in my chair, my eyes running across the huge collection of books on her shelves. The selection would please my Uncle Merv if he could see it. Ms. Cipher goes on to explain how the literary journeys she organizes run the gamut from re-creating the feast scene in Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones, to a street tour of Gabriel García Márquez’s Colombia.
“If a scene exists, we will take our client there in person, no matter how distant the setting,” Teresa Cipher says. “It is our goal to create an adventure they will neve
r forget.”
I can’t help smiling. “Just like The Amazing Race?” I ask. “Adventures all over the world?”
Ms. Cipher’s face takes on a frozen expression. “Certainly not,” she says derisively. “This is no tawdry reality show. We are offering as close to the genuine experience as possible, drawn from the pages of the client’s favorite book. This is a literary endeavor, I assure you.”
I shrink a little in my chair. Some of my favorite memories are of cuddling between my uncles as a child, watching The Amazing Race on the television that sits inside Tommy’s antique armoire. With the exception of a school field trip in fifth grade, that show is the closest I’ve ever come to real travel. But clearly, Teresa Cipher doesn’t share this view.
A large clock on the wall ticks loudly through this moment of awkward silence. When I can’t stand it any longer, I clear my throat and ask about the job opening.
Teresa Cipher crushes out her cigarette and straightens her spine.
“ExLibris has been booming recently, and the company is short-staffed. One of my high-end clients, a Jules Verne fan, has decided that he’d like to retrace the journey of Phileas Fogg, on his round-the-world adventure. Due to the complexity and expense of such a journey, the organization would, under normal circumstances, be entirely under my purview.”
She pauses, cautiously lifting the arm encased in the sling. “Unfortunately, I broke my arm last week after slipping on black ice. There’s no way I can even carry a bag, let alone record the details of such an elaborate project.”
She raises an eyebrow at me. “You are familiar with the story, I take it?”
I have been sitting pretty much in stunned silence all this time, but I nod at this. “Absolutely,” I say, clutching at a vague memory of reading the book as a teen.
All the same, as the CEO opens a case on her desk to extract another cigarette, I can feel my eyes narrowing. For one thing, I’m quite sure the woman sitting in front of me has never carried anything heavier than a clutch purse in her life, let alone luggage.
I decide to take the plunge. “Can you tell me what the position entails?”
Ms. Cipher flicks a gold lighter and inhales deeply before answering. “The job,” she says, the smoke trickling out slowly with her words, “is to follow in the footsteps of the famous protagonist Phileas Fogg. Specifics of the journey—including recommended modes of travel, suitable accommodations, and associated activities—are then reported back to our offices here at ExLibris. From here, our staff compile this information and generate a safe, contemporary adventure for the client.”
I can feel my jaw drop. “So, not only organizing, then? I would—I mean, the person who gets this job—would need to actually take a trip around the world?”
Teresa Cipher nods. “The chosen candidate will be provided with a camera-equipped smartphone, and a prepaid credit card, allowing for a reasonable per diem to cover sustenance, accommodation, and travel. All methods of transportation are acceptable, with the single exception of airlines.”
I hold up a hand. “Excuse me? How can it even be possible to get around the world without airplanes?”
She shrugs. “The goal is to make real the travels of the fictional Phileas Fogg. There can be no commercial aircraft involved, naturally, as the book was written before the advent of tourist-based airlines. Of course, our timeline is very short, so we can’t expect there will be no air travel, but nothing of a commercial nature is acceptable. Our client wants to re-create Fogg’s actual experience, warts and all.”
The very idea of this stuns me into silence.
After a moment, Teresa Cipher leans forward. “Do you hold a valid passport?”
“I have a passport,” I reply carefully. This statement is only technically true, but I’ll worry about the details later.
“Excellent,” continues Teresa, crushing her cigarette into a crystal bowl. “The idea is that our selected candidate will keep in close communication, connecting with our office at each checkpoint. We expect regular e-mails, reporting each leg of the journey and the suitability for the client. This may include photo documentation, and brief interviews with a few of the more unique and amusing individuals encountered along the way. Should the chosen mode of travel prove too arduous, of course, alternatives must be determined and presented in these reports.”
I squeeze my hands together under the desk so the trembling doesn’t show. “Very interesting,” I croak.
Perhaps sensing my anxiety, Teresa Cipher locks her eyes on me. “You are fond of travel?” she asks.
I hope the heat I can feel rising on my neck stays below my collar. “Absolutely,” I insist, with as much bravado as I can muster.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, I think, pasting on a confident smile. After all, the situation with my uncles and the bookshop could not be more desperate.
“Excellent,” says the CEO, and I allow myself to breathe again.
Abruptly, Teresa Cipher uses her good hand to push back her chair. “This client is an American,” she says, reaching for one of the leather-bound editions on the shelf behind her desk. “And so, the decision has been taken to start and end the quest right here in the most quintessential of American cities—New York.”
As she slides the book carefully off the shelf, I see “Jules Verne” written in gold leaf on a half-dozen other titles nearby. “Obviously,” she adds, “circumstances are different today, a hundred and fifty years on from when Verne wrote this story.”
With a single fingertip, she slides the volume across the desktop. It spins slowly, so by the time it reaches me, the title is face up.
“The goal is for our contemporary traveler to hit the same touchpoints as Fogg did, to experience how the world has changed since the time the novel was penned, but also to see how it remains the same.”
As it seems expected, I flip open the cover of the book, and can see right away that this volume is a recent reissue. It has an elegant leather binding with the requisite gold leaf for the title, but the inside holds none of the charm of most of the old books in my uncles’ shop.
In fact, it looks like this edition has never been read.
In the quiet of the elegant office, my mind is racing. There’s no question about it. This opening is a chance to see the world, all expenses paid.
And I’ve never heard anything more frightening in my life.
The CEO’s voice breaks in on my thoughts. “I should add that additionally, this trip is to serve as a testing ground. Should all expectations be met, on successful completion, the candidate will be offered a full-time position with ExLibris.”
“Is that so?” I reply, working hard to keep the fear out of my voice.
“Indeed. The starting salary is only fifty thousand dollars a year, I’m afraid, but we will offer a project completion bonus of ten thousand dollars to the successful candidate.”
My heart is pounding so hard, I’m quite sure she can hear it from her spot across the giant mahogany desktop. Not knowing what else to do, I slide my résumé across the desk. It’s only a single page long, and I regret not having taken time to pad it up a bit. One look, and she’ll know how desperately unqualified I am for this position.
But Teresa Cipher gives the page only the briefest of glances before turning her attention back to me.
“Photographer, hmm? What is your experience on foreign soil?”
I don’t even have to think hard about this one, since I’ve only been on foreign soil once in my life.
“I—ah—recently had a wonderful time photographing the Bonhomme at Carnaval in Quebec City,” I reply, wondering in what universe fifteen years ago counts as recent. And then, remembering the school report I must have on a hard drive somewhere, I add: “I can forward you the review I wrote at the time, if you’d like.”
Teresa Cipher delicately extinguishes her cigarette. “No
t necessary,” she says. “This company is unlike any other, of course, so most of the required insight is acquired on the job.” She slides my résumé back across the desk. “Thank you for coming in. Please drop this off with my assistant. I’ll consider your application along with the others.”
“The others?”
“Oh, I have interviewed several other potential candidates,” she assures me, smiling.
I know I’m expected to leave at this moment, but I feel somehow frozen to my seat. During the whole of this interview, I’ve been mostly in a state of shock. The desk job I thought I was applying for is in fact so much more. But the sorry truth is that I have never—not even once—traveled anywhere alone in my entire life.
Suddenly, in spite of my tiny résumé, I’m determined to admit no such thing to this chic person patiently waiting to usher me out of her elegant office. And in spite of the fear clenching my stomach, the idea that someone else could snatch this opportunity away is unbearable.
This job is the ideal solution to every one of my problems. It’s an opportunity to add some international flavor to my photography portfolio. An opportunity to avoid taking a job in Call Center Jonah’s seventh level of hell. And an opportunity, as terrifying as it seems, to see the world for myself, instead of waiting for adventure to walk through the door of my uncle’s bookshop. Even better, expenses are covered, so all the money earned can go straight to saving the shop from our evil new landlord. And, if everything works out, I will even have a real job to return to.
Still, I can’t help feeling the whole thing seems too good to be true. Instead of getting up to leave, I lean forward.
“What’s the catch?” I blurt, before I can stop myself.
Teresa Cipher, who had half risen out of her chair, resumes her seat and crosses her legs. From where I’m sitting, I can see how one of her shoes, which is likely worth more money than I’ve made in the last year, casually dangles from the toes of that foot.