The
librarian stared across the desk at him. ‘I have to ask sir. Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
Said John.
‘If
you could please speak the words of finality sir?’
Walking
through the rainy streets, and up the forty-nine steps to the library entrance,
pushing open the heavy oak doors, John hadn’t paused or hesitated once. He had woken up that morning finally sure.
He
didn’t hesitate now. ‘My name is John Grant and I walk freely to the Permanent Room.’
‘Thank
you, sir,’ said the librarian. ‘You have chosen a book?’
John
nodded and said. ‘Art history.’
The
librarian looked pleased. ‘This way sir.’
John
chose his book from the shelves, Paintings of Vincent Van Gogh, then
followed the librarian towards the Permanent Room.
The
main concourse of the library was quiet, but John knew the various rooms would
be full no matter what time of day. As
they passed the History Room the door opened and a man, approximately the same
age as John, emerged. They knew each other but neither could remember where
from or the others name. It did not matter. They had books in common.
John
stopped to the annoyance of the librarian.
‘I’ve been there,’ said John nodding towards the book The Wars of Napoleon
gripped in the man’s hand. The man’s
hand shook slightly, his face flushed, eyes struggling to focus on John as if a
million and one images were vying for attention.
‘It’s
my favourite,’ said the man. ‘Waterloo, what a mess though. I don’t know why I
keep going back.’
John
knew why for he remembered the man now.
He worked in the bank and had advised John about different types of
mortgages.
‘I
was at the Peninsular War in Spain,’ John said, as the librarian coughed impatiently
behind him. ‘Saw Napoleon himself. Or they said it was him. He was away of in
the distance.’
The
man stepped closer and whispered. ‘He
nearly ran me over with his horse.’ His face flushed even more, and he was
smiling.
It
had been a mistake going to the Peninsular War John had discovered. The life of an infantry man was no joke. John had cut his visit short, far too much
blood and guts for his liking. He needed
somewhere to be truly happy and not numb the daily pain by witnessing others even
sadder than him. He didn’t like what he had become secretly smiling at others
misfortune.
‘What
room are you in today?’ asked the man.
The
librarian coughed another impatient cough and John indicated towards the
Permanent Room, and John said. ‘Must get
going.’
The
man nodded. ‘I’ve never found a place
for me. Not yet. I’m happy for you.’
The
sincere tone took John by surprise. He nodded
towards the book. The man shook his head. ‘Okay to visit.’ The man attempted a smile. ‘Better get back
to the grind I suppose.’ He then turned and walked slowly to replace his book
on its shelf and headed even slower towards the library exit.
‘Sir?’
said the librarian.
‘Sorry,’
said John.
‘It’s
just that I’m on a break soon,’ said the librarian.
Once
through the door there were ninety-nine winding breath bursting steps up up to
the Permanent Room itself. The librarian
slowly made his way up the steps, every now and then glancing back at
John. This was deliberate as was the
winding steps. A final test and chance
to change your mind.
John
didn’t.
The
Permanent Room itself was circular with a glass dome that looked towards the
heavens. Far above the streak of an already gone aeroplane. A raised leather
couch sat alone in the middle of the room.
‘The
book sir.’
John
handed the librarian the book.
‘If
you will sir,’ said the librarian indicating the couch.
John
climbed onto the couch and lay back staring up through the glass dome. Clouds you imagine had emptied themselves of
all the rain in the world, draining the dregs to drop rhythmically onto the
glass dome.
The
Librarian glanced at the page in the book John had chosen. ‘You do realise that
this will only work if the character remains anonymous?’ John nodded. ‘This not being an unnamed character in
fiction, research might uncover the identity of this person in the future. You
know what they are like, these scholars. Especially with Mr Van Gogh. If that
were to be the case…’
‘I
understand,’ said John. ‘I will disappear.’
The
Librarian sighed. ‘It’s just…This room used to be so dusty with lack of use.
Now…
‘I
am sure,’ said John.
The
Librarian nodded. ‘I commend you on your chosen page. If ever there was a page
to live permanently in, you have chosen well.’
John
smiled. ‘Have you ever thought about…?’
The
librarian said. ‘Close your eyes please sir.’
John
did and the librarian began to read from the page.
‘One
anonymous source that has come down to us, from a fragment of a letter of the
time, is how this person would witness Vincent walking into the night, easel
under his arm. It was a quick urgent walk
as if, to quote the letter, ‘the stars above would scatter if he did not
capture them immediately.’
The
Librarian’s voice began to fade, and John opened his eyes and there in front of
him was the Yellow House and Vincent Van Gogh emerging into the night with his easel
under his arm. Vincent hurried straight
past John as if not noticing he was there.
John followed close behind and the rest of the page ran though his mind
in his own voice.
‘Vincent
worked quickly, every now and then staring for a time up at the glorious stars.
I must admit I sneaked as close as I could to witness what he had painted. ‘If
you want to see properly.’ Vincent said, ‘stop skulking about.’ I hesitated but he urged me forward and I stood
at his shoulder, and the canvas was a glorious mirror to the glory of the
stars. I admit I had never properly looked at the stars until that moment.
‘Well?’ Vincent snapped. Before I could answer he said. ‘It is…Not what was in
my mind.’ He went to rip the canvas in half.
‘Please Vincent, don’t.’ He looked at me. ‘You know my name?’ ‘Yes.’ I said. He looked at the canvas. ‘I will keep it. Now
if you don’t mind sir,’ said Vincent and turned back to his work. ‘Can I watch
Mr Van Gogh?’ He thought for a moment.
‘Not at my shoulder, and not a sound.’
John
sat on the small hill overlooking where Vincent worked. It was damp as if the
rain had recently stopped. He took out
the paper and pen from his jacket and wrote the words that would make it into a
book one hundred years later. John
didn’t care about that though. He had
finally found his own page, and where he was meant to be, staring up at the starry
sky with wonder as if he were newly born.
