Page 117 of The Librarians
Conrad gives the entire manila folder to Astrid. There’s only one piece of paper left and it is a photograph Astrid has never seen. But she does recognize the setting—atop Mount Bonnell—and she recognizes herself from the back, her hair, with blue streaks in it last spring, and her blue cardigan that she thought to be so cutely matching.
She took Perry to Mount Bonnell to see the sunset. It was a gorgeous evening and the stony hilltop teemed with tourists and locals alike. Several drones hovered overhead, lots of toddlers sat on parents’ shoulders, and the entire vibe was relaxed and happy. Or maybe it was just her, projecting her joy outward onto everyone and everything.
They took several selfies together. She wanted to use the best one as the lock screen on her phone but refrained—she didn’t want to spook him. And then he left and she deleted all their selfies, even her favorite ones.
“This was his lock screen when I was in his London flat last spring. It was still his lock screen when my friend’s hackers accessed his phone last week to download all the data,” says Conrad. “I won’t make excuses for him—he should have handled the threat to your safety very differently. But I hope, well, maybe closure is overselling it, but I hope that this is something you would like to know. That he was loath to leave and never forgot you.”
Astrid caresses the edge of the picture. She imagines Perry looking at it—lookingthroughit to happier, simpler times. “Conrad, have you ever met any of Perry’s ex-girlfriends?”
Conrad raises a brow at the abrupt change in subject. “Some, yes.”
“Did they ever wish they could hit him upside the head?”
Conrad chortles. “A lot. His friends too, frankly.”
Then mirth disappears from his face, replaced by wistfulness. “But in the end we all remember him fondly, because he was good and decent through and through—a dumbass at times, but our beloved dumbass.”
Conrad leaves, telling Astrid that he has some stuff on the stove.
Alone in the dining room with the contents of the manila folder, Astrid sits for a while with its slender weight in her hands. It’s all evidence, evidence that she didn’t open her heart and love in vain.
She almost doesn’t dare dive into Perry’s notes to her, but after a couple of scones and two cups of tea—liquid courage for librarians—she pulls out those sheets of paper and reads, line by line, word by word, syllable by syllable, all the communication she will ever have from this man.
After eight different attempts to make her understand why he did what he did, he seemed to have given up on the ninth try.
Dear Astrid,
It’s no use. In my mind, you’ve already moved on—because what man with half a brain wouldn’t want you in his life? I’m too late and whatever apology I can offer at this point will always be insufficient.
And I have no one to blame but myself—the bitterest pill to swallow.
It’s raining here—hardly surprising as it’s October in London. The city is gray, noisy, and unlovely. But sometimes, when I’m out and about, I think of how a dull, ordinary street would have looked to you, had you come for a visit. Maybe you would have thought it equally dismal. Or maybe youwould have seen fresh, interesting details that I long ago stopped noticing. In any case, I would have liked to see my city—my country—through your eyes.
I’ve taken to frequenting the two public libraries closest to my flat—did you know London has over three hundred libraries spread across its thirty-two boroughs? Neither did I—I was never much of a reader, let alone a patron of libraries. But I so relished those quiet hours in your library that I’ve been trying to replicate that peace and contentment.
It’s not the same, of course, yet I do feel a little closer to you when I wander the stacks. I’ve even been making my way through your recommendations—found them on your library’s blog. Last week, I read one of your favorites, Ted Chiang’s “Story of Your Life,” and am still thinking about it.
Had I known the consequences of approaching you that afternoon outside the library, would I still have done it? For your sake, probably not. But if I had only myself to consider, then yes, despite how difficult these weeks and months have been, I would still have held on to those scant days.
I would still have fallen in love.
Next time I’m in the library, I will borrow the movie version of the story and
The note ends abruptly on that conjuncture. Greedily, Astrid reads it again, but it still ends in the same place, with the same unsettling, unfinished finality.
Her tears fall.
So many emotions—in such overwhelming quantities—have besieged her, like the legions of Mordor coming to sack Minas Tirith. Yet her tear ducts have remained stubbornly dry, even as the walls of her city fell into ruin. She couldn’t cry—at least not for Perry.
But now, because she will never know what else he meant to say—or if he himself had ever finished the thought—she weeps.
For what seems like days.
When she stops, she slips into a nearby powder room to wash her face and freshen up. Then she finds Conrad in the kitchen, straining a thick, buttery-looking liquid.
“Can I help?” she offers. “What are you making?”
“Crème brûlée.”
