THE MOST RELIABLE OF ALL

March 2014: Mme Dienne LaCarétt, mother of post-neo-colonial orthonarcotics, looked up and down, high and low, walking the length of the long, long rows of tall, tall shelves. And she walked this way back, scouring each spiny wall like a hungry tapir homing in on rotting fruit obscured by fallen leaves.

Eventually a librarian noticed, approached, and asked “May I help you find what you’re looking for?” “Nope” said Dienne, crisp and sure, as she walked along. “Have you used the catalogue, at least?” the librarian queried. Dienne stopped and looked over her determined adversary. “Nope” she said again. The librarian persisted. “I can help if you like.” “You cannot,” Dienne offered softly. Leaning into the end of a row of shelves, the librarian rebutted warmly and with a smile, “It’s my whole job. It’s what I’m trained to do.” “Oh no, no offence at all, my dear. It’s not you. It’s your catalogue. Doesn’t work!” “Oh, was the computer down?” the librarian enquired, suggesting further, “That happens occasionally. I can help with that, too. And if not, our tech lady can.” Dienne returned, “No, no, your computer works as intended. Of that I’m sure.” Confused, the librarian asked, “Well, can I point you in the right direction at least. To a topic area or maybe some relevant material? We’ve changed things around in recent months and have confused a lot of folks.” Dienne looked, smiled and started walking again. “Nope”, she said with her head down. “Well, you’re welcome to browse all you like,” the librarian assured her. Dienne nodded and turned, taking up a path in reverse to her previous scourings.

At a distance, the librarian tracked Dienne off and on for another hour. Pretending to be restocking the shelves, the librarian anticipated her course and took a small stack of books to a spot ahead of her. “Still okay?” the librarian asked from a distance, assuming the answer. Down and up, up and down, Dienne looked as though she hadn’t heard a thing. Eventually smiled and nodded as she passed by. The librarian wanted to probe further but instead left Dienne to her search.

At nine o’clock the librarian returned. “Just to let you know, we will be closing in half an hour.” Again, Dienne acknowledged the librarian with a smile and a nod and kept walking. The librarian asked as Dienne neared, “Can I ask you what you meant when you said the catalogue doesn’t work?” “You may,” Dienne replied. “So?” the librarian smiled back. Dienne looked up and offered the first thing that came to mind and something she commonly recounts, “The books I intend to find are somehow only ever chaff and the wheat so often those found by accident here in the stacks.” “True enough,” confirmed the librarian, who then rebutted, “but that’s not what you meant, is it?” “Nope,” Dienne admitted. Laughing, the librarian prodded back, “So, what is it? You’re killin’ me here.” Dienne shot back, “It’s just as true and maybe even more relevant. Should be posted somewhere like a warning, maybe at the catalogue terminals and on the website.” “Perhaps,” said the librarian. Dienne went on, “To be honest, I’m compiling a list of books you don’t have, you see.” Looking Dienne up and down as she had the bookshelves, noticing her hands in the pockets of her forest green cardigan, “I don’t see,” offered the librarian. “And I won’t ask how you’re doing that, though that’s probably more interesting than why.” “The why of it is about, no offence, needing to build something quite different to what we have here. Surely.” Dienne paused and peered up at the shelf next to her, reflecting that “These fictions and non-fictions alike, even their counters, their opposites, are only more of the same: a confirmation of what is already assumed and taken entirely for granted – as you know all too well, what with your graduate degree in information science. And so, you see,” Dienne looked the librarian in the eyes for the first time, “I’m cataloguing the cracks, those chinks in the armour. And, to be sure, not just any fractured fissure will do. No,” she offered, squinting and glaring through her thumb and forefinger, “I’m after only the faintest of hairlines, those whispers unseen, that I might press a droplet of water into. Just one. And from there you will take over for me, doing all the real labour." "And what's that?" asked the librarian? "Well, freezing the whole thing as solid as only you can, of course. And then again and again we'll play this little game. And in doing so together we will pop the lot, burst the dam, right open, to everyone's surprise and as if by magic — when, of course, there was only ever inevitability.” Beginning to laugh, Dienne continues, “Of course, as you know, that’s how all magic works: my contribution is unseen and you, we all know you’ll always faithfully execute your job exactly as you do. You’re the most reliable of all.”