Page 7 of The Librarians
So this is what gratitude feels like, a fountain bubbling in her heart, iridescent and inexhaustible.
And then, after a long moment, she remembers his question and adds, feeling as shy as an adolescent, “Yes, I can do drinks after work.”
Present day
When Astrid was in high school, she read Ted Chiang’sStory of Your Lifeand thought it achingly beautiful. During the pandemic, when she streamedArrival, the movie based on the novella, she was forcefully reminded of the point of the story: that by studying the aliens’ language, the female protagonist begins to see time as they do and chooses to marry her colleague and have a child with him even though she has foreseen that the marriage will fail and that their daughter will die from a rock-climbing accident when she is twenty-five years old.
Astrid often ponders the protagonist’s choice, as she both understands and does not understand it. If she could see the future, she would have made so many decisions differently.
Those right swipes that led to only self-doubt and emptiness? She wouldn’t have installed the app in the first place. The youthful stupidity that had her believe that pretending to be Swedish would be fun and broaden her horizons? Her kingdom for a time machine.
And that extraordinary week with Perry?
“Hi, Astrid.”
She stills—then continues with her book pulling. In a few days, the display of Halloween and Día de los Muertos picture books will be coming down and she will exhibit a new batch of books on Diwali, Bon Om Touk—both of which take place in November this year—and Thanksgiving.
“Hello, Perry,” she says, not looking at him.
“When I spoke to your colleague just now—it wasn’t what you think it is.”
He sounds as sincere as he always did, but the fountain in her heart has tumbled down and become trash-choked, rusty, broken pipes gaping at nothing and no one.
She kneels and finds the two Diwali books on her list. “I’m sure you’re right.”
Silence. And then, into that silence, the arrival of the middle schoolers. They talk at half volume, but they are still chatting and chortling. Several boys settle down at the children’s area’s computer terminals, their backpacks landing on the floor with solid thumps.
Perry lowers his voice. “Can we speak somewhere more private?”
She takes him to the empty meeting room—the last thing she wants is a scene.
“Please, Astrid, believe me, none of this is what you must think,” he repeats as soon as the doors close behind them.
She knows that his voice is not echoing from the blank walls of the meeting room. She also knows that the folded tables and stacked chairs are not revolving dizzily around them. It’s only the sudden eradication of hope, leaving her weakened, unsteady.
“What is it, then, you showing up here and playing the same charade with my beautiful new colleague?”
Perry grimaces. “I’m sorry that I can’t explain anything yet but I want you to know that I hate that I’ve made you unhappy. That was never my intention.”
Astrid bristles. Yes, he’s made her unhappy, but how dare he bring it up as if of course he has that kind of power over her. “Perry, let’s not be dramatic. We had a situation. It was always going to be short-term. I didn’t dwell on it after you left and you don’t need to dwell on it now.”
He has the audacity to look hurt, which only makes her angrier.
“Excuse me. I’m still at work,” she says—and marches out.
Chapter Three
Tuesday, one day before Halloween
The second day of Hazel’s tenure at her childhood library begins with three boxes of book donations dropped off overnight—and the young Brit who wanted to know about how long books remained on shelves pacing beside them. She asks him jokingly whether he brought in the donations. He answers, his manner preoccupied, that he hasn’t read enough for that.
The boxes are practically the size of shipping containers. The library’s hand trolleys cannot be inserted under them, let alone lift them up. Even Jonathan, with his great height and mighty biceps, can budge them only a few inches along the ground.
But the boxes must be dealt with, because they block the path to the front entrance—and because rain is in the forecast. What self-respecting librarian will allow hundreds of books to become waterlogged through sheer inaction?
In the end the work falls largely to Hazel to scoop books out of the boxes into plastic bins and then wheel the bins on a hand trolley into the storage room behind the Den of Calories. Patrons arrive and greet her, including the couple who inquired about Game Night yesterday afternoon. They assure her that they will be in attendance tonight.
The Brit, who keeps wandering in and out of the library, offers to carry some donations for Hazel. She turns him down—the library wouldn’t wish to assume that sort of liability. But also, she rather likes performing the task by herself, repeating her motions as if taking part in a walking meditation.
