26

The Library

In order to avoid my landlords’ lack of restraint, I’ve started staying away from my room every evening until I think they’re already asleep. I go to the library and read there until closing, and then I go for a walk before creeping back into my room. I turn on the light so I can read some more, or sometimes I sit in the dark, just thinking.

You can really think when you’re in the dark. I can see the workings of my imagination better with my eyes closed. Dipping its paintbrush into various colors, I paint a picture in my mind. My fantasy is filled with him, with A., the very man I’m trying to drive out of my thoughts. He comes to me unbidden. He plants himself in my brain and forces me to think about him. If only, over time, I can drive him away, then maybe I’ll finally forget him.

No one knows where I am. No one other than Rae, and she won’t give my address to anyone. It’s not in her interest for B. to be able to find me. She’s still in love with him.

I banished myself of my own accord. I brought about my own exile. I must keep to my own room so my landlords won’t expect to see me when they’re looking for someone to make peace. As a united front they quarrel with their children for bringing up arguments against their fatherland and their intellectualism. “The girl,” they say, “is a neutral party, and she will judge everyone equally.” I claim not to be objective because I don’t want to get involved. So they ask me where I go every evening.

“To the library.”

“Do you go with something in mind? What takes you there?”

“My feet,” I answer flippantly. Then I continue seriously, so I won’t offend them, “I’m learning, if learning means reading for its own sake, for myself, not in order to get a diploma.”

“Oh, you mean to say that you read purely for the sake of obrazovanie,” says the landlady.

“Yes, that’s my goal.”

“What can come of that?” the landlord asked. They were both standing in the doorway to their front room. “The more you learn the less you know.”

“You mean the more you realize how little you know,” I corrected.

Their daughter piped up from behind them, “I think reading too much isn’t good. ’specially for girls. They should focus on settling down. No man wants to marry a philosopher. He wants a good housekeeper, a housewife, someone he won’t be embarrassed to show off in front of people. A girl has to know how to dress, how to entertain company and how to run a household. Isn’t that so, Mother?” she finished pointedly in English.

Mother answered with the terse English response, “That’s so.” Before the father could add a further thought, his sons came in calling out “Ma” and “Pop” and “Sis” and they all went out the door. I chained the door shut because it didn’t lock properly and then . . . nothing. I’d been asking myself what the purpose of life is so inexhaustibly that I’d run out of answers. I decided the best thing I could do would be to lie down and go to sleep.

Several times recently I’d noticed an unfamiliar young man watching me as though he’d picked me out and decided to get to know me. I’d pretended not to see him. These past few evenings, I’d already gotten used to his watching me, and when he wasn’t looking it seemed as though something was missing.

Although I like the idea of someone watching me and thinking that I haven’t noticed, his gaze didn’t make me feel any particular good feeling. On the contrary, it annoyed me, even made me angry. But even anger, for me, is better than feeling nothing at all. I don’t feel good when I can’t feel anything. My soul feels trapped in an expanse of emptiness. I must—if I can’t have someone to love—have someone to hate. I must have something to consume at least some of my feelings. And it seemed to me as though the sole reason the young man had been put on earth was so that I could experience the feeling that I can’t stand him. I told myself that if he’d just talk to me a little, then the first thing I’d say to him would be, “Take a long walk off a short pier!”

He has oddly pale skin, but maybe that’s just his complexion. He’s very tall, and wears thick glasses over his squinty, sleepless eyes. His long, straight, dirty-blond hair is disheveled in an artistic fashion. His upturned nose and pouty lower lip make him seem whimsical, or stubborn. His clothes are old and disheveled.

I noticed that he prefers the art and philosophy sections of the library, while I tend toward literature and fiction. His glassy eyes would gaze at me intently from behind a scholarly book, as though he wanted me to see what he was reading. I pretended not to notice. Then he’d approach my shelves, as though he was interested in taking a look at what ordinary people were reading. He’s a regular library visitor and he seemed at home there. From time to time he’d chat with the librarians and ask them to help him find a book. He often inserted himself into conversations to give advice to others who didn’t know what to read. I could tell that sooner or later he was going to talk to me.

And today was the day!

I was sitting in a corner, reading Tolstoy’s War and Peace. I’d read it long ago in Russian and I wanted to know how it sounded in the English translation. I was so absorbed in the book that I didn’t notice him approaching. Sensing his presence, I looked up from my book.

“Excuse me, Miss,” he whispered in a voice that was meant to be soft but came out scratchy. “Can I ask you something?”

I looked at him questioningly.

“Do you know a girl named Altka? Altka, or Anna?”

“No.”

“Really?” He seemed surprised. “You look like you could be her sister!”

I waited until his surprise passed, and then I returned to my book. He asked if he could ask something else.

“Yes?”

“Are you from Palestine?”

“From Palestine? No, I’ve never been there.”

“You must be from Poland, or maybe from Lithuania.”

“Well, I must come from somewhere, after all.”

“You read a lot—but only novels?”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to talk here. We’re in a library! You might bother someone who’s trying to read.”

“Talking is fine, as long as it’s quiet,” he said, speaking in a slightly hushed tone. “It’s interesting how many people are drawn to reading made-up stories while there is so much truth that they ignore.”

“Made-up things must be nicer than real ones. That’s why—”

“That’s why what? They just prefer not to know the truth? And then when you try to talk to them about anything, there’s no common ground. Knowledge—that should be the foundational principle for everything and everyone! Above all a person should try to understand life. To understand it, in the fullest sense of the word. You can only do that by living, not by studying it in a book.”

He was now speaking twice as loud, and it seemed like he was only going to get louder. I looked around uncomfortably to see what impression he was making on the people nearby.

“Are you waiting for someone?” he asked me, as though we were already friends. “Lots of people come here for rendezvous, as you call them, and not for reading.”

“Is that so? And is that what you call them too?”

“I call them . . . I call them . . . maybe I’d better not tell you what I call them. Unless you promise not to get angry with me. I’m the kind of person who likes to call things what they are. I look at them from a scientific or philosophical perspective.”

“Oh,” I said. I let him look at them from whatever perspective he wanted, and I stood up to leave.

“You’re leaving?”

“What does it look like?”

“May I escort you?” he asked, following me.

“That won’t be necessary. I live close by.” I gestured to show him how close it was.

“No matter. I’ll walk with you just a little while. I’m tired of sitting in the library.” He followed me out.

I decided not to let him follow me any further, since I didn’t like him at all. But something in the way he followed me made me hold my tongue and walk in front of him, silently. I decided to be as unfriendly to him as I could. I thought that he must be one of those annoying types who are intrigued by the lives of people on the East Side. I’d try to get rid of him as quickly as possible.

“Do you really live here on the East Side?” he asked, trailing after me. “Right here, on the famous Broadway of the East Side?”

I could tell that he was mocking me with his question, so I didn’t answer.

“You can say goodbye to me at the next block,” I told him.

“Why can’t I go any further? You don’t want me to know where you live? I’d never come to your place without an invitation, regardless.”

“Goodbye,” I announced in English when we reached the next block. I wanted to leave, but he ran ahead of me.

“What frechheit!” I thought. “He’s got a lot of nerve.” I looked him up and down. But he thought nothing of it. He just walked next to me with even more certain steps. I was prepared to walk with him all the way to my house, and then let him stand there while I went in without so much as a goodbye.

“You’re a very interesting girl,” he said. “You don’t seem to have any desire for others to like you. I’ve never met another girl like that. How do you explain it?”

“It’s just that I have no interest in attracting someone I don’t find attractive.”

“You certainly speak your mind! So you don’t like me. Why not?”

“You latch on to people.”

“I’m sorry if you find that offensive.”

“You force the offense on others.”

“But, as a lady, you must—”

“A lady is a person, after all.”

“A lady is a lady first and foremost. I’d never allow myself to make the acquaintance of anyone who didn’t seem intelligent enough to me. I must tell you that I graduated law school and I’m a medical doctor too. I’m in my second year of college and I give scholarly lectures. I’m studying with a full scholarship. That shows you what an exceptional student I am. If I’m interested in you, it’s not because I’m interested in whether you like me or not. It’s because I like you, and I rarely find women I like. I can’t even say what it was about you that drew me to you. It wasn’t your looks, because you’re not too much to look at. You’re pleasant enough. You aren’t so young either. Your eyes are full of hidden sadness, and you often press your lips together like you’re holding back a sigh so no one will hear it. You’re too proud to show how sad you are. I’ve often noticed you looking at the pages of a book but not reading. Your thoughts take you somewhere far away, and I can see the hatred or bitterness in your eyes. You pretend not to notice other people so they won’t notice you, just like a rooster that closes its eyes while it crows so that no one will hear it. I’d love to see what you look like when you laugh. I imagine that you laugh with your mouth and your lips, but your eyes still have the same sadness. Maybe someone close to you died? If so, it must have been someone very dear to you—maybe a lover? Oh, there’s no need to look away. I know, even without looking at you, what you must be feeling. I know human psychology like the back of my hand. Your severity doesn’t scare me. Your character is really very mild and malleable. You could be as soft as wax. You just haven’t met the right sculptor who could make from you the figure that they want. It wouldn’t take long for me to win your trust, your friendship, and maybe even your love.”

I just gave him a derisive, close-lipped smile. He noticed.

“Really? You don’t believe me?”

“How could I believe something so unbelievable?” I answered.

“A while ago, you said goodbye to me, and yet here you are, listening to everything I’ve said.”

That was true. I’d even walked past my building. He had a good point, and I wasn’t sure how to counter it.

“You heard me out because I was talking about you,” he continued, not waiting for my response. “You are very interested in yourself. You’re one of those people who never gets tired of plumbing the depths of her own soul. I hit at the truth with something I said. And even if you didn’t like it, you won’t tell me. You’ll just be quiet about it. But you’ll think to yourself that what I said is true, and wonder how I knew, how I was able to guess at the truth. Did I get it right? Didn’t I hit the mark?”

“You guess like a blind horse in a cave.”

“That comparison isn’t very pretty, and it’s also not fair.”

“You talk so much, I guess something you said has to be true.”

“So you admit that I know the truth! You couldn’t guess as much about me.”

“I think I could.”

“Of course.”

“But you’d probably be pretty insulted.”

“It doesn’t matter. Go ahead.”

“You are—audacious. I don’t mean that you’re daring, just fresh. You’re trying to make an impression with your bad manners. You flirt with the truth about someone else—about the person you’re speaking to. You want to be original, surprising, exceptional, and so you share your opinions and your company, not caring whether or not they’re welcome. Instead of staring so much at other people, you should take a look at yourself. You’d be able to make many more aesthetic judgments. Also, you . . . don’t believe in water.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean you don’t care much for it.”

“Are you trying to say that I don’t wash myself?”

“Bingo!”

“How can you tell?”

“From your face.”

“It’s just a tan.”

“You’ve tanned so much that it even got under your nails?”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” he said, glancing under his nails and then quickly hiding them. “That’s nothing, just a little mud.”

He was quiet. Though outwardly I was angry, inside I was gloating. I’d managed to get back at him and make him feel like a schoolboy! Now I wanted to hear what he’d say, but he was stubbornly quiet, and that made me uncomfortable. Perhaps my insult about the dirt had gone a little too far? But something compelled me to keep behaving badly, and I told him not to take the dirt to heart. It’s not worth it. A little water can wash it away.

“Do you want to know what I’m thinking?” he asked, as though he hadn’t heard my comments.

“Yes, I’d like to know.”

“You’re going to fall in love with me.”

“Why?”

“Because you hate me so much right now. Ordinary people start with loving someone and then eventually hate them. But you are no ordinary person. You’re unusual. You start out your loving with hate. That is to say, you start from the end. You sense, instinctively, the battle ahead of you, and in order to protect yourself you shield yourself with hate. You’re trying to get even with me now for the sadness you’ll feel later.”

I looked at him while he spoke and, strangely, felt an inevitable danger in his words. How could he talk about this right now? What kind of a subject is this for idle chatter?

“Goodbye,” he said suddenly, and before I could say another word, he disappeared. I looked for him to no avail. He was nowhere. I felt powerless. I was the one who was supposed to leave him behind. If I go to the library again, I’ll certainly meet this insult of his with an insult of my own. How dare he act this way toward me?