The Department of Rare Books and Special Collections(70)

She nodded. Watched the crowd.

“You heard the religious studies department is canvassing their alumni to raise money for that manuscript?” He bounced on his toes.

“I hadn’t.”

He kept on bouncing. “You must be so pleased with yourself.”

There wasn’t a good response so she didn’t offer one, but of course she was pleased. In the third row a very old man was using his very big hand to very slowly scratch what must have been very itchy genitals. Liesl had been watching him all along. He just kept scratching.

“The press is here,” he said.

“I saw.”

“Sad event,” he said. “But still nice that we’ll get in the culture pages.”

“It’s an opportunity, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Press coverage always shakes a few donors loose.”

She looked back at him. He had on a placid smile.

“No,” she said. “I meant an opportunity to set the record straight about Miriam.”

“What?” he said. “Set what record straight?”

“To say she wasn’t the thief.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t think it’s the time for that at all.”

“There will be interview requests,” Liesl said, “to accompany the coverage of the funeral.” Garber pulled a tissue from his pocket and fiddled with it.

“Liesl,” he said. “Now’s not the time.”

“The press is paying attention to us. It’s the only opportunity we’ll have to clear her name.”

He finally put the tissue to his nose and cleared his sinuses with an aggressive honk. She stood there, embarrassed for him.

“Look,” he said. “You’re not thinking of all the implications of such an announcement. Right now, the world believes we found the thief, if not the books themselves.”

“Yes,” she said, “but we know Miriam wasn’t the thief.”

“If Miriam wasn’t the thief, then we have nothing. No books. No thief. No justice. It’s hard for our community to hand us any of their trust in that case, isn’t it?”

Garber had tiny flecks of tissue stuck to the stubble under his nose.

“It’s an innocent woman’s reputation,” Liesl said.

“She’s not using it at the moment.”

“Pardon me?”

Garber looked pleased with himself.

“That was crass, I’ll admit,” he said. “It’s the wrong time for this conversation.”

“When is the right time?”

“Look,” said Garber. “We aren’t saying that Miriam was the thief. But we aren’t saying she wasn’t. A news report—a news report I’ll remind you I was angry about—called her the thief. Now Miriam has sadly passed, and I don’t see the harm in leaving this alone.”

“Leaving it alone?” Liesl said.

“Yes, leaving it alone.”

“She has a family,” Liesl said. “For whom a proclamation of her innocence might mean some peace.”

“And they’ll get it. Once we know who was really guilty.”

“That isn’t fair,” Liesl said. “Letting people believe in her guilt isn’t fair to Miriam.”

“And having this conversation right now isn’t fair to Christopher.”

“Fine,” Liesl said. “If not right now, then tell me when we can have it.”

“Clean up the mess at the library,” said Garber. “When I no longer have angry donors calling my office and academic departments going rogue to fundraise for themselves, you can issue whatever press release you want.”

“It’s your turn to speak,” she said.

“Indeed it is,” said Garber. “Wish me luck.” He went out in front of the crowd. The room was too large for the assembled mourners to see the tiny flecks of tissue that clung to his face. But Liesl knew they were there. Glancing back at the third row, she saw the scratcher still scratching with abandon.

She walked back out to the atrium, knowing that Garber would go past his allotted time, knowing that she had some time before she was expected onstage. One of the doors had been propped open to allow cool air to flow in. It was still raining. She turned a corner and ran right into John and Hannah. Hannah was wearing an orange dress that rang like an alarm.

It made Liesl happy that the girl hadn’t worn black. John was appropriately attired, his teddy-bear air made serious in dark slacks and a charcoal sport coat, but not their daughter. Hannah smiled, a happy girl in an orange dress, when she saw her mother.

“We were waiting to meet you after you did your bit,” Hannah said. “Have you decided to make a break for it instead?”

Liesl wanted so much to hug her daughter. So she did.

“Just getting some air,” she said.

“Mom?” Hannah said from inside the hug. “Is everything okay?”

Before they could untangle, Francis poked his head around a corner, his hair even smoother and his eyes puffier than normal.

“They’re looking for you, Liesl,” he said. So she left her family behind.

Liesl was drinking water. She didn’t want to be red-mouthed or slow-tongued for her portion of the program. In the very first row of attendees, there was a Nobel Prize winner. She had her head tilted down, inspecting the program, every time Liesl glanced over at her, but Liesl was sure that any stumbles would be noticed and, even worse, would find their way into the woman’s fiction. In the row behind there were prominent local philanthropists. As well as handpicking the speakers, Christopher had left behind suggestions for the types of people he would like invited to a memorial service, should the university choose to host such an event in his honor.