The Department of Rare Books and Special Collections(4)

“You’ll do it then?”

“If you think it’s the best thing for the library, for Christopher, of course. I wouldn’t mind some time with the old book myself. It’s been years.”

“You wrote that article about it just last spring.”

He looked pleased that she remembered.

“With Chris, I did. But we used the photos for our research. Easier to read.”

“Don’t bring that up in your lecture.”

“Yes, Boss,” Francis said with an ironic salute. He went back to his work, and Liesl went back to Christopher’s office to do power poses until the donors arrived.

The donors arrived. When she walked into the reading room, which wasn’t really a reading room but a space that photographed well and was often used for events, she was pleased to see that whoever had ordered the catering had allowed budget for macarons and wine. Both would be useful. Enough wine and a scattering of well-chosen graduate students and she might be able to remove the focus from the books altogether. Percy T. Pickens III, the chair of the library’s advisory board and the donor most responsible for making the acquisition of the Plantin possible, was already in the room. She had hoped to beat him there.

“I hear there’s a problem,” Percy said.

“Is someone getting you a drink?” she asked.

“Listen, Liesl,” he said, leaning against the makeshift bar. “These are big shoes you’re stepping into. The advisory board is here to guide you in any way you need. Some of us have been involved with the library for as long as Chris was. So what’s this problem with the Plantin?”

“There’s no problem with the Plantin.”

“If there’s no problem with the Plantin, then why aren’t I looking at it?”

“It’s in the safe,” she said. “For insurance.” She wasn’t sure what to do with her hands. Percy’s attention made her feel conspicuous.

“Like hell it is.”

“It has to be insured apart from the main collection,” she said, hands clasped in front, but then no, because that made her look childlike, and it was necessary that Percy recognize her new authority.

“I’m not proposing you send it out on a mall tour. I want to see what my money paid for.”

“I understand that, Percy. Christopher didn’t have a chance to arrange the insurance before his illness. The safe is fireproof and waterproof, and the Plantin is priceless. It stays in the safe until we have insurance.”

“I didn’t come here to drink bottom-shelf Jack Daniel’s and make small talk. I came to see the book.”

“I appreciate the value of your time. And I won’t be wasting it. We’re bringing out something very special, a cornerstone of our collection. A building block of civilization.” Arms crossed in front of her but then no, because that made her look defensive.

“The others are going to be upset when they arrive.”

“No one’s time will have been wasted. But with your passion for travel and your keen interest in history, I’m hoping you can help the others see the importance of the piece we’ll be showing.” Hands in the pockets of her trousers, but then no, that made her look suspicious.

“It’s more than an interest, Liesl. My work might involve the oversight of my family’s ranching interests, but I would hope you know that during my studies I worked on archaeological digs. I’m not interested in history; I’ve had history under my fingernails.”

“The Orkney Project, isn’t that right? I’ve read about it.”

“History is more than books, Liesl.”

Liesl didn’t grimace. “Ranching interests” was a way of saying that the Pickens family owned land they mined for oil and metals and anything that could be sold to a foreign dictator. The Orkney Project had been funded by Percy II as a summer job for his son when even nepotism couldn’t secure a spot in a respectable graduate school. She poured him a drink.

“Well,” he continued. “Who’s the understudy this afternoon?”

“We’ve brought up the Peshawar manuscript.”

“What is that, a Quran?”

“No. It notes the first use of a zero in mathematics.”

“But it’s in Muslim? We came for a bible, and that’s what you’re bringing us?”

“It’s written in Sanskrit. The manuscript likely predates the Arabic language.”

Percy might have been handsome if his square jaw wasn’t obscured by layers of chins, Liesl thought. She considered his face. His skin was pink and smooth, but quick to sweat. His hair, thin and yellow, was blow-dried into a swoop meant to obscure his scalp. No, she decided. Even if he weren’t fat, Percy Pickens would be ugly. Francis rolled in the manuscript on a book truck.

Liesl braced herself. She was ready for abuse. Directed from Percy at Francis, from Francis at herself. She wanted to go to her office, not Christopher’s office but her own, where there were potted plants and framed prints of orchids, and lock the door.

“Percy Pickens.” Francis strode over and shook Percy’s hand. The two men looked happy to see each other.

“Francis,” Percy said, and they stayed locked in the handshake for longer than was necessary.

“Has Liesl told you what we’re showing, then?”