THE PERMANENT ROOM--A short story.

 

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.