The Department of Rare Books and Special Collections(95)

“The library needs a change,” Liesl said. “A move into the twenty-first century and away from the old way of doing things.”

“But before all that, it needs stability,” he said.

“That sounds like the opposite of what I’m saying. Isn’t it stability, the idea that everything was fine so long as it was the same, that got us into this mess?”

“It’s a steady hand that will get us out,” said Garber.

“Maybe. Or an honest reckoning with what was done. And how it was enabled.”

“That can happen under your leadership,” Garber said.

“So you’ll allow for a formal inquiry? A public airing?”

“Well,” Garber said. “If it happened in a way that it didn’t spook the donors.”

“It sounds to me,” Liesl said, “as though you’re proposing that nothing changes at all.”

“That isn’t what I said,” said Garber. It was Liesl’s turn to take a long chew at her lunch.

“If it were all to become public, though…” Liesl said.

“Let’s not speculate on that. Publicity of our sins would be a messy business.”

“Messy. It would be that. But it couldn’t help but inspire change.”

“I know you wouldn’t do anything to put our reputation in jeopardy, Liesl.”

“And I know that you would do anything to protect it.”

***

In the reception area of the history department a half-dozen people were waiting, students mostly. Liesl worried briefly about whether she’d have the time to sit and wait but decided it was important enough.

“Is the chair in today?” Liesl said. “I don’t have an appointment.”

“He’s busy, I’m afraid,” the receptionist said.

“It’s about Vivek Patel,” she said.

“Can you take a seat?” the receptionist said. “I’ll call back to his desk and see if he can take you in between appointments.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s nothing. I’m just following instructions.”

She waited less than two minutes. The receptionist waved her hand to get Liesl’s attention and sent her to the end of the hallway where a big wooden door stood open and the chair of the history department stood in front of his desk, looking concerned.

“Has something happened to him?” he asked.

“No. I mean, I don’t know.”

“You’re not here with news about Vivek?”

“I’m here to ask you about him. Is he missing?”

“No. Not exactly,” the chair said. “I have a forwarding address. But he said he’s listed the department as his emergency contact.”

“Where has he gone?”

“I’m not to say.”

“I have news about his wife. Or, I could have. I have news I think he’d want to hear.”

“He was very specific, I’m afraid. He said that even if someone wanted to talk about Miriam, especially if they did, he wasn’t to be contacted.”

“And you think this is healthy?”

“I think this is what he wants and that I’m willing to try it.”

Liesl shuffled back into the library, ignoring Dan as he spoke to her. A cure for Vivek’s grief had been one of her last handholds. Without it, with him gone, she felt herself slipping. Her posture was more stooped, her eyes were sunk deeper than they had been just that summer. Squinting as she walked through the dark library, she let herself half believe that the news would find its way to Vivek somehow. That he would find some comfort somehow. The somehow had to be enough to hold on to. Francis was in the parcel room. Liesl went and stood beside him.

“Have you come to help unpack boxes?” he asked. His sweater was streaked with dust, and he was to his knees in packing material.

“What are we unpacking?”

“The loan for my exhibition. The shipment from Boston came today.”

“You’re making a register of it all?”

“And putting it straight in lockup.”

“I’ve come from the history department.”

“He’s stayed then, Vivek has?” Francis said. “I’m happy to hear it.”

Remarkable work in those boxes—the first volume that Liesl released from its cocoon of bubble wrap and dust was a later work from the Plantin Press. It was the artistry of the press that recommended it, the elaborate Rubens engravings, the flirty typography, and the small-format Caesaris made those talents manifest. She opened the cover and lay open the fold-out leaves in her hands to look at the printing details of the maps that were bound with the book. The quality of the type was lovely. It was so small, the book. So small that it could fit in the palm of her hand. So small that it could disappear into the pocket of the coat she was wearing. The idea made her lick her lips. She put the book down on the packing table. A safe distance from her empty pocket.

At the next table, Francis was making notes in a paper register. She had once found it charming; she had recently found it charming, how old-fashioned the place was. Now it was all she could do to not yell that it was a waste of time to have an intern redo the work Francis was doing right now because he didn’t know how to use a spreadsheet. She didn’t yell. There was no use to it now, and there never had been. She was part of the fabric of what had kept the place stuck in the past. They were not going to change for her now just because she decided that she wanted to. There were wonderful books in these boxes and wonderful ideas in these books. That much remained true even if her devotion to the old ways of doing things did not. She dictated the details of the Caesaris, and Francis wrote them in the register.