The Paper Librarian (L2.3)

Her heart was beating a bit harder when she reached the third level of stairs on her second visit. The library of the museum had once been known as the Casa do Rei Don Pedro. The king’s house? Really? 

In today’s Santiago it was popularly known as the former Casa Gótica, the Gothic House. Lavinia knew she would have to look into the building now. Her curiosity would never let her go without finding out. Curiosity or ADD?

As a result of having been a residence, a civil structure from the fourteenth century, there were a number of unused portions, blank walls that could have been used for small sections of stacks or display cases. These spaces simply weren’t made for library holdings and would need reshaping, but… Stop thinking you know before you have more information. 

Lavinia went along a corridor with stone arches that looked out on a small interior patio. She hurried to the door with the number that had been scribbled on the sheet of paper in her hand. In her nylon bag were the letters, still neatly bundled. She had been nervous about opening their folders, untying strings, removing aged paper. 

To be honest, she wasn’t quite over her fear that having the items in her possession would get her into a very difficult situation. Could, not would, she corrected herself.

It opened before she could knock and her guard went up further: Was this part of the plan to disrupt her life? Is Pilar part of the scheme? 

Lavinia was immediately ashamed of herself for thinking of that even as she had dismissed it instantly. Still, the door that opened by itself did set a tone. Kitsch, but a tone in any event. Friday night scary films from her childhood. Even the shadowy end of the corridor was the right color: sombre, quiet, a few dust motes in the air.

Still, the door had moved and nobody had come out to speak with her. She assumed, nevertheless, that she was supposed to enter. She decided not to think about what could happen if the door slammed shut.

This was all so childish. Where did she think she was? In the Twilight Zone? She shivered as she realized that just a couple of days ago she was reveling in the time of luscofusco as the best part of the day to walk and think when one lived in Santiago.

The Librarian did not speak. This did not put Lavinia at ease. What also did not put her at ease was the figure of the Librarian: extraordinarily thin, no roundness anywhere, shoulder-length hair that shadowed the face. Its face, Lavinia found herself thinking, because I can’t tell if this is a man or a woman standing here. I’m not even sure if the Librarian is a person.

She knew her only choice was to follow the murky figure. Murky might be my over-active imagination. Pilar would not have sent her into dangerous waters.

The Librarian Figure led Lavinia to the ‘stacks’ after she showed it the so-called letters to Rosalía. Unopened, still, she had seen she had to explain their provenance. The questioning hitch of shoulders had indicated as much. There was as yet no voice. 

The figure moved to an area of files with items not bound in books. It selected a subsection with papers and writing of the nineteenth century. Fortunately there are labels so I understand what we’re looking at, fussed Lavinia. I’m certainly not getting any clarification from this so-called Librarian. 

She knew she was being impatient.

Inks of varying colors. Lavinia stared at the range of hues, surprised at how many there were. When she was tempted to ask about the provenance of the inks and how it was possible to classify them in the library, she stopped herself. I’m being asked to slow down. I’ll try.

Her curiosity made a mental note to look up the history of ink as soon as she had time. Was it related to clothing dye or to artists’ paints? Who invented ink?

Lavinia focused again and, using the vintage labels in the sections of the container presented to her, managed to narrow down the ages of the paper to the samples between 1850 and 1880. How did I do that? She could almost hear Rod Sterling’s voice and the twinkling wave of music that always played behind him. Sterling was before her time, but the reruns never got old and she had watched all of them. Perhaps that hadn’t been a good idea.

The inks were more of a challenge, so the papers would be the first point of comparison. The Librarian brought out some gloves and a soft, clean mat that unrolled to A size of about four by three feet. It covered the old oak table and was free from contaminants that might be left by human skin, by researchers’ hands. The paper collection was unique and had to be preserved.

Together, the figure and Lavinia take one of the letter packets and release it from its protective corset. Funny that word just came to me, corset. Must be the influence of the nineteenth century.

Feeling like she was sinking, but incredibly unconcerned, Lavinia watched the careful unpackaging and spreading out of two letters. They seemed to each be about three sheets long, but it might be there were four sheets to one of the letters. The handwriting was small but not dainty. Small, because one needed to make good use of the available paper back then.

After displaying the letters, urging them to take up flatter positions, the paper samples were brought close. Manually, one by one, they were removed and placed beside each letter. What was invisible to Lavinia’s eye despite her training in library studies was apparently obvious to the silent figure. No technology employed to assess the chemical make-up of the sheets of paper. No special lighting to reveal fibers and the like. None of the dating methods used in American libraries.

Here, silently and with only a trained gaze, the Librarian had found very possible identifiers. There were papers in the special collection that matched the letters, but until all the packets had been opened, it would be difficult to complete the comparison. Lavinia would have to return. This was not a fast library. It did not allow speed reading nor one-time visitors. 

The question was, how could matching paper types and ages solve the mystery? She would have to return to Pilar and get more answers. It was hard, because she had taught library and gender studies, but here in Galicia it was like she hadn’t learned a thing. She was like a student all over again. Childish. Not a great feeling.

Now Lavinia thought the figure was gesturing to her to leave the letters on the table, so she could return and start working without delay. What should I do? She did the only thing she could do: she wrapped the two letters back up and placed them in her black nylon bag. She might be offending the Librarian, but didn’t dare to leave the items in the room off the gloomy corridor. Stop it, Rod! she blurted out, but kept her voice low. The figure looked puzzled but of course said nothing.

And so things had only begun, with no computerized data or catalogues to help. Dating the letters would be a slow process, but the only way to do it was sitting next to the paper and studying it. Determine the scent. The manufacturing process. Identify the type of fiber. Moisture content. This is impossible to do with virtual paper. 

After that, the inks, thought Lavinia, thinking this might still be a wild goose chase and her time could be better spent on other things. Not knowing who had dropped this conundrum into her lap was a definite deterrent.

Conclusion (because there was at least one):

Nothing definitive has appeared yet, but there were quite a few more letters to verify. If even one appeared not to be authentic, then they were probably all forgeries. Funny how the original idea to verify handwriting in numerous American library archives had faltered and disappeared. If the manual comparison proved successful, then other questions would need answering. (Taken from Lavinia’s journal.)

Then Lavinia thought:

Are all the letters addressed to Rosalía de Castro with both her first and last name or do some use only her first name? 

More disconcerting:

Was there only one Rosalía?

It was a sleepless night for the woman who knew the dangers of excess curiosity from past experiences. She couldn’t shake the fear that it was being used against her. Couldn’t shake it, but hated feeling it.

Days later, Lavinia knew she needed to meet with the person at O Asasino who had handed her the letters but had no contact information for that person. Then she realized that it wasn’t in her hands, that she was supposed to wait. 

One night she fell asleep with the documents on the other side of the bed, as if they had become lovers. She already knew they murmured late at night, although it hadn’t been possible to make out what they were saying. 

The next morning, they were gone when she put out a hand to check. The other half of the bed was perfectly silent.

Had this been planned or had she really been robbed? Am I going crazy?