Robert Levin
The Author
Okay, maybe it fell a little short of greatness and, for sure, it
hadn't
done very well -- even my parents, went my standard joke, waited until
it
was remaindered before buying their copy. But my book had, amazingly
enough,
made it onto a library shelf.
And now it wasn't there anymore.
Of course since this was a library -- the main branch of the New York
Public
Library -- the obvious assumption to make was that the book had been
borrowed. But I couldn't give any substance to that possibility.
In the two years I'd been making pilgrimages to my achievement from my
apartment in the Village (this time on a sudden impulse in the middle
of a
relentlessly fierce winter that had otherwise kept me from such
excursions)
the book had remained in pristine condition. It had never been
borrowed,
nor, by all appearances, had it even been opened. No, I knew with
absolute
certainty that no one had taken it home.
Feeling myself beginning to panic, I reached behind the books that had
flanked the single copy of mine. Then I checked the entire shelf -- and
the
shelves above and below it. After that I searched the full length of
both
sides of the aisle and rummaged through piles of books that were
stacked on
the floor.
Nothing. And no, no one was seated at the reading tables.
Close to distraught at this point I looked for a librarian. Two
middle-aged
women were standing behind the checkout desk. One was short and dowdy
with
close-cropped gray hair. The other was tall and lean.
Although I stood right in front of them (and on legs from which the
blood
was all but gone), they paid no attention to me. They were having a
personal
moment.
"But you told me," the tall one said, "that it was 'extraordinary.'"
The dowdy one, clearly vexed by the tall one's remark, shut her eyes.
"Yes,
Sylvia, I said that. I did say that. And actually, if you want to know
the
truth, I think it's better than extraordinary. If you want to know the
truth, I think it's sublime."
"WELL?" Sylvia said. She seemed about to cry. "Then I don't understand.
I
don't understand why you're doing this, Helen."
"Sylvia," Helen said, "Why are we talking about your ass now? You know
your
ass isn't the issue. You're doing your spacing out thing again, aren't
you?
I told you what it is; it's your ANKLES. They've started to make me
cross. I
can't help it."
My own crisis notwithstanding, I was, of course, compelled to take a
peek.
Sure enough, Helen had a point on both counts. Sylvia's ass, though it
was
hyperbole to describe it as sublime, was certainly exceptional -- in
another
time I'm sure I'd have taken notice of it on my own. And Sylvia's
ankles
were, no question, a nettlesome sight. They had only the merest hint of
definition. Indeed, when Sylvia, demonstrably piqued, suddenly turned
and
marched away, her calves appeared to descend directly into her shoes.
With Sylvia's abrupt departure, Helen finally faced me.
"May I help you?" She said wearily.
But before I could speak, Sylvia, coat in hand, was back.
"I'm going to lunch, you fucking asshole."
"Have I come at a bad time?" I asked, as we watched Sylvia stalk off
again.
Helen managed a wan smile. "It's all right," she sighed. She took a
quick
and, I thought, wistful, glance at the elevator banks. "How can I help
you?"
"Okay," I said. "Okay. I know this is strange. I'm looking" -- my voice
was
shaking and sweat was pooling in the hollows of my underarms -- "for a
book
that seems to missing." I gave her the title.
"Missing?"
"It's true that you sometimes...you know...destroy them, right?
Is
it possible that's what's happened here? There've been articles about
this."
"DESTROY them? That's ridiculous. We don't DESTROY them. What a
question.
Helen brought her screen up. "There's no record it's been taken out."
"Of course," I rasped. "No record." And then, I suppose you could say,
I
lost it.
"Helen," I heard myself utter, "what exactly IS this shit? It's
egregious
enough when some books here sit totally ignored for years and years.
But
when the chance of any future acknowledgement gets amputated just like
that,
that's a fucking outrage, man. And while we're talking about the
future,
what about posterity? Have you thought about fucking posterity, Helen?
People are supposed to be able to come and find an author here, even --
EVEN
- after he's croaked. I mean do you ever take notice of all the stone
and
marble when you come to work? Of the enormous ceilings and the Latin
inscriptions and shit? This is supposed to be like a sacred place. It's
supposed to hold, in its implicit assurance of permanence, the promise
of
nothing less than an author's Goddamn immortality. And you know what?
IT HAS
LOST ITS MYSTIQUE!"
Helen looked at me then in a very peculiar way and I knew she knew who
I
was. (How many authors had something like this happened with in her
career?)
"I'm sorry," she said gently. "I'm sure the book will turn up. Why
don't you
come back again in a few weeks?"
I don't mind telling you that I had, after I left the library, a very
bad
time of it. I awoke each morning with the kind of heartache I thought
was
reserved for breaking up with the love of your life. Staying inside as
much
as I could, I avoided the phone and took little nourishment. I was in a major depression.
Helen had told me to wait a few weeks but I could wait no more than
one.
Despite a monster snowstorm, I braved the streets and an erratic subway
and
returned to the library.
My book's floor was all but vacant because of the weather, but a
stifling
heat was nonetheless blasting from the radiators. Quickly removing my
coat,
I looked around for Helen and Sylvia. To my relief someone else was
behind
the desk and there was no sign of them.
Approaching the stacks then, and with not a little trepidation, I
recognized
the spine from thirty feet away. And my heart threatened to bolt from
my
chest.
It was BACK!
And not only back, I discovered, upon rushing to it and taking it in my
hands, that while it bore no withdrawal stamp, it had apparently been
read
as well. Some person (or persons) had actually made notations in the
margins.
"OK," was the kind of flat and ambiguous judgment -- was it a judgment? -- next to one highlighted paragraph on the first page I opened.
And then, several pages later, I found, "???"
This I didn't like seeing at all because it meant I maybe hadn't done
my
job.
And the marks on two of the following pages were no less discouraging --
an
apparent lottery number and what I had to concede was a not bad
caricature
of Barbra Streisand.
A half-dozen pages later, however, and adjoining another highlighted
passage
-- one of my own favorites, in fact -- was a word I could not have
brought
myself to wish for.
"WOW!"
At first I felt like weeping. Then it occurred to me, and I was
suddenly
back in the depths, that it was Helen, indulging a kindly, if
misguided,
impulse, who had located the book and fashioned this moment for me. But
would a librarian deface a book? No, that hardly, and under any
circumstances, seemed feasible. That was, if you thought about it, way
off a
librarian's spectrum.
I felt like weeping again. There was a mystery here, but it was a
mystery
that, intriguing as it was, I was not about to pursue. (In fact, it
would
be awhile before I wanted to come here again.)
After running my fingers across the breadth of the smooth jacket, and
knocking my knuckles on the sturdy hard cover, I carefully placed the
book
on its shelf. Tapping it once, I turned and walked away -- and then I
paused
and looked back at it.
When I got outside I realized that I hadn't put my coat on yet. But I
didn't
need it. Standing on the library's top step in howling gusts of what
was
sleet now, I felt no discomfort.
I felt indestructible.
©2006 by Robert Levin
