“Can I say something then? It would be more easily said over a drink, but it should be said either way.”
“If you want to,” she said. “If you feel you have to.” It was easier now. No more fear of the pending conversation. For twenty-one years they’d avoided the question of what-if, had avoided each other as much as was possible. For Liesl had feared learning she’d made the wrong decision. Wrong lover. Wrong father. Wrong type of life. But having opened themselves to the possibilities, examined them up close, held them in hand, Liesl understood now that the conversation had been nothing to fear. The choice young Liesl had made had been the right one.
“It’s not that,” he said, and Liesl was satisfied that Francis felt the same way as she did.
She nodded. Left space for him to say what he needed to say.
“Take Garber’s job offer. Please.” He took off his red knit cap and held it in his hands as he asked.
It was the last thing that she expected. He laid out his case. That without Liesl, the job would be filled in Christopher’s image. By a man like Langdon Sibley. Or perhaps worse, in Francis’s eyes, by a man like Max Hubbard.
She struggled to sleep that night. Despite the warm tea on her nightstand. Despite the twelve-hour workday that had left her mind so foggy. She watched John’s big shoulder rising and falling beside her and was envious of him. She gave up finally and rose to go look out the window. At the snow-smeared backyard, at the outline of her garden underneath all that winter.
She would have liked to think that Francis believed she was the best person for the job. And not that he was worried it would go to his rival. The idea of being anyone’s unthreatening choice was ghastly. It made her want to spend a half-million dollars on a manuscript on a whim. It made her want to dump armfuls of books into her purse or else to sit on the floor of the stacks in the basement and tear pages out of precious ancient texts one by one. Their old bed creaked as John turned to look for her. He sighed when he saw that she was looking at the garden, mumbled something about the thaw coming soon, and then rolled over and went right back to his easy sleep.
20
“Has it already started?” Liesl asked.
Dan turned at the sound of her voice.
“They waited six months for you,” he said, “so I told them they could wait six more minutes.”
She gave him a peck on the cheek and then rushed into the large reading room. A ten-foot-tall banner announcing the Forgeries and Thieves exhibition hung from the third-story railing.
“Thank goodness,” Francis said. “I was beginning to think you had stood us up. After we got the place all dressed up for you.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it. The banner is lovely. Are we using a different graphic designer?”
“Yes. One that’s more ‘web-friendly,’” Francis said.
“Sounds like a smart move,” Liesl said.
“Not a popular one.”
“Puppies in the library would be a popular idea. Not a smart one, though.”
“I bet that even puppies would give some of the regulars reason to grumble about the new comandante.”
“How about you? Have you been grumbling?”
He motioned to the front of the room, to the star of the exhibition, to avoid answering the question.
A large glass display case had been assembled at the front of the room. In the corner of the case Liesl could see the red glint of a laser beam that would shriek if the case were to be pried open. Not that anyone would ever do such a thing. Liesl took Francis’s cue and stepped toward the case to see the contents. The Peshawar manuscript. And next to it, the facsimile.
The explanatory plaque explained the details of the carbon-dating process that had been used to differentiate the two.
“Remarkable, isn’t it,” Liesl said. “How quickly the exhibition was pulled together.”
“Remarkable indeed.”
Francis’s exhibition centering on the Plantin was next on the calendar. Still far from ready.
“The science bit,” Francis said. “It’s not really what we do.”
“It is now, though, isn’t it?” Liesl said.
“Should I get my Bunsen burner then?”
She stepped back from the case to admire the lighting setup. The room was filling. As she suspected, the beginning of the ceremonies had not been held up on her behalf. They were waiting for the money. And the money walked into the room and right toward her.
“My favorite librarian,” Percy Pickens said.
No sooner had he greeted her than she spotted President Garber who was, with no discretion whatsoever, rushing across the room so that Liesl would not be left alone with the donor. He very nearly spilled his pinot noir.
“What a surprise that you made it to our celebration, Liesl.”
“I RSVP’d.”
“Of course. For the exhibition opening. It’s very exciting.”
“The turnout is rather good.” She wandered to the next case, and he had to trail behind her. The blue and gold. It still took her breath away.
“It should be,” Percy said. “You’ve invited Chris’s family and lots of friends, haven’t you?”
“You thought Chris’s family and friends would be especially interested in this exhibition, President Garber?” Liesl asked. She leaned closer to the case to read the plaque explaining the scholar’s theories about the plundering of treasures from the Great Mosque, the centuries-long search for the blue Quran.
“The exhibition, sure,” Percy said. “But the real draw is the presentation, isn’t it? This wine is terrible.”
“Oh?” Liesl said as she finally turned and looked back at the men.
“Acidic,” Percy said. “Has the library changed caterers? Liesl, where were you sourcing your wine when you did all this? I think they must be using someone different now. Cheaper. Or new world.”
“What’s to be presented?” she asked.
“It’s meant to be a surprise,” Percy said. “Though I could enjoy a surprise better if I had something more appropriate to toast with.”
“What’s being presented?”
“Percy has made a generous donation,” Garber said. Percy frowned at his wineglass. And Liesl noticed, for the first time, that there was a black drape covering something on the wall of the large reading room.
“Something for the collection?”
“You really don’t know?” Garber asked. “Perhaps we should leave it a secret after all.”
“Best not to have secrets among friends,” Liesl said.
“Oh, all right,” Percy said. “President Garber recently informed me that the naming rights for this very reading room were available.”
“The naming rights?” She managed a half smile. “So am I now standing in the Percy Pickens Reading Room?”
“That was my first thought, but no. I did one better. There are plenty of rooms in plenty of buildings that bear my name, but this will be the first named after a man of letters, a man who gave me plenty of laughs and plenty of tax receipts, a great man. Can you guess?”
“No.”
“Oh, be serious now. It’s the Christopher Wolfe Reading Room. A fitting honor for an honorable man.”
Liesl’s half smile was fixed in place. She bobbed her head to some unheard music and then reached her hand out, took Percy’s glass of pinot noir, and downed the remnants in one mighty gulp.
His mouth opened and she could see the tip of his tongue, flexing to find words and failing spectacularly. She handed back the glass.
“He’s right, you know,” she said to Garber. “The wine is rubbish.”
“She drank my wine,” Percy said, to no one and everyone.
“We should let them get started,” Liesl said.
Before Garber could snap his fingers to summon a fresh glass and an ice pack for Percy’s ego, the new chief librarian walked into the reading room. The two women spoke often, but Liesl hadn’t seen her since her retirement.
“Rhonda, congratulations on the exhibition,” Liesl said. “What I’ve seen so far is thrilling.”
“Hello, Professor Washington,” Percy said.
“How nice to see you again, Percy.” Rhonda kept her arm around Liesl’s waist as she greeted the donor. “I see your wine is empty. Is someone bringing you another?”