Free An Imperfect Librarian by Elizabeth Murphy Page B

flat: Chez Mercedes and Cyril on Rue Gower, Saint Jean, Terre-Neuve.
    I follow her conversation to the entrance then up the stairs. Her stride is long, like her legs. Her jeans are snug on her wide hips and tucked into her knee-high leather boots. Her woollen sweater has a geometric pattern like on the sweater Mercedes is knitting for Cyril. She reminds me of a girlfriend I had in England. I only ever had one girlfriend besides Elsa. She was tall like Norah, confident, leading the way, alwayssmiling. We lived together for five years until she decided I didn’t talk enough, didn’t spend enough, didn’t work out enough, didn’t joke enough.
    Two of the library staff go by while we wait in line to be served. I wave and smile. They don’t wave in return. “What if they never find the book? What will you do then?”
    â€œIf they don’t find the book? Let me see.” She pauses. “I’m too old for a tantrum, too gourmand for a hunger strike, too conservative to protest. I suppose I’ll settle for a request to interlibrary loans. Is that a double espresso? The English aren’t a nation of espresso drinkers, are they?”
    Even in Norway, where I hardly spoke the language, no one ever singled me out. They didn’t say, “Who’s your family?” or “Where do you belong?” I know they think I’m slow when I don’t respond to their questions: “How ya doin?” or “Where ya been?” or “How ya getting on?” I’ve made a list of them. Somehow, they never sound right when I say them.
    â€œI’m an Englishman with espresso genes.”
    We find a place for two between tables crowded with students, backpacks and laptops. She throws her sweater over her chair. Her t-shirt shows a seal with a speech bubble: Have cod, will travel. When I ask her what it means, she launches into a spiel about how the scientists at Fisheries and Oceans aren’t doing enough to protect the fish and how the Greenpeace protestors are corrupting the facts. “You obviously haven’t been here long,” she says.
    â€œObviously. And you?”
    â€œI’m from the bay. A place called Cliffhead.”
    â€œPopulation?”
    â€œAt last census, there was one goat, three sheep, two horses, seven – or is it six – chickens, three dogs and me.”
    â€œIs it a farm or a zoo?”
    â€œIt’s a point of land near Cape Spear,” she says. “Twentyminutes from St. John’s in good weather, no traffic.”
    â€œMain attractions?”
    â€œA pond with rowboat, the highest meadow, widest view, when the fog isn’t around, and the greatest attraction...” She pauses. “My book collection.”
    â€œHistory books?”
    â€œLewis Carroll, mostly... as in Alice-Mad-Hatter-White-Rabbit-Tweedledee-and-Tweddledum-Jabberwocky-Cheshire-Cat-through-the-looking-glass-down-the-rabbit-hole-inWonderland Carroll. Two thousand five hundred thirty-four volumes plus two patients at the book hospital. That’s a small collection. Smallwood, our provincial premier, had 18,000 in his library. Judge Furlong’s library...” She gives me a mini history of libraries in Newfoundland.
    â€œAre you a historian or a librarian?”
    â€œI could use a librarian’s skills for managing my collection. I’d like to create a catalogue so I can compare features, document how the editions differ.”
    I explain, probably in too much detail, how she could create a searchable digital catalogue. “I’ll get you a copy of the software.”
    â€œI wouldn’t know where to start. Nor would my computer. What are your rates like?”
    I laugh. “Exorbitant but I have a special promotion on now. Free lesson.”
    â€œYou need to see the collection first. Cliffhead is not that far from town. Do you know the route to Cape Spear?”
    So far I’ve only dared explore the distance