A Fugitive Truth

by Dana Cameron

  “Neither. I sit back and remark, that is all.”

  That little beauty was too good to let go unchallenged. “Oh, c’mon, Michael, confess. Are you secretly hoping that pyramid power and garlic will keep you alive till you’re a hundred and fifty—?”

  Coffee sloshed as he shuddered. “Gods forbid!”

  “—Or do you think that true immortality lies in the size of your stock portfolio?”

  “If you really are that curious, I will tell you.” Michael got up and refilled his cup. “I am—” he took a sip “—a post-post modern, post-Hegelian nihilist.”

  I set my coffee cup down abruptly. “Excuse me?”

  He mopped up the coffee that he had sloshed onto the table with a handkerchief from his raincoat pocket. “I don’t believe it matters whether truth is personal or universal, and I don’t believe that even if we find out for ourselves, it makes one jot of difference. What I am is merely an ardent admirer of the meaningless cosmic joke.”

  “What you are is a bullshit artist!”

  Michael smiled beguilingly over his half-glasses and I couldn’t help but notice how the sun caught the blue in his eyes. “Ah, but it is such lovely, deeply considered bullshit. And my publisher cries for it.” He took a sip, pulled his overcoat more tightly around him, and then thought about his words. “Not that that matters either.”

  Now awake and eager to begin the day’s work, I went over to the sink and rinsed out my cup. But I couldn’t resist one shot at Michael; he made it too easy. “Hey, Michael?”

  He’d begun to settle back into his meditations. “Hmm?”

  “Have a nice day!”

  The day promised to be a beauty, and even though I had to button up my overcoat all the way, I could tell that spring was chasing the winter cold away. Although I was in such a rush to get at the Chandler journal that I wanted to run to the annex, I forced myself to walk calmly. I’d decided not to drive for a number of reasons: for one thing, Bessy was sounding increasingly rough, and she needed the break. For another, I thought that the walk home would help clear my head at the end of the day, and I also didn’t want to sweat through my good clothes or turn an ankle by hurrying too much on shoes not made for hurrying. There’s some unwritten rule in library or archival research that says the researcher dresses nicely, professionally. This is in spite of the fact that there’s not going to be any real audience to see you, that working with old books can get pretty grubby—what with decaying dyed leather and brittle yellow pages that are turning to dust—and that it would just be more comfortable to wear jeans and a sweatshirt instead of a skirt and heels. I don’t make these rules, I just go along with them when it…suits me.

  My walk also gave me a moment to enjoy the scenery and to make my plans for the day. I was afraid that at least a part of the morning would be taken up with introductions to the staff and to the library protocols. With any luck, I’d be able to look at the journal before lunchtime. I resolved to be patient until then, even though I was dying to see it; the only reason I’d found myself able to leave so late was that I knew the library wasn’t open on the weekend. I had been told over the phone that it contained more than cursory entries; this was a relief, as so many early journals were nothing but glorified weather reports rather than what we think of as true diaries.

  I’d have to wait and see for myself what I could make of the private thoughts of Margaret Chandler. I knew that a skilled historian could tease facts out of the most innocuous of references and that because I tended to be more aware of mentions of the material aspects of life—archaeologists tend to focus on things they can measure and quantify—I’d lose a lot of information if I didn’t pay attention to nuance.

  When the library came into view, I did pick up my pace a little bit—I just couldn’t help it. Archaeologists spend considerably more time doing research and labwork than working in the field, but opening up a volume like the Chandler journal is as much fun for an archaeologist as putting that first shovel to ground. An even better analogy is to mining gold: Even though you might end up with nothing at all, there’s such a thrill in the exploration that you’re willing to pan out a dozen times because it only makes it that much better when you hit that one good vein of data that you can mine for all it’s worth.

  I was at the library annex by 8:55 and found that Mr. Constantino was involved in the perusal of the sports section of the paper. He didn’t even say good morning, just wordlessly looked up at the clock, sighed, and carefully folded his newspaper and put it aside reluctantly. Constantino crooked his finger at me, and, ignoring my raised eyebrow, led me down the hall, where I had my photo taken for my badge. Then he lectured me about security for fully ten minutes by the clock. It was then I brought up my complaint about Gary Conner, which was received with boredom and the assurance that I was mistaking harassment for efficiency. Knowing I wouldn’t win that argument, I saved my breath—for the moment. Every moment messing around with Constantino was another moment’s delay in meeting Madam Chandler.

  After I finally extricated myself from Constantino’s sterile office, I fled to the library, where I immediately felt more at home. I was greeted by the warm, brown smell of old leather and paper, well-worn carpeting, and wood polish. There were a number of carrelled desks about, and a couple of flat tables on which to spread work. Reference works lined two walls, and a small office was on the third. The last wall had windows that looked out into the dense stand of trees that sprawled out in front of the annex, and I paused there to admire yet another splendid prospect.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” I was startled by a man’s voice behind me. “I’m Henry Saunders, the head librarian. You must be Emma.”

  The man I faced was a few inches taller than I, and a few pounds lighter, but not weedy, with thinning blond hair and glasses. He was dressed, as are most of the men of my academic tribe, in chinos, a blue oxford shirt, and a tweed jacket. Unlike most of my colleagues, however, the jacket was nicely made out of good wool, and his tie was subtle, interesting, and not spotted with grease stains. Henry Saunders’s glasses weren’t the usual default gold wire rims, either, but a carefully chosen pair of French frames in a brown tortoiseshell that showed off some pretty compelling cheekbones. This was the sort of guy my Maternal Parent would have picked for me: WASPy, refined, and respectful. But unlike most of the boys my mother liked, Henry had a nicely formed chin with the merest hint of a dimple and gray eyes that were anything but vacant.

  “Yes, I am, how do you do?” I said, taken unawares. We shook hands. “The, ah, views…around here are very nice.”

  He had tremendously sexy hands, broad and dry, strong and careful, and he colored ever so slightly at my last thoughtless remark. Okay, not stupid, a little shy—I stopped myself abruptly. What’s with cataloguing the men lately, Em?

  I tried to remember what else I knew about Henry; virtually nothing. When I was working on my Shrewsbury application, I checked out a few books that I knew had been written as a result of other fellowships. Each of the acknowledgments contained profuse thanks to Henry Saunders for all of his help, but I didn’t know anything about his professional background. So far, I knew only that he was good at his job.

  Pleasantly businesslike, he began to walk backward, to show me around the facilities. “Let me show you around my kingdom—”

  Always alert to Shakespearean possibilities, I seized on this one. “Aha, then that must make you Prince Hal!”

  “Actually, my proper title is His Serene Majesty, the Emperor of Bibliopolis,” he answered with a grin, “but you can call me Harry. All personal belongings—books, coats, bags—go into the lockers over there—”

  Just then, Michael Glasscock swanned past us, dressed now, but still wearing his overcoat. “Morning, Harry. I got the Armstrong catalogue from Faith and Jack’s seen it. I’m done with it. You guys bid on anything at the sale?”

  “There was an auction of important Americana,” Harry informed me. “Well, we tried for a couple of leaflets but the
competition was way too tough.”

  “Pretty pricey stuff, and me without a spare half a mil,” Michael agreed. “What should I do with it?”

  “Just put it on Sasha’s desk, thanks. Oh, and Michael? You really shouldn’t take any of the periodicals back to the residence with you without signing them out. I really have to insist.”

  “Sorry Harry. I forgot.” With no real apology in his voice, Michael pulled up a chair and promptly settled in for a nap.

  I blinked and looked at Harry, who seemed perturbed. “Michael seems to forget a lot of our policies when it suits him. I asked him repeatedly to leave his coat in the locker, but he keeps ‘forgetting.’ I’m sure that he really does understand about security, but…well. He doesn’t seem to worry about it too much. We finally reached an agreement; he can keep it in the reference room, but not in the manuscript room. It was just…easier that way.”

  Harry then dropped the subject. He quickly ran through the standardized speech about using pencil or a computer only, how the catalogs worked, and how to fill out a call slip for the bound volumes and manuscripts.

  “You can help yourself to whatever reference books are out here,” he said, gesturing to the shelves, “but no one besides Sasha and me is allowed in the stacks, I’m afraid. We do ask that you limit yourself to one item at a time with the rare books,” he said firmly.

  There it was: the first hint of the librarian strain, a manifest urge to control the books. “No problem.” There was only one book I wanted to get my hands on, and I was only just managing to listen to his spiel politely.

  “This collection is important on a number of levels, and we all have to cooperate to preserve it for the future. Quite apart from the monetary value, which, I think is on the order of tens of millions—”

  “How on earth do you insure a library like this?” I asked, agog.

  “We can’t,” Harry said simply. “We can’t replace a lot of the things here, for starters, and for another thing, we’d never be able to get the security to the point where an insurance company would willingly take a risk on us.”

  I stared at him, dumbfounded.

  “Of course, if we loan something to another institution—a library or a museum, say—we insure the object for transport, but we make the other institution pay for it.” Harry resumed his spiel. “In any case, the intellectual and historical significance is utterly priceless, being one of a kind. So you understand why we need to take such care. Unfortunately, it’s not only a matter of conservation and protection issues but outright theft. There’s a rising market for rare books, manuscripts, and incunabula—”

  “Great word,” I said, more impressed with Harry every minute. “What’s it mean?”

  “In the library sense, books that were published before 1501,” he explained, “though of course, we only deal with books relating to the colonial period and later. The black market is huge. You may have heard about the thefts from the Van Helst Library in Philadelphia recently.”

  “I hadn’t,” I said. “I’m mostly tuned into the problems with the antiquities market, but I guess it shouldn’t be a surprise to find it extends to all sorts of rare, old things as well.”

  Harry nodded. “And it’s a problem we take seriously.” He paused thoughtfully, then suddenly changed the subject. “In terms of conservation, most of the volumes here are in good shape, but we’ll let you know if you need to wear gloves, to keep the damage from body oils and cosmetics down to a minimum. Actually, if you could refrain from using hand creams or perfumes, that would be a big help. There are a few very rare volumes that we will have to get out of the vault, and if you need one of those, you will have to use it in my office or Sasha’s, for security reasons.” He glanced over at me, and I thought I recognized tentative approval. “But you’ve done this sort of thing before, of course.”

  “Oh, yes.” I was relieved that Harry saw that I was a member of this club.

  “It’s nice not to have to explain why we can’t let you go romping through the stacks. Too many of our Fellows think that they should be allowed. But we have some terribly valuable things, and it’s just not possible.” He paused and looked around. “What am I forgetting?” He ran down the regulations about photocopying, the hours the library was open, and the rest of the infrastructural details. “Let’s go up to the manuscript section and I’ll show you where you’ll be working.”

  I followed him upstairs, thinking about how most people view librarians; they are usually caricatured as stern old creatures out of touch with the rest of the world and with a need for control so great that it drives them to suck the life out of the fun of using a library. The worst librarians act like dragons sitting on a golden hoard, resenting you for threatening to disturb their carefully ordered world. With the best librarians, the sort I so often had a chance to encounter professionally—well, the concern with control was still there, but it was mitigated by their understanding that the care of the books was important but, that theoretically speaking, the books were worthless unless they were used. The good ones try to find out how to facilitate your work while still caring for their charges.

  Upstairs was a room of the same size as those below, but differently partitioned. The reading area was similar, but in addition to the small office in the back, I could see a small laboratory to one side. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a fume hood and a sink and a couple of work surfaces. A collection of brown chemical bottles sat on a shelf, along with cases of distilled water. I knew that distilled water was often used to clean paper during its conservation. Harry noticed my interest.

  “We are lucky enough to have what we need to do some conservation and repairs to the books right here. We are equipped to do most anything short of rebinding, but at the moment, there’s no one who is skilled enough to do more than the basics.”

  “Is that you, Harry?” said a muffled woman’s voice. “I’m still worried about the Whitehead—”

  “Ah, here’s Sasha Russo, our manuscript librarian.” Harry was looking over my shoulder and smiling broadly. “Sash, come say hello to Emma Fielding.”

  Sasha was stooping by a trolley full of books and had been sorting them when she called him. At the mention of her name, she stood up to introduce herself. And stood up, and up, and up. No wonder Harry was smiling; Sasha’s legs ended on her about where my ears start on me.

  It just wasn’t fair. Oh, sure, she was wearing a pair of glasses with thick black frames, a lavender twin set and tweedy brown skirt, and had her hair up in a tight bun. But the sweater looked like it was covering a partial relief map of the Rockies, the hem of the skirt struggled to stay demurely at the tops of her knees, and the glasses looked like a fashion photographer had just decided that smart was chic and stuck them on the pouting face of his latest supermodel creation. And that hair; gold with coppery glints that reminded men why Jason sought the golden fleece, and that was the sole object of every woman who ever tangled with a home bleach kit. Sasha Russo was a manuscript librarian trapped in the body of a Viking goddess.

  I’d taken particular care with my appearance that morning and had flattered myself that I looked not only professional and presentable but a little sexy, in a kinky, Edwardian sort of way. Suddenly I felt short, squat, brown, and dull, a toad standing next to a tulip. I consoled myself with the thought that she was probably a bubble-headed miracle of plastic surgery and Aqua Net, with minor talents for alphabetizing and walking away.

  “Hi, I’m Sasha Russo,” she said, offering me a hand that was strong and delicate at the same time. “I’m so pleased to meet you, I’ve been telling Harry that it’s long past time that someone with real credentials came to work with the Chandler diary. Margaret Chandler’s historically been given such short shrift, and so when I read your proposal, I was convinced that you’d be the one to finally do her justice. Welcome.”

  I never knew how much of a toad I could feel like until I heard her kind words. “Uh, thanks,” I croaked.

  “Has Harry told you a
bout our surprise yet?” Sasha could barely contain herself, she was so excited, but of course her voice and Harry’s never broke a whisper.

  “Surprise?” I looked puzzled at Harry, then Sasha.

  “I thought I’d leave that to you, Sash,” Harry answered.

  She beamed at both of us. “When we learned that you were interested in the Chandler journal, we checked the rest of the holdings to see if there was anything else you would find useful. And what do you think we found?”

  Harry interrupted. “You found, Sasha. Don’t give me any of the credit.”

  “Nonsense. It’s a joint effort, Harry. Always.”

  I caught a fond glance as it was exchanged between them; as far as they were concerned, they were all alone at that moment. Okay, there was definitely something going on here. “You’re killing me with the suspense.”

  “Letters.” The manuscript librarian was practically exploding with delight. “We found part of Madam Chandler’s correspondence to a cousin in London. They were collected just recently, in England, and it’s clear they’re hers!”

  I could barely believe what she was saying. “You’ve got them here? Now? For me?”

  “We do indeed! There is a tiny bit of work to be done on them,” she backpedaled, in the face of her obligation to the manuscripts. “They should have been put into acid-free folders and catalogued immediately after they came to Shrewsbury. But they weren’t and so I need to deal with some mildew before it gets out of hand, but there’s little harm done. A bit of foxing, some small tears. Speaking of work,” she turned to Harry, “I still can’t find the Whitehead manuscript.”

  “I’ve found it, I’ll get it for you,” Harry replied.

  “Great!” Sasha was clearly relieved.

  Harry explained to me. “Unfortunately, we’re still sorting out things since my immediate predecessor. He was a bit careless in terms of tracking his acquisitions and deaccessioning. He came in at a time—years ago—when the library was still being treated too casually as a private collection, at a time when the family still thought it was a bit of a lark to have a good library, but not a responsibility.” He frowned. “It can be a real problem, to have someone come to study documents that were sold five years ago, but we’re getting things in order—”