There’s a boy in this story, he repeats. A boy, and a cabinet.
A cabinet? The librarian bites her lip. There’s a sudden light in her eyes, an alertness to her, as if she is a cat herself, on the hunt with ears pricked and whiskers twitching. Well, there’s a boy in Sam, Bangs and Moonshine, she says, but no cabinet, that I can recall. Lots of cats in Beatrix Potter, but no boys. Is it a picture book, or a novel?
I don’t know, Bird admits. He has never heard of any of the books the librarian is describing, and it makes him slightly dizzy, all these stories he hadn’t even known existed. It’s like learning there are new colors he’s never seen. I never actually read it, he says. I think it might be a fairy tale. Somebody just told it to me, once.
Hmm.
The librarian pivots on her heel with startling alacrity. Let’s take a look, she says, and marches off, discreetly sliding the folded slip of paper into her pocket.
She walks so briskly that he nearly loses her. Shelf by shelf, the world rushes by in microcosm: Customs & Etiquette. Costumes & Fashion. This is a world, he realizes, she knows forward and backward, a map she’s traveled so many times she can draw it from memory.
Here we are, she says. Folklore.
Drumming her fingers along the spines, she skims the shelf, appraising and ticking off each book in her mind.
I know there’s a story called Cat-skin, she says, pulling down a volume and handing it to Bird. On the cover, gilt letters and a cluster of golden-haired ladies and knights.
And there’s one in there called The Cat and Mouse in Partnership, too. Ends how you’d expect. Nothing about a boy, though. Of course there’s Puss in Boots, but I don’t know that I’d call the miller’s son a boy—and there’s no cabinet, for sure. And only the one cat.
Before Bird can reply, she’s already moved on.
Let’s see: Hans Christian Andersen? No, I don’t think so. There’s an old legend about a cat calming baby Jesus in his cradle—that’s sort of like a cabinet. Or maybe it’s a myth? There’s Freyja and her chariot cats, and of course there’s Bastet, but no cabinets or boys. And I don’t remember the Greeks saying much about cats.
She rubs her temple with one bony knuckle. It’s almost, Bird thinks, as if she’s forgotten about him, as if she’s talking to herself. Or to the books themselves, as if they’re beings of their own who might answer back. To his great relief, she seems to have forgotten about him spying, about the mysterious slip of paper.
You don’t remember anything else? she says.
I can’t, he says. I mean, I don’t.
He looks down at the book of fairy tales in his hands, turns it over. On the back: a slain dragon, borne on a pole, red tongue lolling like a dangling rope. His throat goes hot and sticky, and he closes his eyes and swallows, trying to clear it.
My mother told it to me, he says, a long time ago. It’s okay. Never mind.
He turns to go.
You know, I think I remember an old picture book, the librarian says. She lowers her voice. A Japanese folktale.
She pauses a moment, glances at the shelf, then the search terminal at the end of the row.
But it won’t be in there.
Then she snaps her fingers, points at him. As if he himself has figured out the answer.
Come with me, she says.
Bird follows her between the shelves to an office marked staff only. The librarian lifts a key from her lanyard, unlocks it. The room beyond is full of stacks of books, a desk piled high with papers. Filing cabinets, a rotary fan. Dust. But they walk straight past the desk to a rusty metal door the gray-green color of mold. She shoulders it open, tugs a wastepaper basket toward her with her foot, wedges it behind the door to keep it from shutting. From the dent in the basket, it’s clear that this has been its job for years.
There’s one more place we might look, she says, and beckons him through.
It’s a kind of loading dock, separated from the outside by a roll-down metal grate. Once, trucks must have dropped off their cargo here: books, he supposes, from other libraries. From the piles of crates and boxes on the sides of the dock he can see it hasn’t been used in some years; there’s no way a truck could even approach it.
Fewer loans these days, the librarian says. Just a crate or so a week. Easier to just bring it in the front.
She begins to lift them down, and when Bird goes to help, he sees that they’re stacked on something: a huge wooden cabinet, bigger than his dresser at home, made of dozens of little drawers.
We stopped using this years ago, when we converted the catalog to digital, the librarian says, clearing the last of the boxes away. Moved it out here to save space. Then the Crisis hit. Now they still haven’t restored our budget. The city won’t take it and we don’t have the funds to have someone haul it away.
She runs her fingers along the brass labels of the drawers and hooks her finger into the pull.
Here, she says. Let’s take a look. The book I’m thinking of is quite old.
Inside, to Bird’s astonishment, the drawer is jammed with small cards covered in neat typing. With deft flicks the librarian riffles through, so quickly he can barely make out the words. Cats—literature. Cats—mythology. Every one of these cards, he realizes, is a book. He had no idea there could be so many.
Ah, the librarian says, with a sigh of satisfaction. It’s the tone of someone who has solved a puzzle, of someone who’s decoded a riddle and found the treasure beneath the X. She extracts a single card and holds it out to him.
Cats—folklore—Japanese—retellings. The Boy Who Drew Cats.
Recognition chimes in him, setting him aquiver like a tuning fork. A strangled noise rises in his throat.
That’s it, he says. I think—I think that’s it.
The librarian turns the card over and scans the back.
I was afraid of that, she says.
You don’t have a copy? Bird asks, and she shakes her head.
Removed. Three years ago, it says. Someone complained, probably. That it encouraged pro-PAO sentiment, or something. Some of our donors have—opinions. On China, or in this case, anything that vaguely resembles it. And we need their generosity to keep this place open. Or just as likely, someone got nervous and got rid of it preemptively. Us public libraries—a lot of us just can’t take the risk. Too easy for some concerned citizen to say you’re promoting unpatriotic behavior. Being overly sympathetic to potential enemies.
She sighs and slides the card back into its place in the stack.
There’s another book I wanted to find, Bird says cautiously. Our Missing Hearts.
The librarian’s eyes snap toward him. For a long moment she studies him. Appraising.
I’m sorry, she says curtly. That book I know we don’t have anymore. I doubt you’ll find it anywhere.
With a bang, she pushes the long thin drawer shut again.
Oh, Bird says. He’d known it was unlikely and yet deep down, he’d still nursed a flicker of hope, and it goes out in a small sooty puff.
What did they do with them, he asks after a moment. All those books.
He remembers a picture from history class: heaps of books in a town square, set ablaze. As if she can tell what he’s thinking, the librarian gives him a sideways glance and chuckles.
Oh no, we don’t burn books here. This—this is America. Right?
She raises an eyebrow at him. Serious, or ironic? He can’t quite tell.
We don’t burn our books, she says. We pulp them. Much more civilized, right? Mash them up, recycle them into toilet paper. Those books wiped someone’s rear end a long time ago.
Oh, says Bird. So that’s what happened to his mother’s books. All those words ground up into dingy gray, flushed down into the sewer in a mess of shit and piss. Something goes hot and liquid behind his eyes.
Hey, the librarian says. You okay?
Bird snuffles and nods. Fine, he says.
She doesn’t ask any more questions, doesn’t press him or ask why he’s crying, only pulls a tissue from her pocket and hands it to him.