"Lisa Goldstein - Lilyanna" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goldstein Lisa)

impossible to define, a matter of the curve of a cheekbone, the straight line of a
forehead. A few millimeters one way or the other and she would have looked
different, entirely ordinary.
The actress she reminded me of most was Greta Garbo. I went over to the
movie section (791.43) and took down a book on her, but I saw I’d been wrong;
they were not very much alike. But both seemed luminous somehow, as if a light
shone from inside them.
I learned from the book that Garbo had not said “I want to be alone,” the
quote everyone attributes to her, but “I want to be left alone,” which makes more
sense. Librarians, I sometimes think, know a great deal of useless trivia about a great
variety of subjects.
I wished I had thought to check which book the photograph had come from,
but there were too many in the bin now to make a guess. I puttered around some
more, then went to my cubbyhole of an office, just behind the circulation area, and
put the photo in a desk drawer. I straightened the plastic sign that said “Harris Kent,
Librarian” and checked the empty rooms again—there was no one waiting for me at
home, after all—and caught a later bus home.
We were busy as usual the next day. I stayed in my office, doing paperwork
and ordering books, coming out when the library aides needed help. I saw the
Crossword Puzzle Guy, there in the mid-morning as always—he Xeroxes the puzzle
from the New York Times, fills it in in ink, and leaves it behind him on the front
table. After he left, a high school student came in, obviously truant. He’d been here a
few times before, and had even asked me for help finding information about anoles,
which turned out to be a kind of lizard. I’d shown him how to use the encyclopedia (
what do they teach them in schools these days?), and later he graduated to the
Internet. If he kept skipping school I’d have to talk to him or his parents or guardian,
but for now I left him alone; he was probably learning more here than in his
classroom.
Every so often I opened my drawer and took out the photograph. Looking at
it made me feel as if I were turning on a light in a dark room, as if something were
being made clear, illuminated.
I’ve always liked photographs, the way they’re the same each time you look at
them, predictable, even comforting. So much else goes by so quickly, changes even
before you’ve had a chance to notice it.
Once when I studied the photograph I saw something new: the woman looked
a bit like someone I’d dated in college. Nina had had the same breathtaking beauty,
and she, too, had seemed set apart by it, a visitor from some other, better, realm. I’d
never understood why she’d gone out with me. I wear glasses, my hair is the dull
color of meatloaf, and I’m tall and skinny—though at least, I used to think, Nina and
I were the same height.
Usually the thought of her brought back a confusion of feelings, love and loss
and regret, but this time the mysterious woman crowded out everything else. Who
was she? Where had she come from? What had happened to her?
I went to lunch, came back. The mob of kids came in after school, talking
noisily. Some of them towed bookbags on wheels; you have to wonder about the
amount of homework they get. Fortunately the children’s librarian deals with them;
only rarely does she call me for help.
The time slid toward closing. The patrons headed toward the doors, and I
turned off some of the lights. A woman dashed in; she knew what she wanted, she
said, it would just take a minute. I knew this type of patron of old, and sure enough