I Am the Messenger

"Okay, smart arse."

We both enjoy the moment, and he reaches under his counter and gives me a sheet of paper.

"Fill this out, please."

Once I receive the card, I try buttering him up a little to get my hands on all the books.

"Thanks, mate. You're doing a hell of a job."

He looks up. "You still want all those books, don't you?"

"That's right." I pile them up onto the counter from the floor. "Basically, I really need them, and one way or the other, I'm going to get them. Only in today's sick society can a man be persecuted for reading too many books." I look back into the emptiness of the library. "They're hardly jumping off the shelves, now, are they? I don't think anyone else wants them just now."

He allows me to talk, going through the motions. "Look, to be honest," he says, "I personally couldn't give a pinch of shit how many you borrow. It's regulations. If my boss catches me, I'm in it."

"In what?"

"I don't bloody know, but I'll be in it deep."

Still, I look at him, not giving an inch.

He caves in.

"All right, give 'em here. Let's see what I can rig up for you." He starts scanning them. "My boss is a total knob anyway."

When he's done, there are exactly eighteen books on the other side of the counter.

"Thanks," I tell him. "Much appreciated."

How am I going to get them all home? I ask myself.

I consider ringing Marv for a lift, but I manage on my own. I drop some along the way, rest a few times, but in the end, each book makes it home.

My arms are killing me.

I didn't know words could be so heavy.

All afternoon, I read.

I fall asleep once as well, no disrespect to the writers. I'm still worn out from the Rose beating and the Sledge Game.

As I read, I enjoy the work of Graham Greene. I don't pick up any clues as to where I have to go, but I think it must be simpler than this. I look over at the small book mountains I've built. It's demoralizing, to say the least. How am I ever going to find what I need among those thousands of pages?

When I wake up, a southerly's blowing outside and it's actually pretty cool for this time of year. It being early December, I feel a little strange going to put a sweatshirt on. I walk past the front door and see a piece of paper lying there.

No, it's a napkin.

Anxious, my eyes close for a second, and I bend down to pick it up. It really brings home the fact that I've been followed all this time. They watched me go to the library. They watched me in the library and on the way home. They knew I wrote the titles on the napkin.

My eyes read it.

Just a few words, in red.

Dear Ed,

Good work--but don't worry, it's simpler than you think.

I go back and sit with the books. I read "Barren Woman" until I know it word for word.