The Thieves of Manhattan - By Adam Langer Page 0,15
way the library was run. It was too dark and musty to allow anyone to seriously read or study for any great length of time. Manuscripts that were available on certain days became unavailable on others. Well-qualified applicants who truly needed to see a copy of a specific manuscript for their scholarly work often found their research proposals rejected; people like Roth, who just wanted to browse, read, or write, were accepted. Unlike Roth’s other favorite libraries, which kept conventional workday hours, the Blom had an idiosyncratic schedule that actually suited Roth well—before he was due to open mail at Merrill Books or after he was done with a bookstore shift, he would hole up in the library. He’d sign out one rare manuscript or another, put on thin white cotton gloves to read for the first half of his library session, then brainstorm stories for the second half.
The Blom’s front desk was manned by a gruff, bald, and muscular goon who seemed to have little affection for literature. He smoked unfiltered vonneguts in the reading room and flicked ashes onto his desk. He spoke little and when he did, mangled the English language—“Wot you said?” he’d ask whenever Roth asked to see a volume. He’d demand Roth’s ID, study it, then ask, “Wot useta be your name is?” Even though the man never seemed to do much other than work crossword puzzles, he would often tell Roth not to bother him, to sit back down and return later—“How’s that soun’ like a good idea?” he’d add. Roth began to refer to him as the “Hooligan Librarian.”
Most of the regulars at the Blom were academics, writers, or well-heeled senior citizens, who Roth thought might be descendants of Chester and Cecille Blom. Most were men, but one day, a young woman caught his eye. He never learned her name, even now still referred to her only as the “Girl in the Library,” and said he just remembered the color of her hair and eyes, and the pallor of her skin. As she strolled through the reading room, behaving as if she owned it, she seemed fascinated by all the documents and books, but particularly The Tale of Genji. Roth watched her intently studying the book through its locked glass cover, its beautiful, snow-covered landscapes, its parasol-hefting noblewomen, its splendid kimonos. She took notes in a little red book. Roth wondered who she was, whether she could read the language or whether she was just fascinated by the images. He imagined her to be a graduate student or perhaps a young editor working on a new translation of the book. He resolved that he would introduce himself to her and ask. But she didn’t stay long. He saw her ask the Hooligan Librarian if she could take out the “Shining Lord,” but the man said no, that wasn’t allowed; the book was “too delicate-like.” She asked to see some other manuscripts in the collection; no, the man told her, those weren’t available.
“Check back Monday,” he told her. “How’s that soun’ like a good idea?”
Roth was there on Monday, but the girl wasn’t.
And neither was the library.
THE CONFIDENT MAN’S STORY, PART III
The sirens should have alerted him, but Roth didn’t even notice their wail until he arrived at the place where the entrance was supposed to be. Where the library had been were mounds of rubble, charred manuscripts, the shell of a building with its windows blacked out, smashed in; firefighters were moving deliberately but slowly through the wreckage as if there was no longer any urgency to their mission. The air was thick and dark, suffused with the stench of burned paper, which flurried in the breeze like black snow. The site was bordered by yellow caution tape, and when Roth tried to get a closer look, he couldn’t get past news reporters, gawking spectators, and police officers, who were trying to push everybody back so they could gather what appeared to be already beyond salvaging.
I had heard of the fire at the Blom—when he was still working, my dad often directed me to interesting news stories about libraries. He told me about the legendary Belgian library of Jean Népomucène Auguste Pichauld, a fictional library full of imaginary books. He taught me about tragedies that had befallen famous libraries throughout history—the great fire in Alexandria in 48 B.C., the destruction of the Louvain Library in 1914, the fires set at the Los Angeles Public Library in the mid-1980s. He told me about