The Department of Rare Books and Special Collections(80)

Liesl picked up the empty plastic tray and tossed it in the trash.

“He’s a good fundraiser then,” Liesl said. “Is that what you mean?”

“During the university’s last capital campaign,” Garber said, “he came in so far over his target that they had to tear down a perfectly good library and build a new one.”

“Why wouldn’t they have just spent the money on collections?” Liesl said. “Or held it for when it was needed?”

“Liesl,” he said.

“Of course,” Liesl said. “Because people like buildings with their names on them.”

“They buy books too, of course,” Garber said. “Boston has a Gutenberg. Maybe he could get us a Gutenberg.”

She looked at her phone. Willed it to ring with news of the auction, news from D. E. Lake, with any break from Garber’s conversation.

“That’s been in Boston’s collection for 150 years,” Liesl said. “No one, not even Langdon Sibley, is going to get us a Gutenberg.”

“Something else then.”

“You know,” Liesl said, “the way you describe him, he sounds a lot like Christopher.”

“Exactly right,” Garber said. “Good with the books, good with the donors. A face to represent the library.”

“Right.”

“Christopher led this place admirably,” Garber said. “If I can find someone who wears the same-sized shoes…”

“Then why go out and buy a new pair,” Liesl said. She was compassionate to fear of the unknown. Her single academic term in a position of authority was overflowing with the unknown. And she wasn’t surprised by Garber’s predictable choice. The last months had been erratic, uncertain. Heroes into villains, opportunities into disappointments, friends into corpses. But the path of academic administration would always run directly down the road of men in charcoal suits. She wasn’t dashed by Garber’s choice; she was satisfied that someone was at last behaving as expected.

“The donors will love him,” Garber said. “Can you imagine how the donors will love him?”

“Is he even interested?” Liesl said.

He stood up and rubbed his hands together, like he was piecing together a difficult riddle.

“He’s ready to leave Boston,” Garber said.

“To go and do the exact same thing somewhere else?” Liesl said.

“Well. There would be a few differences.”

“Right,” Liesl said. “Your discretionary funds.”

She reached for the purse hanging on the back of her chair. There was an apple buried in there somewhere. She rooted around until she felt the smooth apple skin on her fingers, but she hesitated. Would he take the apple from her too?

She pulled a lip balm in a small yellow pot from her purse so he wouldn’t wonder what she was doing. When she turned around to replace the purse on its perch, she saw that it had begun to snow. Seeing the campus covered in snow was a surprise every year. In her imagination, the campus was always flooded with yellow light filtered through green leaves, and the snow made it look like another planet. Garber was still speaking, but Liesl turned fully around to watch the fat flakes land on the old buildings and the young students. It was so clean.

Garber’s voice rang in the back of her head as if she were wearing headphones that didn’t quite block out external sound. If she were to strain, she could hear him, but she didn’t strain. She watched the snow. She remembered then that she hadn’t planted tulips. Every fall she replanted tulips in her garden. Not content with the sparse second-year blooms that sprouted from her bulbs, she tilled and washed and dug and fertilized to guarantee the annual show of purple and red and yellow in her giant garden bed. But she’d forgotten. And now the snow was here, and she wouldn’t get the opportunity.

“Listen,” he said. “If I thought you would do it, I’d certainly factor that in.”

“It would save you some money.”

“Easy now. We’re looking for someone to agree to a seven-year term.”

She wanted to rush home and plant her tulips before the ground froze.

“You’re right that I couldn’t agree to that.”

“I know you better than you think. You’ll retire at the end of the next academic year…”

“Or when Langdon Sibley or whoever else is hired,” she said.

“After an acceptable transition period,” Garber said. “He can hardly be expected to pick up and leave Boston midway through the year.”

“I see,” she said. Delaying her departure would leave Langdon Sibley free from the stink of the stolen manuscripts, in Garber’s plan. The thefts would be Liesl’s legacy.

“So it will be Sibley?”

“If he’ll have us.”

“It sounds like you’ll make it difficult to say no.”

He walked around her desk and stood behind her. She tensed with him so close to her, not sure what to expect. But he was looking out the window at the snow.

“I shouldn’t have ridden my bike today.”

“Have you told Sibley about the thefts?”

He kept his back to her, kept looking at the snow. If she expected her question to startle him, she was disappointed. There was no reason to think he was worried about anything except cycling through the snow.