Here's a continuation of chapter 1, from yesterday:
----
He decided to make a note for Vincent to suggest as much, but Elizabeth, the lovely young woman in cubicle number four, whirled in to remove her coat and sling it over the top of her half-wall, every movement brisk, controlled and beautiful in a slim, blonde, London sort of way. She removed her high heels, which brought her down to Adam’s height, and slipped into a pair of slippers as she asked, "Has Vincent been in, yet?" Then she pulled her hair into a ponytail.
Adam took a deep breath, catching the hint of a garden from her perfume, and shook his head. "You're safe. It's just gone nine."
"Thanks." Then she vanished behind her wall, and he heard her cry, "Bloody hell, my computer won't wake up."
That is when Adam's computer flashed that it would now allow him access to the database.
"Mine just now has," he said. "Took its time."
"But you shut yours down; I let mine sleep."
"Best do a restart, then."
"Well, Vincent can't say anything if I don't have access to the server." Then she got up and headed for the kitchenette.
Adam smiled, shook his head and turned to his computer to complete the provenance on the Orlando, then he dove into a copy of Erasmus' Morais Enkomion, which had been sitting on the incoming shelf for several days. He broke for tea at 10:55, had lunch at one, and finished the provenance by three, just as his mobile phone chirped a thirty-minute warning of a meeting Vincent had scheduled with him.
He stood and stretched, still a bit sore from Saturday’s scrums, neatened his tie, and carried the Erasmus to a short side hall while singing it a soft little song. In Greek.
He had sung the same song to the Orlando, albeit in Latin. It helped make the book feel welcome to her new home.
He took the Erasmus into a room they called The Dark Chamber — a smallish square with thick, solid shelves on the walls and two freestanding units. Its bare illumination came from sconces fixed high above and a single oval window of cut leaded glass up near the ceiling. Here, newly arrived books waited to be archived or photographed, after which they were set on the center shelves for their journey to a climate-controlled vault.
The photography room was just down a short hall from The Dark Chamber and was jealously guarded by a half-Scally, half-punk, half-Eastenders lad named Jeremy. He had jammed his computer, table, camera, tripod and light kit into a space little larger than Adam's cubicle and consistently whined about being cramped, which was no surprise, him being at least four inches taller than Adam. More than once he'd suggested swapping his space for The Dark Chamber, but Vincent consistently refused. Which made Adam very happy. He loved the room's tender play of dust and light and darkness, like it was wrapping the antiquarian volumes in the safety of shadows and silence.
He set the Erasmus on the to-be-photographed shelf, nice and gentle, then checked his phone to make sure his alarm was still set to remind him of his appointment. He had done it wrong more than once, but it looked all right. He figured he had time for an early cup of tea so popped into a kitchenette just across the hall.
He set the kettle to going and pulled down his cup — a black one with A room without books is like a body without a soul (Cicero) wrapped around it in white lettering. As he filled it, he caught a glimpse of Elizabeth slipping into The Dark Chamber with a drop-back box that contained a set of handwritten letters from Henry James to someone in the south of France. He thought it funny she was archiving them, since she had read none of his books.
"I tried Washington Square," she had told him, "but his style is so arch. I prefer Virginia Woolf."
Adam was shocked. "But how could you not have?"
"Have you read every book in German?" she had snapped. "Or Greek? Or Latin? Or made prior to 1501?"
"That's not the point, Elizabeth."
"Don't patronize me, Adam. I know Henry James well enough to make even you sound idiotic." Then she had worked on the letters all day, without a word to him.
He let it pass because it was now obvious that, while her specialty might be Eighteenth and Nineteenth Century literature, she was not a book person. He doubted she ever would be, though he was open to helping her learn, if she wanted.
He pulled down her cup, and plopped a bag into it, calling, "Cup of tea, Elizabeth?"
"Tea?" she called back.
"Water's hot. Be set in a flash," he said as he poured hot water into it.
"Quarter milk, no sugar?”
"Just the way you like it," he said, dolloping milk into both cups.
“No, thanks,” she called back.
Adam froze. He now had two cups of tea and only time enough to finish one. And they had to be drunk in the kitchenette; to take any sort of food or liquid back to your cubicle raised too great a risk of an irreplaceable book being damaged.
That is when Jeremy popped his head through the door and growled in his happy-puppy way, "Tea? You never make me any."
Adam had no idea how to respond except to say, “Didn't know you drank it.”
----
He decided to make a note for Vincent to suggest as much, but Elizabeth, the lovely young woman in cubicle number four, whirled in to remove her coat and sling it over the top of her half-wall, every movement brisk, controlled and beautiful in a slim, blonde, London sort of way. She removed her high heels, which brought her down to Adam’s height, and slipped into a pair of slippers as she asked, "Has Vincent been in, yet?" Then she pulled her hair into a ponytail.
Adam took a deep breath, catching the hint of a garden from her perfume, and shook his head. "You're safe. It's just gone nine."
"Thanks." Then she vanished behind her wall, and he heard her cry, "Bloody hell, my computer won't wake up."
That is when Adam's computer flashed that it would now allow him access to the database.
"Mine just now has," he said. "Took its time."
"But you shut yours down; I let mine sleep."
"Best do a restart, then."
"Well, Vincent can't say anything if I don't have access to the server." Then she got up and headed for the kitchenette.
Adam smiled, shook his head and turned to his computer to complete the provenance on the Orlando, then he dove into a copy of Erasmus' Morais Enkomion, which had been sitting on the incoming shelf for several days. He broke for tea at 10:55, had lunch at one, and finished the provenance by three, just as his mobile phone chirped a thirty-minute warning of a meeting Vincent had scheduled with him.
He stood and stretched, still a bit sore from Saturday’s scrums, neatened his tie, and carried the Erasmus to a short side hall while singing it a soft little song. In Greek.
"I see a book that's going to be took for Jeremy to photograph and put with all the rest. She's a lovely little book which soon will find her nook, and she will be considered to be one of our best."
He had sung the same song to the Orlando, albeit in Latin. It helped make the book feel welcome to her new home.
He took the Erasmus into a room they called The Dark Chamber — a smallish square with thick, solid shelves on the walls and two freestanding units. Its bare illumination came from sconces fixed high above and a single oval window of cut leaded glass up near the ceiling. Here, newly arrived books waited to be archived or photographed, after which they were set on the center shelves for their journey to a climate-controlled vault.
The photography room was just down a short hall from The Dark Chamber and was jealously guarded by a half-Scally, half-punk, half-Eastenders lad named Jeremy. He had jammed his computer, table, camera, tripod and light kit into a space little larger than Adam's cubicle and consistently whined about being cramped, which was no surprise, him being at least four inches taller than Adam. More than once he'd suggested swapping his space for The Dark Chamber, but Vincent consistently refused. Which made Adam very happy. He loved the room's tender play of dust and light and darkness, like it was wrapping the antiquarian volumes in the safety of shadows and silence.
He set the Erasmus on the to-be-photographed shelf, nice and gentle, then checked his phone to make sure his alarm was still set to remind him of his appointment. He had done it wrong more than once, but it looked all right. He figured he had time for an early cup of tea so popped into a kitchenette just across the hall.
He set the kettle to going and pulled down his cup — a black one with A room without books is like a body without a soul (Cicero) wrapped around it in white lettering. As he filled it, he caught a glimpse of Elizabeth slipping into The Dark Chamber with a drop-back box that contained a set of handwritten letters from Henry James to someone in the south of France. He thought it funny she was archiving them, since she had read none of his books.
"I tried Washington Square," she had told him, "but his style is so arch. I prefer Virginia Woolf."
Adam was shocked. "But how could you not have?"
"Have you read every book in German?" she had snapped. "Or Greek? Or Latin? Or made prior to 1501?"
"That's not the point, Elizabeth."
"Don't patronize me, Adam. I know Henry James well enough to make even you sound idiotic." Then she had worked on the letters all day, without a word to him.
He let it pass because it was now obvious that, while her specialty might be Eighteenth and Nineteenth Century literature, she was not a book person. He doubted she ever would be, though he was open to helping her learn, if she wanted.
He pulled down her cup, and plopped a bag into it, calling, "Cup of tea, Elizabeth?"
"Tea?" she called back.
"Water's hot. Be set in a flash," he said as he poured hot water into it.
"Quarter milk, no sugar?”
"Just the way you like it," he said, dolloping milk into both cups.
“No, thanks,” she called back.
Adam froze. He now had two cups of tea and only time enough to finish one. And they had to be drunk in the kitchenette; to take any sort of food or liquid back to your cubicle raised too great a risk of an irreplaceable book being damaged.
That is when Jeremy popped his head through the door and growled in his happy-puppy way, "Tea? You never make me any."
Adam had no idea how to respond except to say, “Didn't know you drank it.”
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