I could hear Michel’s breathing quicken, a telltale sign he was headed for an attack. And it was all my fault; logic was a critical component of his approach to decision-making, and irrational notions could derail his entire thought process. The decision I was forcing him to make represented a major dilemma—to help his sister set the past right, he would have to betray his mother.
I was mortified at the idea that I may have triggered a meltdown, especially since there was no way to help from so far away. I could just picture my brother trembling and moaning, burying his face in his hands . . . I had no right to push him that way, especially not when he was at work, next to the one woman he felt close to—or at least “in a manner of speaking,” as Michel would have said. I wanted to take it back, to never have gone so far, but it was too late. I heard Vera prying the phone away from him.
“I’m sorry to cut in on your conversation,” she said softly. “But if you wouldn’t mind . . . I need Michel to locate a couple of reference books over in the main section.”
I felt ashamed. Vera showed that she was undeniably far more kindhearted and sound of judgment with Michel than his own sister was. I thanked her sheepishly and apologized for all of it.
“Don’t worry, it’ll be okay,” she reassured me. “And don’t think twice about reaching out; I’d be delighted to lend a hand, so let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
There was. What I needed was for Vera to convince Michel to send the letters, or to read them to me herself over the phone. But that was far too much to ask. I thought about asking Maggie, but there was no way to do it without Michel learning that I had betrayed his trust by telling her about the letters. I said goodbye to Vera and hung up. I found George-Harrison waiting out in the front hall and joined him to walk back to the library assistant.
“Could you please point us to the microfiche archives?” I asked.
“Of course,” the assistant said. “I’ll just have to see your credentials first. Are you a student, lecturer, or researcher?”
I flashed my press card, hoping it would do the trick. The girl studied the card warily, until George-Harrison cut in, dropping a smooth compliment about her outfit. Then, he went in for the kill, boldly asking what time she got off and if she wanted to join him for a drink.
“Oh, you’re not together?” the assistant asked, blushing.
“Her? And me? No way! Not at all,” replied George-Harrison.
The girl ripped out a pair of passes from a pad. She seemed almost embarrassed on my behalf.
“The archive you’re looking for is on the lower level. Take the stairs at the back of the room, as quietly as you can, please. Show these passes to the attendant.”
As we crossed the large room, I noticed that the library was quite different from the one back in Croydon. Aside from dwarfing it in size, it featured cubicles with cutting-edge technology that would have made Vera turn green with envy, and probably would have put my brother out of a job. The library was packed. Students and researchers sat with eyes glued to computer monitors, and the sound of fingers tapping restlessly on keyboards echoed through the space like a platoon of scrabbling rodents.
George-Harrison and I sat down in front of a machine from a whole other era. It had a broad black screen above a clear platen. I recognized the clunky apparatus from old movies, but had never laid my eyes on one in real life. The archive assistant went searching through a series of cabinets and returned with a cellophane sheet containing eight images so small you could hide them in the palm of your hand.
“Jeez, that’s what I call a short run! There’s only one edition,” the assistant remarked, as he slid the sheet onto the platen and pushed it under the lens reader. The Independent’s brilliant logo flashed to life on the black screen. The edition was dated October 15, 1980. I held my breath and scrolled through the eight pages one by one.
The lead stories focused on the presidential campaign that had been in full swing at the time. For several weeks, the sitting American president and his upstart challenger had been entrenched in a brutal war of words. Reagan ridiculed Carter’s pacifist mind-set, while Carter accused Reagan of pushing dangerous right-wing extremism and filling his speeches with none-too-subtle references that stoked hatred and racism. “Let’s Make America Great Again” was the former California governor’s campaign slogan, with the central promise of restoring power to states that had long been abused by Washington.
George-Harrison reminded me how that election had ended. That campaign message wound up propelling Reagan and the Republicans to victory, and they seized both the White House and Congress in a huge electoral landslide.
“Let’s hope that formula doesn’t work again this time, or else this country’s headed for a Trump victory,” I grumbled.