The Man of the Library

She heard him even before he came up. His rhythmic steps reverberated off the wooden patches that peeped through the worn fabric of the decadent carpet. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw him stride by the Greek philosophers and then the American presidents and finally he made his way closer to her, by the books with strange names in scripts she could not decipher. She held her breath, but he just marched to his spot by the large windows, just beyond where she sat at the wooden desk scribbled and carved on by several generations of distracted students. She watched him as the breeze wafted in and stirred the musty air of the library and ruffled the sheaf of papers lying neglected by her side. He stood in silence for a few minutes, turned briskly on his heel and disappeared just as suddenly as he had appeared. She blinked rapidly, startled out of her reverie, unsure if she had imagined it all. But she knew that it was not something her fecund imagination had conjured in the utter boredom of her solitude in the library, for she saw him every day.

The Man of the Library, as she liked to think of him. Not Man IN the Library, mind you, for there were many men in there but none quite like this one. He was unique in the aura of quiet dignity that surrounded him, the utter peacefulness with which he stood by his window in his daily sojourn. His appearance was not impressive; his rough denim clothes clung awkwardly to his lanky frame and the impudence of his inquisitive, bulging eyes was partly softened by the effeminate design of his glasses. And yet he maintained about him a cloak of composure like a man in prayer, performing his ritual with the reverence and focus of an ardent devotee.

But the effect he had on her was quite the opposite. Initially, she hardly noticed him as he walked by her, discounting him as one of the multitude that thronged the library in the busy morning hours. Then she detected a pattern, a regularity that extended from the time of his arrival to the cadence of his steps and culminated with his movements by the window. She loved puzzles of any sort and her curiosity was piqued. She started to pay closer attention to him and casually wondered why he came in when he did. Or why he did what he did. Now something more than idle interest was stoked. She kept a rigorous record of his timings and meticulously noted his dress and his every little gesture. Every day. What had originally started as a puzzle and an amusement now became an obsession. Her work at the library seemed to have lost its importance and her own tangible existence paled in comparison to the obscure life of her quest that was steadily being fattened and nourished by the deepest recesses of her imagination. What had been a shadow had now taken on a larger than life appearance, governing her every thought and consuming every fiber of her very being.

Her crime movie-fed brain generated complex ideas-perhaps he was a part of a gang attempting to burglarize the library and he was signaling to an accomplice from that window. Maybe her presence was the only reason that prevented him from robbing them blind, she was the reason the library was safe! A sudden movement caused her to look away in embarrassment and cast her eyes down. In the clutches of her thoughts, she had failed to realize that she had been staring at him. For a little too long apparently, as he threw her a quick look and went on his way. Just like every other day.

The next day was no different except that he gripped a book under his arm. Slyly following his march to the window, she almost laughed out loud at her thoughts from the previous day. He looked so pale and childlike. The gilt edged pages of his book glimmered in the sun. She flinched instinctively. What was that? A holy book of some sort? His innocence of a moment ago vaporized as quickly as the peal of the bell on the clock tower died on the still wind. That’s when it occurred to her that he was few minutes late. A deadly fear gripped her heart. Perhaps he was involved in an enormous terror plot. Maybe he was a religious fanatic and she, the heathen, was condemned to be his first victim!

Spurred by what many may consider insanity, she decided to take matters into her own hands. She shoved aside the papers strewn besides her and pushing her chair out of the way, she boldly made her way up to him. Her voice quivered but she was resolute in her purpose and was determined to get to the bottom of it. The words had barely left her lips when he jumped. All the way he went, down eight interminable floors. She stood watching fixedly as the book with its golden edged pages followed the Man of the Library to his destination at the end of that, his final walk. Now, there were no questions and no answers. Only the silence. Just like every other day.