Free An Imperfect Librarian by Elizabeth Murphy Page A

elevator jerks upwards then halts. We exit.
    â€œYour accent is English but there’s a hint of some other flavour in there that I can’t label,” she says. “Where’re you from? Not Burin, Bonavista or Burgeo surely?”
    When Cyril saw me for the first time, he decided instantly that I don’t resemble a Newfoundlander. Couldn’t explain why. “It’s OK, Carl,” he said.
    â€œEnglish, yes. Some French. I guess I’d need to be in Newfoundland longer than six or seven months to sound like people do here.”
    I put up with three years of teasing about my Québécois accent when I arrived in France at five years old. Then Tatie and I moved to England where I put up with taunts about my French accent. Before we left French soil, she warned me that I’d only be allowed to speak English when absolutely required. She forbade any English food in our French diet. I had to eat salad at the end, not before the meal like the English. At school, we had to sing “God Save the Queen” during assemblies. She told me, “There’ll be no reverences paid by Carl to English monarchs.” Tatie would glance at my school texts then complain that the English were as confused about books as about meals. “Why do they place the table of contents at the beginning and not at the end of their books? Why are they so insensitive to how things should be ordered?”
    Norah knows the route better than I do. The truth is I don’t know my way around the library except virtually. I can picture the databases down to the most minute detail and file name. I can trace the intricacies of the cataloguing system with my eyes closed. I understand how records are linked, how tags predictusers’ search habits. But I am, as Henry would argue, “clueless” when it comes to orienting myself in the library stacks.
    I make a turn. She heads in the other direction. I backtrack a few steps and follow her again. We’re sandwiched between stacks that dwarf us. The book is not where it should be. I browse the shelves above and below. I tilt my head. She does the same. We can’t bend far at the waist because we’re squat between the narrow stacks. I reach sideways then down too fast; she moves and I smack my skull off hers. I reel back and hit my head again off the edge of the metal book shelf. She raises her hand to my head to stroke it. “I’m so sorry!” she says.
    â€œDon’t be sorry. It’s not the first time I’ve hit my head.”
    From there we head back through the stacks and down in the elevator to the circulation desk to see about the missing book. We’re told to talk to a Mrs. Power, but it turns out she’s gone for coffee. “Come back in a half-hour,” they tell us.
    â€œI could do with a cup of coffee myself right now,” Norah says. “How about you? Can I buy you a quick cup?”
    I hesitate then nod. The tender hand that stroked my head is the same one I saw through the binoculars from my office.
    â€œMy treat – for going beyond the call of duty and being injured in the process. I don’t believe we’ve met officially. I’m Norah. Norah Myrick. History prof, Newfoundlander, woman in search of missing books. You already know so much about me.”
    We both laugh. For different reasons.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
behind the curtain of fog
    O N OUR WAY TO THE campus cafeteria, she talks about the Gulf Stream, the Labrador Current and maritime climates of Newfoundland versus the continental climates of central Canada. “The ocean’s contrary,” she says. “It warms us in the winter, cools us in the summer. I always joke: If the weather doesn’t suit you, wait a minute.” Cyril had already used that line on me once, but I laugh anyway. We take the university tunnel system. The exposed pipes on the ceiling lead me to suspect the same architect for the tunnels as for my basement