Free Stolen Pleasures by Gina Berriault

slow, creaky elevator, he saw the meandering ones and the fast ones climbing the broad marble stairs, those stairs like a solid promise to the climber of an ennobling of the self on the higher levels. The largest concentration of patrons was in the newspaper and periodical section, always and forever a refuge for men from lonely rooms and also now for those without a room, all observing the proper silence, except the man asleep, head down on the table, his glottal breathing quivering the newspaper before his face. In the past, empty chairs were always available; now every chair was occupied. And where was the young man whose pockets were filled with scraps of poetry? In the poetry section, of course, copying down what the world saw fit to honor with the printed page. Anything in books represents the godlike and anything in myself represents the vile. Who said that? A writer, born into grim poverty, whose name he’d recall later. If you felt vile in the midst of all these godlike volumes, what restless rage!
    â€œAm I butting in here?”
    Same parka, grimier perhaps. But look! His hair rose higher and had a reddish cast, an almost washed look from the rain. His eyes not clearer, not calmer, and in his arms four books, which he let fall onto the desk.
    â€œThis is not a checkout desk,” said Perera.
    â€œThat I know. Never check out anything. No address. If you try to sneak something out you get the guillotine. You get it in the neck.”
    To touch or not to touch the books. Since there was no real reason not to touch, Perera set the four books upright, his hands as bookends.

    â€œWho’ve we got here? Ah, Rilke, the Elegies. Good choice. And here we’ve got Whitman. You know how to pick them. Bishop, she’s up there. And who’s this? Pound? Sublime, all of them. But don’t let yourself be intimidated. Nothing sacred in this place, just a lot of people whose thoughts were driving them crazy, euphoria crazy or doom crazy, and they had to get it out, see what you think about what they’re thinking. That’s all there is to it. Librarians in here are just to give it a semblance of order. I’m not a high priest.”
    â€œNever thought you were.”
    â€œAh,” said Perera, and the books between his hands resumed their frayed existence, their common humanity. One, he saw, had a bit of green mildew at the spine’s bottom edge. It must have been left out in a misty rain or someone had read it while in the tub.
    â€œCan I get you some coffee?” inquired the visitor.
    â€œStrange that you should ask,” said Perera. “Got my thermos here. A thirst for coffee comes over me at this hour.” How closely he’d been watched! And now forced to take the plunge into familiarity, a plunge he would not have taken without further consideration if this man were the sole homeless man around. They were empowered by their numbers.
    From the bottom drawer he brought up his thermos and his porcelain cup. The plastic thermos cup held no pleasure and he never used it. He’d use it now and not bother to guess why, and bring up also the paper bag of macaroons.
    â€œSuppose I sit down?”
    Perera nodded, and the guest sat down in the only other chair, a hard chair with an unwelcoming look, a chair used until now only by Alexa Okula, head librarian, and Amy Peck, chief guard, who
often described for him the assaults she had suffered that day and where in the library they had occurred.
    With both hands around the cup, the guest had no trouble holding it. “This is like dessert,” he said. “This is great. Got sugar and cream in it.” He was shy around the macaroons. Crumbs were tripping down the parka and when they reached the floor he covered them with his beat-up jogging shoes.
    At that moment Perera recalled the very recent tragedy at the Sacramento library. When did the shooting occur? Right after a little party celebrating the library’s