You can't judge a book by its cover

You can’t judge a book by its cover

The chair creaked as Cheryl stood up and stretched her hands above her head. She had been sitting too long in front of the computer and her neck and back had begun to ache. It was not a good sign and she knew it would prevent her from a good night’s sleep again. The library was relatively quiet at this time of the year when all the assignments had been handed in and the university closed the lecture theatres. Most of the students did their work on-line now and the library was not used as much as before. The new hub was the gathering point and laptops took over from the books downstairs in the big reading room.

Cheryl picked up a few notes from her desk and grabbed the trolley stacked with books. She looked around to see if any of the staff was still there but it appeared she was the only one left on this Friday afternoon. She pushed the trolley towards the lift and the stale and dusty smell followed her on the ground floor as she moved along the book shelves in the 700 section. This part of the library was always messy but she liked it here and spent a lot of time tidying the shelves while she picked out some interesting art books to take home and read. She had not quite finished reading the diary of Frida Kahlo but there was always room for something else on her coffee table and she had another book in mind. She kept her eyes open as she started shelving. The books were in methodic numeric order on the trolley. There were no surprises there, not even any new books or art magazines. She took her time and tidied up as she went along. This was not really her job as a librarian but she felt she needed a break from the desk upstairs.

The art students were different from the others. They showed up at all hours of the day, sometimes looking bedraggled and a little lost as if they had just woken up from a long night out. They did not have that brushy high tail that you could see in some of the others, at least not until the end of semester when the last projects were finished and marked. Cheryl liked their personalities and controversial appearance; it was a welcoming contrast to a grey day. There was always something fresh and new that came out at the end of a semester.

She was looking for “Picasso, artist of the century”. It was a big book and according to the computer the status said it was in. She followed the numbers with her fingers. P 759.6 P586, but it was not there. It must have been misplaced somewhere. She started shelf reading, checking that the books were in order and throwing out the ones that were not, stacking them on an empty trolley to be re-shelved. Picasso was nowhere to be found and she made a note in her mind to change the status to missing on the catalogue before she finished for the day.

The big clock on the wall showed five and Cheryl realized she had spent longer than she thought in the basement. It was time to go home. The isles were quiet and there was no other sound except from the air conditioner that sometimes paused and seemed to sigh. She looked along the wall at the study rooms where all the doors were closed except for one. Room number 8. The light was on and it was only when she got closer, she realized the room was not empty. There was a person lying face down with his head in his arms bent over the table and Cheryl shrugged a little as an uncomfortable feeling came over her. She thought she was all alone down here and now she found herself in a situation where she had to deal with somebody that apparently was sleeping in the study room. She could go upstairs and call for security to take over but it seemed unnecessary and it had happened before when students took a nap in the study rooms, especially during exam times.

- Excuse me!

She paused at the door. This was not a student. This was a man in his mid-40s and to judge by the appearance he was one of the homeless people that used to come in for some warmth in the winter.

- I am sorry to wake you.

His face was covered with a long beard and the dark hair was curly, long and untidy. He opened an eye and looked at her. He laid like that for a few seconds, head on the table with his eye focused on her.

- I am sorry, I am going to have to kick you out. The library has closed for the day.

He grunted and when he lifted his head, she saw the Picasso book there under his arms on the table. It was closed almost as if he had used it as a pillow. A very hard pillow.

- Are you okey? I mean, is everything alright?

She felt stupid standing there as she was some sort of voice of authority over this poor man who obviously just wanted a couple of hours of rest and warmth from the cold outside.

He grinned and looked at her as if he knew what she was thinking. Then he smiled and although his teeth were stained yellow, she felt the warmth and gentleness and she thought for a split second that he had a beautiful smile. There was an honesty that exuded from him.

- It’s okey miss, I just got a bit tired.

He started to get up from the seat and his long coat covered the thin body with the black baggy pants. She looked at his shoes, dark brown, worn, flat souls, no shoe lazes. He handed her the Picasso book as he moved through the door and she held it for a moment before she handed it back to him.

- Here, take it. Read it, keep it over the weekend and bring it back to me on Monday.

This was completely out of her character and something she was not allowed to do but for some reason it did not matter. She had already set the book to missing in her mind and if it could give the man some company then why not.

- You are a nice lady, but you don’t know me. Are you always this kind to strangers?

He paused and looked down at Picassos picture on the front.

- Thank you yes, he said with a smile. I will take it and you might see me on Monday, or you might not. You know, I used to be a teacher once.

He paused for a few seconds.

- I had a little girl and a wife. She was kind, just like you.

He took a couple of steps forward.

- Where are they now?

Libraries are quiet and now it seemed like all the air had gone out of the room.

He turned to her and said quietly under his breath.

- They died in a car accident a long time ago now.

He was gone before she had time to say anything. Just shot around the corner, up the stairs and she could hear his feet echoing through the corridors.

Cheryl could not sleep that night. It was not the aches and pains that kept her awake this time, it was the picture of the man in the study room. She could still hear his voice and the smile was there every time she closed her eyes.

- P 759.6 P586. I have to set it to missing.

Weekends are never long enough for all the things you would like to do and sometimes not to do, but this weekend seemed far to long. Monday…. Cheryl found herself longing for Monday.

She tried on three different outfits and they were all laying spread out over the bed. The cat was sleeping on the black cardigan when she reached under him for the mauve long skirt. She looked in the mirror. The black blouse with the frilled arms was creased and she quickly brought out the iron. She smiled to herself; it was such a long time ago she last ironed her clothes. Life had not been easy for her these last few years after a very messy divorce and all the baggage that went with it.

She let her hair hang free down over her shoulders. It revealed some grey streaks and she did nothing to hide them. It was the aging and although her face and skin had lost some of the softness, she still maintained a certain youthfulness but the dark circles under her eyes revealed that she had not slept well.

The hours dragged. She longed to go down to the 700s but new books kept coming in and she found herself engulfed in the work. She did not want to go out to lunch but her colleague insisted that they should go to the Asian box café across the road. It was when they sat at one of the seats by the window looking out at the traffic that her heart stopped for a second. It was him. He walked quickly across the road carrying the big book under his arm, heading straight for the university.

She cut the lunch short with an excuse of phone calls she had to make and hurried back to the library. The lift down took forever and it was only when she got to the basement floor, she realized she had forgotten to clock in and that she was still carrying her cardigan and the handbag.

He waited in the study room door. Room number 8. He smiled when she came around the corner and she could see he had cut his beard and changed his coat. The hair was tied back in a ponytail which made him looked different, almost handsome, and she slowed her steps as a nervous feeling suddenly came over her.

- There!

He handed her the book and the familiar black and white photo of Picasso on the cover smiled back up at her.

- I brought it back, thank you. I did not finish it but there is some interesting reading there.

- Would you like to keep it for a while?

The words seemed to stumble out of her mouth. She was afraid that if he returned the book, she might not see him again and the thought surprised and scared her.

- I would like to, he said. Perhaps we could have a look at it together one day. There are some interesting pictures as well. It’s a very good piece of writing. That is if you would like to?

The laugher bubbled up inside of her. She hesitated for a moment before answering.

- Do you like art?

He glanced at the cardigan and the handbag over her arm.

- Yes, I used to be an art teacher.

He looked at her through intense brown eyes.

- I can see you are probably in a hurry but perhaps we can meet for a coffee and a chat sometime?

She nodded and held the book tighter in her arms, it was a heavy book.

- Yes, and I will take this with me. P 759.6 P586 has been found!

- So, you were an art teacher?

Cheryl was desperately searching for something to say as the doors of the lift closed behind them.

- Yes.

His eyes seemed to smile at her.

- You can’t always judge a book by the cover, right?

She was surprised at what came out of her mouth next.

- There is a Frida Kalu exhibition on at the art gallery. I have been meaning to see it but have not got around to it yet. Do you like her?

- Yes.

He paused for a moment.

- Perhaps we could see it together?

She never knew she was such a good liar; she had already been to the exhibition twice and she knew it would take a lot longer than a cup of coffee to go through all the rooms. The directness of his suggestion surprised her.

- Great idea! I wanted to see it myself but found it hard to get motivated. Besides there is a book in the gallery shop that I would like to have a good look at. Fridas diaries.

Five years later, on the day, as Cheryl once again was searching through the 700 section, she became aware of the light in room number 8 and walked towards it. There on the table was a vase with 5 long red roses and beside it stood the book “Picasso, artist of the century”. The note in front of it read “Happy Anniversary!”