by kc dyer
“No catch,” she replies. “But of course, there are certain—parameters. Our chosen candidate must be ready to embark almost immediately, and to follow the literary itinerary as provided. We expect frequent, detailed updates, this last being nonnegotiable, as we require sufficient, timely information to generate the program of travel for our client. ExLibris will, of course, provide the communication equipment, and the candidate simply has to find an appropriate location to upload a digital file of text and photos at each checkpoint.”
She stands, and I slowly make my way to my own feet. “Of course, should the candidate not fulfill any of these requirements, or, indeed, neglect to cover the entire distance in the maximum allotted time, their eligibility for the position, obviously, will be forfeit.”
Ah, I think. So, there is a catch.
“The maximum time?” I ask softly. “You mean eighty days?”
For the first time, Teresa Cipher laughs. “Oh my goodness, no,” she says. “Our client expects to depart in June. The reconnaissance trip must necessarily be very brief—and completed before the first of May, to allow sufficient time to get everything set for our client’s journey.”
Shooting a glance down at my phone, I’m stunned into silence at the sight of the date. Of course, this is the twenty-first century. It can’t take more than four or five days to fly around the entire planet by air. I’m sure I read somewhere that the space station circles the planet every ninety-two minutes. How hard can it be to make it on the ground in seven weeks?
Another thought occurs to me.
“And if I return early? Before the beginning of May, I mean.”
Teresa Cipher’s face lights up. “As long as you’ve attained all the designated stops on the itinerary, and kept your reports up to date, we will consider the contract fulfilled.”
Swinging open the door, she steps aside to allow room for me to pass. “My assistant, Powell, will give you an application form to complete before you leave. We’ll be in touch.”
To my surprise, she reaches out with her unencumbered hand as I walk past. It’s her left hand, so the shake is awkward. Her grip is much firmer than I expect, but I do my best to reply in kind. This contest of wills is so brief, it’s over almost before it begins, but her eyes twinkle at me as she releases my hand at last.
Deeply confounded by the whole encounter, I shake out my slightly crushed hand and flee down the corridor.
chapter seven
IMAGE: Around the World, First Edition
IG: Romy_K [March 16]
#JulesVerne #TheBookThatStartedItAll #LifeImitatesArt
13
You have to be the least qualified person on the planet for a job like this, Romy,” says Tommy. His nose is red and raw from his head cold, but I can tell he feels he has to say something. Uncle Merv is so shocked, he can’t even articulate a word. “You’ve never even been out of the city!”
“Have too,” I counter quickly. “Fifth-grade field trip, Quebec City. It was Carnaval, n’est-ce pas?”
It’s after nine thirty at night and I’m sitting with the uncles at their tiny kitchen table. Tommy has cleared the plates, and Merv is standing with the afterdinner teapot still in his hand. He finally sets the pot down, and shakes the heat out of his fingers, looking stunned.
I’m speaking with forced jocularity, pushing down the inner anxiety that is threatening to swamp me, but my terrible French is fooling no one. “If I get the job, the salary is fifty thousand dollars, Tommy. And there’s a bonus of ten thousand dollars at the end. That’s enough to buy us time to figure out how to save the bookshop.”
Uncle Merv looks shaken and sighs heavily. “Darling girl, I’m moved that you’d even consider something like this, but you know it’s a crazy idea, right?”
Before I can reply, he disappears through the door to the store. Tommy huffs impatiently and, without asking, pours me a cup of tea. I mutter my thanks and manage to avoid his gaze by fiddling with the sugar tongs. Two minutes later, Merv bursts back into the kitchen with a dusty old book in his hand.
“All the same, Phileas Fogg didn’t fly commercial either, and he made it round in eighty days,” he says as he hands me the book. “I guess you could do worse than follow his lead.”
The cover of the book in my hand is green, and fairly battered around the corners. The title on both the spine and the front cover is outlined in gold leaf, and the pages still bear a trace of gilt on the edges. When I lift the cover, it smells something like a garden after a spring rain—raw and earthy and old. “Is this a first edition, Merv?” I whisper.
He nods. “It’s dated 1873 on the title page, and this copy is even signed by the author,” he says. “If you don’t get the job, we can get ten grand for it—maybe twelve on eBay. But you hold on to it for now, for luck. Maybe it’ll help you get the gig.”
Tommy gives an impressive sniff, which manages to convey disdain and be slightly disgusting at the same time. “Don’t encourage the child,” he says, clattering the dishes in the sink with unnecessary vigor.
Merv pats my hand, and though my stomach is still in knots, I smile. I know how valuable this book is, and his faith touches me.
Later that night, as I turn out the lights in my wee apartment, my phone tings. It’s an e-mail, but I don’t recognize the sender at first—K. Powell. Then I see the e-mail domain is @exlibrisexpeditions.com, and I remember Ms. Cipher’s assistant.
Writing on behalf of the CEO, Powell thanks me for my consideration, but politely indicates the position has been filled. She notes the successful applicant is a young photographer with extensive travel experience, and ten thousand followers on Instagram. Worse, this individual is apparently fully prepared to depart as soon as tomorrow—March 18th. On behalf of Teresa Cipher, Powell wishes me nothing but the best in my future endeavors.
Dropping my phone onto the pillow beside me, I close my eyes and desperately think back to the application form. Where did I go wrong? I had noted that I’m between boyfriends in the “Anything Else You’d Like to Share?” section. At the time, I reasoned that it might put me ahead of any applicants who have to worry about leaving behind relationships or families. But maybe it was too much information?
Grabbing the phone again, I scroll through the message app. It doesn’t take long to find what I’m looking for, seeing as it’s the final note from my last boyfriend.
The ignominy of being dumped by text rises up to swallow me again. I mean, it wasn’t the great tragedy of my life or anything. Luis and I had only been going together for five months at the time of the dumping. All the same, I’d really liked him. I thought we had something special. When he’d invited me to visit his cousins over the New Year in Guadalajara, I’d embraced the idea at first. But as the date crawled closer, I found myself coming up with every possible excuse not to go. My uncles needed me over the holiday season. I was considering applying for an online course, and they were going to let me know in January. Mrs. Justice Rosa was going off to visit her grandchildren, and she’d asked me to look after her parrot.
In the end, I think it was the parrot that did it. I pull up his text and read it again.
What are you so scared of? he wrote. You chose a freakin bird over a visit in the sun with my family?
It’s a long-standing obligation, I replied. I’m sorry. Can we meet for coffee and talk about it?
His final text came two nail-biting hours later. Nah. The parrot sez it all.
And that was it. He didn’t answer any of my further texts.
I flip back over to my e-mail and read Powell’s message again. At least she didn’t throw a parrot in my face.
I drop the phone and pull my pillow over my head, forcing myself to face the truth. I hadn’t gone with Luis, because it meant leaving the city. What kind of weirdo is willing to give up on a relationship with a lovely guy because she doesn’t want to leave home?<
br />
“Something’s got to change,” I mutter aloud. “And if you’re going to help save the bookshop, that something is you. You have to change, Romy. This might be your only chance.”
I jump out of bed, too wired up to sleep. I’ll show him, I think, scooping up the phone, and deleting all of Luis’s messages for good measure. Justice Rosa’s damn parrot will haunt me no more.
Since space is at a premium, I always store my out-of-season clothes in an ancient suitcase under my bed, and I pull it out now, and stare at it for a long moment. It’s brown leather, more scuffed than a hobo’s shoe, but all the hardware works fine. There’s a single label affixed to the lid, a sticker made to look like an Alaskan license plate. The top of the sticker has worn away, but along the bottom, “The Last Frontier” is still readable. I run my finger over the words, just once, and then flip the lid open.
I spend the rest of the night alternatively gathering my very few belongings from around the tiny studio apartment, and writing lists. Once I’ve got everything packed, I sit down and jot a note to my uncles, filled with false optimism and inauthentic statements intended to make me sound bravely adventurous.
Fake it till you make it, Romy.
Next, I open Instagram, trying to scope out the competition. This is a big city, and it’s filled with photographers. In the end, I narrow it down to three possibilities, each an increasingly photogenic young New York woman who has traveled the globe. I lose almost an hour clicking through their Insta stories, many of which feature artfully skimpy outfits. Two of the women have more than twelve thousand followers, and one has a hundred thousand.
I have thirteen.
I spend another twenty minutes trying to mimic their perfect over-the-shoulder smolders in my full-length mirror, but I have to quit when my neck starts to cramp.
Reading the names of the places they’ve been makes my throat close up. The jungles of Vietnam? Ice fields in Norway? One even worked as a janitor in Antarctica, purely for the opportunity to visit the seventh—and final—continent on her “bucket list.” It makes this little race around the world seem like a walk in the park.
Not for me, though. Not for me.
I rub my sore eyes and try to swallow down my self-doubt. Even with the thought of beating out these smug faces, it takes concentration and quite a bit of deep breathing to convince myself I’m doing the right thing. My eyes fall onto the copy of Jules Verne’s book, and I think about how, even in the face of Tommy’s doubt, Merv still believes in me.
I glance over at the alarm clock on my bedside table and see it’s 5:00 a.m. My Uncle Merv always rises at six, so—it’s now or never. I clutch the handle of the old suitcase, tiptoe down the stairs, and leave the note for my uncles under the iron knocker on the door to their flat. Then I sneak out onto the street.
It’s time to talk Teresa Cipher into giving me the job.
chapter eight
IMAGE: Open Suitcase
IG: Romy_K [NYC, March 17]
#MadPackingSkillz #LeaveNothingBehind
13
Packing List for Absurd Attempt at Traveling Around the World
Laptop, plus accessories
Phone, plus cord
Hair straightener
10 pr underwear
Bras—2 regular, 2 sports bras
Jeans—3 pr . . .
A bunch of streets are blocked off, and I worry there’s been some kind of police incident, when I remember the date. Nothing stops traffic in New York City more effectively than the Saint Patrick’s Day parade. Avoiding the preparations that are already in full swing, I slip down the stairs into the nearest station. This early, I have to wait fifteen minutes before a train pulls up. I use the time to list out all the things I’ve jammed into my college daypack and the old suitcase I pulled from under my bed.
It’s a long list. I’m already regretting the fact the suitcase doesn’t have wheels.
It’s nearing six as I stagger up to the front of the towering home of ExLibris Expeditions. I expect to find the building locked up tight, but in fact, the front doors are already open. Inside, there’s no guard behind the entrance desk, but the elevators are running. My plan to waylay the CEO before she arrives is thwarted when I find her office door open, and Teresa Cipher already at work.
Weirdly, she doesn’t look at all surprised when I tap on her door.
Or tired either.
“Lovely to see you again,” she says, tucking a file folder away into her desk. “Ramona, isn’t it?” When I nod, she adds: “I’ve been up all night, sorting out the details for our new candidate.”
“About that,” I say, and take a deep breath of the cigarette-scented air. Before she can get in a word, I throw back my shoulders and immediately launch into all the reasons I’m the best person for the job. Skirting my whole lack of travel experience, I whip out my bullet journal and read a list of every organizational-related skill I can make even the vaguest claim to. I wrap up with a catalogue of possibilities for increasing the company’s social media follower count, which basically boils down to finding an audience by making a better use of hashtags.
As I finish, I look up to find Ms. Cipher listening intently. “Ramona,” she says. “I need someone who is a quick decision maker and excels at planning on the fly. Can you do that?”
I straighten my spine, the better to squash the imposter syndrome that is swelling inside me. “I am the most organized person I know,” I say, knowing this part, at least, is true. “I can do this.”
“That’s quite an impassioned defense of your abilities,” she says. “But I need to make something clear. ExLibris is not some kind of high-end travel agency. Our mandate is to reproduce journeys from books as closely as possible. This very rarely ends up being a luxury experience, you understand?”
I nod silently.
“Good. Well then, if you had to pick one of your strengths, what would you say sets you apart? Why should I choose you?”
I bite down the urge to plead with her on behalf of Two Old Queens; to tell her the whole tale of the Evil Landlord and throw myself on her mercy. Instead, I reach into my pack and dig out the book my uncle gave me.
“I’m following in literary footsteps,” I say as firmly as I can manage. “And I’ve grown up inside a working bookshop. You may find someone else with more travel experience or more social media followers, but no one can compete with this.”
I carefully place the copy of Uncle Merv’s book on the polished surface between us.
Teresa Cipher reaches across the desk, and without a word, flips open the cover. She gently touches the onionskin protecting the frontispiece, then runs her finger across the signature scrawled below the title.
Silently closing the book again, she stares wordlessly across the desk at me. The clock on the wall behind her ticks away the seconds, each one seeming longer than the last. When I think I can’t stand the silence any longer, she leans back in her chair and shoots me an evil little grin. With a single smooth motion, she opens a drawer, extracts something, and slides it across the desktop.
It is a temporary credit card.
“This will do for you to get on with, Ramona Keene,” she says. Retrieving a single sheet of paper from a folder on the desk, she lays it beside the card. The title reads “Projected Itinerary.”
“I’ll get the rest of your materials together today. If you truly are ready to take on this challenge, make your preparations and I’ll see you back here in this office sometime before midnight.”
“Are—are you serious?” I stutter. My bowels have suddenly turned to water.
Her grin broadens. “Absolutely. But the clock starts right now, and I need you back here in the city by the first of May. If you are going to have any chance at all, you’d best leave by tomorrow.”
I jump to my feet, grab the card and the itinerary, and bo
lt from the room before either of us can change our minds.
chapter nine
IMAGE: Passport and Tequila
IG: Romy_K [NYC, March 17]
#PassportToAdventure #TakingMyBestShot
15
Not daring to go near the bookshop, I hop back on the subway and make my way to the passport office, down on Hudson Street. Since this only takes twenty minutes, I stop to grab a cup of tea at a nearby coffee shop, before heading toward the doorway under the American flag. Clutching my warm cup of tea, I wait outside for the place to open at nine.
Even at almost an hour early, I’m still five people from the front when the doors open. Nevertheless, I am early enough to qualify for an emergency renewal to my passport, provided I can show proof that I will, in fact, be leaving immediately.
This is starting to feel like it’s meant to be. I fill out the forms, pay the fee with my new ExLibris-issued credit card, and then, fired up on caffeine and adrenaline, I lug my suitcase out the door. The next item on my list is to book a ticket for a speedy exit. Once I do, I can return and collect my new passport.
Outside, I pause for breath. This is really my first moment of stillness since the caffeinated tea kicked my brain back into gear, and the magnitude of the undertaking hits me like a brick. A tsunami of exhaustion, fear, and—I can’t quite believe it myself—excitement sweeps through me.
I decide the only thing to do is embrace the excitement and ignore the rest until it’s too late to look back. Teresa Cipher’s paperwork notes the name of a recommended travel agency, which is only a ten-minute walk away, according to my phone. It’s a testament to my level of caffeination that I stride up to Go Global a mere seven minutes later.