She sat staring at the screen, listening to the library go quiet around her as the voices retreated one by one into the elevator and back onto the street. First the clinking Sancerre glasses at the donor event ceased, then readers went quiet, then the rumble of book trucks as materials were packed away, and finally the voices of the staff went dim and Liesl was left alone in the darkened building with only the hum of the air conditioner to keep her company.
Liesl savored the stillness. Her once-blond hair was blown shiny, and the blues of her eyes were even lined with mascara for the day, but it was a costume; a convincing disguise for a woman who preferred to be wallpaper and liked to describe her sense of responsibility as her most attractive trait. Dan had cleared the scattered volumes from around the office in her absence, so there were not even books to keep her company. Her solitude was absolute. Her cell phone lit up—her husband, John. She didn’t move to answer it. She didn’t call back. She hadn’t answered a single one of the emails that blinked before her. She stared at the screen, wondering what to do next, until the ringing of Christopher’s office phone startled her out of her meditation.
“Christopher Wolfe’s office,” Liesl answered.
“I’m sorry. I expected voicemail.”
“Can I help you with something?”
“Sorry, how rude of me. My name is Rhonda Washington; I’m with the math department. Are you Mr. Wolfe’s assistant? Can I leave a message with you?”
“He’s on sick leave, I’m afraid. I’m his replacement, not his secretary. Can I help?”
“Gosh,” the woman on the phone said. “I’m making a real mess of things, aren’t I?”
“It’s no problem, really. How can I help?”
“I’m new to the university, and I’m told you might have some materials in your collection that are of value to my research.”
“What’s your area of research?”
“I study the zero.”
“How odd.”
“That I study the zero?”
“No. Well, yes, it’s a bit odd to me that someone would choose to study a single digit, but what do I know; I studied literature. You must know about the Peshawar?”
“Of course. I’ve read a lot about it.”
“We happened to have it out today. That’s what was odd.”
“Can I come see it now?”
On the desk, Liesl’s cell phone was ringing again. Her husband. No doubt wondering why she hadn’t made her way home yet, even as the skies were darkening. If he was looking for her, it meant he was up, it meant it was a good day. Even still, she pressed End on the call.
“Well,” Liesl said. “The library is closed for the night.”
Liesl glanced down at the sheet of paper where she had written the woman’s name so she wouldn’t forget it: Rhonda Washington. Liesl wondered about this new breed of academics, who were so accustomed to getting what they wanted when they wanted it that they wouldn’t even think to make an appointment to see a manuscript like the Peshawar. She opened the drawer of the desk to find a pencil sharpener and found instead a half-full bottle of whiskey and a couple of tumblers. She shut the drawer.
“Of course,” Rhonda said. “I just thought if you still had it out.”
“You can make an appointment to come work here.”
“My research need is a bit unusual.”
Liesl kept the phone propped under her chin as she stood and began to gather her belongings. She switched the computer off without having done anything with it and stretched the phone cord as long as it would go so she could get her coat, hanging on the rack in the far corner of the office. She had heard thousands of researchers expound, all in the exact same way, about the unique character of their research. There was a catalog for an upcoming books-and-papers auction in the corner of Christopher’s desk, and Liesl began to flip through it as the woman talked.
“Unusual how?”
“I’m less interested in the content of the manuscript than in the object itself.”
“The study of manuscripts and bindings isn’t uncommon.”
“Yes. But I’d like to take a more…scientific approach.”
Liesl was standing in her coat now, ready to get off the call and out of the library. She was suddenly starving. A good day meant John might have cooked something.
“I look forward to hearing about it when we have a chance to meet.”
“So you’re open to the idea?”
“To what idea?”
Liesl had had few opportunities to be the decision-maker about the use of the library’s collections herself—unless one counted the dozen or so times that Christopher had agreed to the loan of materials to other institutions without bothering to arrange shipping or insurance and Liesl was left in the position of stopping the materials before they left the building. After four decades working with Christopher, she had risen to the rank of his assistant director, a title with a pleasing ring but a day-to-day reality of tasks that Christopher didn’t find especially interesting. When she approved expense reports or commissioned the creation of a website or found money in the budget for an interesting acquisition, she did so with the contented feeling of one who had done better than their peers, and it was only now, on this phone call, that she was coming to realize how seldom choice, real choice, had been a part of her work life.
“The Peshawar has been said to note the first use of the zero in mathematics,” Rhonda continued, “but no one really knows how old the Peshawar is.”
“Well, we have an idea based on the style of writing, the language. There’s a community of scholars who specialize in dating books.”
The catalog was for a collection of books and manuscripts from the collection of a prominent Iranian scholar. She doubted that Christopher was planning to bid.
“So you have a best guess.”
“A confident estimate.”
“We could know for certain.”
“How’s that?”
“I’m proposing we carbon-date the Peshawar.”
Liesl felt out of her depths and hungry. Neither state was conducive to a productive conversation. She knew little about how the manuscript had originally been dated, she knew nothing about carbon dating, and she was thinking of the macarons she had passed up earlier in the evening. “Let’s set a meeting and discuss further.”
“Wonderful,” Rhonda said. “I’ll email you to set it up. Liesl Weiss, is that you?”
What were the features of Lot 37 in the catalog that made it unique, lifted it out of the other ninety-nine? Liesl had the gold calligraphy on blue vellum burned into her retinas from the moment she saw it, estimated at ￡100,000, begging her to acquire it for the collection. But when this was all over, Christopher would be back or someone like him in his place and ￡100,000 would be desired for more appropriate purchases and Liesl would be back to settling invoices or strategizing to fundraise for what others felt was worthwhile. It was just that she had hoped that before the clouds parted and Garber or Christopher or the donors had time to question it, she would have the chance to do all of Christopher’s job, not just the miserable bits. To hunt down the treasure and to raise the auction paddle and to bring Lot 37 home to rest with the other treasures. She took a last look—gold calligraphy on blue vellum—and closed the catalog.
Liesl had set the alarm and locked the door and was halfway to the subway before she realized that she had never given the woman her name. She supposed it was easy enough to figure out by looking at the library’s website or the university’s staff directory, but she was unnerved that Rhonda had been researching her during their conversation. She smoothed her hair against the humidity as if she were being watched at that very moment, and with a last look behind her, she walked down the steps to the subway.
***
“Now don’t be upset,” John said when she walked through the front door. “But I’m afraid I’ve got something to tell you.”
“Telling me not to get upset almost assures that I will indeed get upset. You haven’t gone off your medication?”
“There is no reason to. And no. Of course, no.”