The Fortune Teller(3)
Each afternoon Theo would step into the gallery and ask, “Everything going well, Semele?” to which she would answer, “Quite well, thank you.”
They would then stare at each other for a suspended moment, the air charged between them. Theo would eventually give her a slight nod and leave.
In her hotel room she would think about that day’s encounter, reading more into their almost-conversations—the way he studied her, how he said her name—with each passing day. Then she would force herself to dismiss it all and try to sleep. She would lie restless in bed until she drifted off, unable to stop herself from imagining their next meeting.
In the morning, she found herself taking extra care with her appearance, to the point where every stroke of mascara felt like a guilty thought. She chose siren-red lipstick instead of her typical soft sienna, and wore her lavender angora sweater more times than not, knowing its feminine lines flattered her figure. She would turn from side to side in the mirror with critical precision, until the act of dressing for that single exchange with Theo began to feel like an infidelity to her boyfriend, Bren, back home.
Maybe she had acted the same way when getting ready for her first string of dates with Bren, but she couldn’t remember her appearance ever having mattered this much. That’s what bothered her the most. She wanted Theo to find her attractive.
Every day she tried not to look at the clock and wonder when he would stop by. She tried reasoning with herself. The chateau, its romanticism, and its eccentric owner were simply clouding her judgment. She enjoyed a good gothic novel as much as the next person, but that was not her real life.
*
One day Theo stayed longer. He looked as if he was about to leave, but instead he stopped at the door and turned back to her, his hands in the pockets of his slacks.
“You know, I met your father once,” he said.
Semele stared at him, speechless. That was the last thing she thought he would say.
Theo must have sensed her confusion. “At one of the World Book summits years ago,” he clarified. “He was keynote speaker for the International Federation of Library Associations. I had just begun working with UNESCO.”
Semele had no idea Theo was connected to UNESCO. “What kind of work were you doing for them?” she asked.
“I head one of the subcommittees that assesses nominations for the Memory of the World Register.”
She couldn’t have been more surprised if he had told her he was an astronaut and had landed on the moon.
Her father had been a curator at Yale’s Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library, and she knew all about UNESCO’s global conservation programs, including MOW nominations. Memory of the World was an international initiative to preserve archives and library collections that transcended the boundaries of culture. Being listed on the register was just as impressive as getting a National Historic Site designation and ensured that those works would survive.
“He gave a wonderful speech about the history of the world’s libraries and their effects on different time periods.” Theo gave her his first real smile.
Semele couldn’t help giving a faint smile back. She could just imagine her father talking about his favorite subject. How every second a book somewhere in the world disappeared, destroyed by the divine hand of time for any number of reasons—natural disasters, worms, insects, rats, humans. Even the acid in paper worked against a book’s survival. It drove him mad.
“Well,” Theo said, looking uncomfortable, “please give him my best.”
Semele only nodded, unable to explain that her father had passed away earlier this year. The loss still gripped her like it was yesterday. She and Theo had more in common than he knew. That he had met her father made her look at him differently.
When she went back to the hotel that night, she decided to google Theo. What she discovered surprised her even more.
Theo owned a computer software company that specialized in storing high-value information. His client list included Fortune 500 companies and government institutions. They were also working with the Japanese IT specialists who were archiving the Vatican’s library—over 82,000 manuscripts and 41 million pages.
She read every news article and press release she could find, both impressed and intimidated at the same time. Talk about out of her league—the pope was his client.
In one interview he discussed the vital need for engineering long-term digital preservation, explaining that the digital world had its own set of threats and needed to be safeguarded, or one day, digital archives would vanish too. Files were no different from papyrus or parchment.
Semele devoured every word. Astounded by how similar their philosophies were, her attraction to him only became more real and unsettling. She liked it better when she had assumed he was just an eccentric heir.
Now she was beginning to feel serious guilt over her fixation. People in relationships didn’t spend all night on the Internet reading about their clients for personal interest, especially not when they were in a relationship with someone like Bren.
While she was in Switzerland, he had been leaving her the sweetest voice mails. She had listened to one yesterday on the drive to the estate, and it still made her smile.
“This one is Yeats.” He recited the poem, his voice soft and intimate. “When you are old and grey and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire, take down this book, and slowly read and dream.…”