Pilar Can Help (L2.2)

She had been asked to study, and most likely, verify, the collection of letters that had been written to Rosalía de Castro (1837-1885), the writer credited with having given Galician literature its start when she published Cantares Gallegos in 1863. There wasn’t a Galician alive who didn’t know about her. Most had read her entire works: five novels, five books of poetry, a few other things.

The point was, since Rosalía was so well known and all her papers had been combed through or lost, some even destroyed at her request, it was next to impossible for numerous letters to appear now, letters that had never been catalogued, were written in English, and from writers who had never been mentioned by her. Art was often forged, and certainly manuscripts was. For these papers to be dropped in her lap was not normal, and Lavinia knew that.

On the other hand, she had direct experience with what the literary critic had called ‘golden cables of sympathy’, and knew it was not good research practice to assume countries and people were not in close contact before 1900. Way before 1900, even. The oceans were meant to be crossed.  

That was what had kept her from walking away empty-handed from the place she had been enticed to, the new but non-existent restaurant, O Asasino. New meaning reopened since the original site had closed after more than a century. 

It’s not entirely impossible, she thought. Unlikely, but not impossible.

Lavinia knew she could not simply walk away from the request, as bizarre and ragged of structure as it was. She knew full well that it probably wasn’t legitimate, that the oddity of the method used to ensnare her, its planning and execution, should be proof that nothing good was behind it. The least of her problems might be looking foolish by having believed the trick. She thought of the biosbardos unsuspecting persons were taken to look for at night in streams. That had already happened to her and she wasn’t about to get taken in again.

Why are my hands shaking? she fussed, gripping the documents tightly to stave off the trembling. 

She was careful not to damage them in any way, however, and slid them into her black nylon bag. The bag wasn’t stylish, but Lavinia never cared much for style. It was light and held more than it looked like it could. Most importantly, it flicked the frequent rain away from books, papers, even groceries that its owner frequently tucked away in it. It fit under her elbow perfectly, and the vice of her arm kept the contents safe.

It was luscofusco, the fluid term in the Galician language that refers to dusk or twilight, but mostly dusk. Sunny dark, the word said, the word that served as a nest for poets, even acting as a title for a book by another Pilar: Pilar Pallarés. It was not an easy hour to drive, but if one were going for a stroll it was the hora meiga, the time of ancient wisdom. The hour when one’s vision had to become more elastic, curving around the edges to nudge its way into the crevices in the stones, an affectionate cat rubbing its head against them.

I’m about to embark on a long walk, she realized, planning to stretch the waning light as far as it would go. The thought calmed her somewhat.

And so she walked every street in old Compostela, every rúa of the casco vello, the old part. Sometimes it was hard to determine the fringes of the old part, for some streets simply moved off and away from the heart of the city without ever becoming detached from the rows of dwellings that curved out like spokes on the wheel that was the cathedral. 

Perhaps the actual borders between oldest and newer didn’t matter, but Lavinia thought they did. To her, under the right slabs, the first, legitimate stones laid down by the original inhabitants, a river ran and rumbled. She didn’t know why she had this feeling, but she sensed it in both her ears and her feet. These were the stones with the knowledge she lacked. 

Surely I’m not the only person who feels this, she told herself but didn’t know if she dared ask any of her friends.

Along Rúa Nova, Rúa do Vilar, Preguntoiro, Orfas, O Franco, Pelaños… then back through the arch by the palace of Xelmírez, that medieval church leader and rogue. On to Raíña and a dozen others, Lavinia contemplated her situation. She ended up sitting at one of the three outdoor tables of the María Castaña Restaurant and ordered an albariño. It always tasted better there than anywhere else. The chilled white wine and a pincho of local cheese might inspire her.

Xan, the owner, appeared. It had been a busy day and his curly black hair was disheveled, making him look even more boyish. It wasn’t his job to serve customers, but he frequently came to exchange comments with them.

“What’s wrong?” The question was immediate. He could read her expression.

Lavinia explained, but not in in detail. Actually, to be honest, she concealed the real story, although she felt guilty doing it. Something told her to be cautious. After all, she was in an open space and anybody could walk by. All she revealed was that she’d found some old letters written in English and thought it was odd that yet another group of items had appeared.

She didn’t mention Rosalía or how she’d come to have the letters.

Xan listened very attentively, then said the obvious:

“Why don’t you ask Pilar the Librarian? You know she’s the director of the university library and that’s not a simple job. She must know something.” 

He was right.

Lavinia knew how qualified Pilar was even better than Xan did, because presumably he had never observed Pilar in a meeting with a group of Graystockings. At the same time, she hadn’t considered Pilar because she had been focused on the letters from the American writers. She’d been running through her mind how to verify handwriting and other details. She might also have been worried that she’d look gullible.

That do-it-herself attitude had led her to think of the institutions she needed to contact in order to consult their special collections. She feared some holdings might not be digitized and could only be consulted in person. If that were the case, she wouldn’t be able to do the research. It didn’t matter if the mysterious request turned out to be legitimate: she no longer had funding to travel back to the States and go to several universities…

How stupid I’ve been, how arrogant! 

Lavinia was angry with herself. She had immediately assumed the resources she needed were back in the U.S. Yet despite all their technological advantages, those libraries didn’t have some of the resources Galicia and other parts of Europe had. Those weren’t technological; they were human assets. It was hard to explain, but Galicians seemed to know things. She laughed, thinking there must be something in the water (or the rain).

“You’re right!” She said, surprising Xan a little with the way she blurted it out, as if her thoughts had been caught under a stone somewhere along Cardenal Payá Street and had just gotten loose.

Lavinia quickly paid for her wine, gave Xan a hug his boyfriend might not have liked, and rushed to the main door of the Biblioteca Xeral where Pilar was. It was. Only two minutes away. Since many librarians don’t have a nine-to-five day, the library director is even less likely to leave in the afternoon. And Lavinia found her in her office, looking through online catalogs of recent publications. 

Pilar the Librarian listened to the story about the letters to Rosalía that Lavinia now had in her possession. She heard the reasons why the American was unhappy about the task due to thinking she was the brunt of a practical joke, that the tricksters knew she was far too curious for her own good and wanted to have some fun with that. She also agreed that, even if legitimate, the request was going to be hard to fulfill.

However, Pilar had her own resources. She looked at what was at her disposal and stated:

“It might be easier to verify the paper and ink before trying to authenticate the handwriting,” she suggested, gently. “Fortunately, we Galicians have great familiarity with documents - the older, the better. We have a significant section in the library of the Museo das Peregrinacións  [Pilgrimage Museum] on the history of paper and other materials used to record information for centuries. I can let the librarian in charge of this special collection know you are coming and why. That might speed up your work.”

In the States, this could have sounded patronizing, but here it was kindness, a desire to help. What else would Pilar do, after the way Lavinia had collaborated in what was now Scholastica Library? It had taken centuries to find the right location for the massive holdings, along with its structure. She had helped the Graystockings by asking questions or suggesting something. Pilar would do anything to help this person from another country, who was also putting her academic career aside to pursue ‘interests’ in Galicia. 

Another resource Pilar had was protection. Lavinia didn’t have to know others were keeping watch over her. They had taken note of the request made of Lavinia and it had the potential to end in a scam, or worse. They would keep her within range.

“Where is the museum library?” Lavinia was asking now. “Is it next to the museum on Praterías? Right down the steps from the cathedral?”

“No,” replied Pilar, “it’s on San Miguel Street, but it’s not too far. No more than ten minutes. Walking, of course. And it’s only open in the morning.”

Lavinia nodded. She was pretty sure she could find it. She checked online to find out more:

The “Museo das Peregrinacións” Library focuses on the history of pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, although there are significant historical, artistic, geographical and archaeological materials that set in within a broader perspective on the role of Galicia and the Iberian Peninsula in the western european context. The library contains some publications on museology, preservation and management of cultural patrimony. A small part of the collection gathers materials offering a thematic approach to Santiago de Compostela´s art and history, but it has to be emphasized that this Library aims to bring together works on the “Camino de Santiago”. Today its holdings include: 5,413 volumes and pamphlets, 135 volumes of different materials, and 224 periodicals.

Lavinia wondered what the ‘different materials’ might be, and thought she would ask. Then she read that the museum was founded in 1951, and the book register was established in 1980.

Very interesting, she thought. All those pilgrims arriving and what happened to the things they wrote? Because they did leave testimonies of their experience…

She knew there were many reasons prior to the start of the museum that materials could disappear, just like portions of very old rural churches disappeared and were repurposed in construction done by local residents. 

Never look a good stone in the mouth, she paraphrased.

The lack of a book register until 1980 was actually worrisome. Where had the items been stored? Who had had access to them? Those ‘materials’ listed for the library were odd. She knew, as a person who once had made it part of her career, that no library catalogue really says ‘different materials’ unless it … 

unless it, the library, doesn’t know what those materials are?

With the newly-created freedom of working exclusively as a researcher, Lavinia was ravenous and wanted to get to work immediately. She left Pilar, after thanking her profusely, and made her way back to her bedsit in the San Pedro neighborhood, not even stopping for supper. It was late, and she had things in the small refrigerator.

She wondered if she would be able to sleep, even though she had no idea what awaited her in this library she’d never even noticed on her countless strolls around the city. It had been in plain sight all the time.

Lavinia’s first visit was a failure. Nobody had been able to point her in the direction of letters or handwritten stories of the Camiño de Santiago, Saint James’ Way. Perhaps they were somewhere in the museum? Was one less-than-helpful suggestion.

Pilar the Librarian would have to use her other resources to resolve this one. Either that or ‘unlock’ the invisible barrier to the section of the library devoted to paper. Lavinia, obviously, had not known how to inquire. 

Once again, she had approached the research like an American, and that was not going to get results in Santiago de Compostela, city of pilgrimages. And pilgrims, some of whom had been women.