Читать книгу The Dark Library - Cyrille Martinez - Страница 11

An ergonomic space with an adaptable and welcoming body of glass, aluminum, and gleaming laminate, the reception desk is not only the first place of contact with the reader, it also reflects the Library’s values. Designed as both reception and an operative workstation, it allows agents to perform some of their daily tasks while offering a personalized welcome to the public.

A computer is sitting on the counter. A woman is seated behind the screen. Her fingers stroll across the keyboard. She is dressed entirely in red. To her side, a cart with stacks of new books. In front of her, a sign: BIBLIOGRAPHIC INFORMATION, REGISTRATION. I head toward her and say:

‘Hello, I’d like to register.’

This woman in red, I feel like I know her, I’m not sure from where, but she seems familiar. I mention this to her.

‘I bet you’ve read the text about the Great Library! I’m in it, in fact I’m one of the secondary characters. I appear as the Neutral Librarian. You know, the unassuming and docile person, the gal who does the same work every day, carries out the same tasks: she pushes a cart between the rows, she reads at the circulation desk, she gives materials to the users, she reshelves the monographs and journals, she reorganizes the bibliographic records. During her morning break, the Neutral Librarian systematically sips a tea, at noon she eats a soup, and tea again at 4 p.m., which she accompanies this time with dry cookies. At the end of the day, she takes the bus back to her one-bedroom apartment, which she shares with Incunabula, her most faithful companion, her old cat whom she adores and whose nickname is Cucu or Cuni. You think that’s funny? Me, not so much. In this text, I am described as a woman who is serious and hardworking, but also a bit sad, dull, stooped over, always poorly dressed, and with the wiry body of a vegetarian hiker. Not really ugly, more just unattractive. The woman about whom they said, when she was younger, she wasn’t so bad; younger, she was almost pretty. The adjective “dusty” is the one that first comes to mind to describe her. Dusty, sad, dull. In one word: librarian.’

Short laugh. Silence. Awkwardness. Breathing. I try to regain composure. Clear my throat. Silence. Breathing.

‘Well, the pathetic person I just described is not at all me. Fortunately, it doesn’t resemble me in the slightest. First off, I am not the Neutral Librarian – the Neutral Librarian does not exist, that is a myth or a common misconception. Call me the Red Librarian. I am not confined to an old maid’s profession, thank you very much. The problem is that my profession is not well understood. It lends itself easily to caricature. Even readers don’t know what my work entails, and just imagine the others, the ones who don’t read. They take me to be a nun, an autistic, or a guardian of the Room.’

I appear serious and concerned. Maybe I should say something. I cross my arms. Silence. Breathing.

‘Contrary to what most readers believe,’ continues the Red Librarian, ‘a librarian is not paid to read. Some are still convinced that my job is to read all of the books in the catalogue, which is crazy to think. In people’s minds, when she isn’t reading, a librarian classifies the books, gives two, three pieces of information, calls the talkers to order. A little welcoming, some information to help with a bibliographic search. The rest of the time she’s daydreaming and yawning. There you have it, what everyone thinks about a librarian’s work. Nonsense.’

I agree with a nod. Smile. Stop smiling. Silence. Breathing.

‘Since it seems to interest you, I’m going to explain to you what it is I do. My work requires a great number of expertises, all complimentary to the art of reading. I want to clarify that I am an agent to the public readership, not a professional reader. Do you have any idea how many documents there are in this establishment? Do you know how long it would take for a person to read them all?’

Well-informed, I offer a number: 150,000 years.

‘If you say so! 150,000 years, that seems like a lot. Anyway, life is far too short. In the absence of reading every monograph and journal issue we’ve chosen and shelved, we can at least describe them. For each title, I write a complete bibliographic record: title of the work, author or authors’ name(s), place of publication, name of publisher, copyright year, legal deposit, name of imprint, collection name. I measure the format, note the number of pages, note the language in which the publication is written, not forgetting to specify whether it’s in the original language or a translation. Does the publication have an index? A bibliography? A works cited? If that’s the case, I will mention them in the record, going as far as to indicate between which page numbers the bibliography can be found. To finish, I use plain language to describe the content in a few keywords, subject headings, subject terms. One clear example: Literature – France – 21st century.’

I look down and stare at my feet. Silence. Holding my breath.

‘Thanks to these operations, each reference can be easily found and communicated. It should be no more difficult to get hold of a famous document than an unknown one, that’s the principle, no special favours or privileges necessary. You are here in a public library. Each monograph, each incoming journal receives an identical treatment. Over the course of this operation, an unwavering focus is required, without which there is a risk of making mistakes, dumb small mistakes laden with consequences: a misspelled author’s name, a typo in the title, and the document becomes unfindable. When I’m not doing bibliographic descriptions, I give information to the public, I help with research, I implement actions for the enhancement of collections, I organize trainings for readers, I create bibliographies, I develop projects, I launch innovative actions, I do a thousand things about which you have no idea.’

I wasn’t expecting to receive a lecture. I wonder if I wouldn’t be better off getting out my notebook to take some notes. Silence. Breathing.

‘Wait, the best is yet to come. What I’ve previously told you was a bit boring. Now you’re going to get a kick out of this: when I finish my work, I evaluate it, no, but listen to this, I self-asses – that merits a laugh and yet it’s no joke. I self-asses, I self-ass-es. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of that. I wonder who could have invented this verb, someone who’s not quite right, that’s for sure. I self-asses, which means: I produce reports about my own work and potentially that of my team. The supervisors, no matter whether state, region, or city, all love self-assessment reports. It’s their vice, their favourite type of literature. Regularly, they’ll place an order for a text that’s long, or even longer. They tell me: you’re going to do a report based on your activity, we want to know everything, historical, the current situation, and please add a prospective vision. The theme? The library of yesterday, today, and tomorrow. Go crazy. Write us a tome. The Big-American-Novel kind. A thousand pages minimum, make a masterpiece, we want a fresco. You have three weeks. One month later, the supervisor contacts you again: oh whoa there, this thing is unreadable, put yourself in the reader’s head for five minutes, it’s a thousand times too long, my poor girl, you get lost in the verbosity, it’s crazy, this mania to develop everything, and these dialogues that don’t end, hellish, especially as in my opinion the length serves no practical necessity except to impress the reader, imagine you have friends over for dinner, well you aren’t going to cook them fifty dishes to demonstrate your culinary prowess, you make them three, that’s more than enough; so, you’re going to redo your report but a shorter version this time, be comprehensive, get to the point, don’t get lost in the details, summary of a summary, think density, intensity, apply yourself, here, do a poem for me.’

Hint of a smile from me. Sincere smile on my mouth. Laughter. Relief. Librarian and poet, that seems coherent to me. Breathing.

‘There you have it, I believe I’ve more or less told you everything about my job. Now you should be able to understand that with all this work I don’t have the time to read during working hours. In the Reading Room, everyone reads except for me (and my colleagues). And it’s not that I don’t want to,’ continues the Red Librarian, without looking at me, multiplying the back-and-forths between my papers and the form on her screen, ‘on the contrary, at times I would love to have an interesting book, but I don’t have the time, you see, I’m working.’

While explaining her job, the Red Librarian has processed my registration. She now asks me to verify that the information about me is correct. I barely have a name, I live in a hole, my date of birth doesn’t mean anything: it’s absolutely me, I confirm ‘OK’. She hands me my card and a pamphlet entitled Reader’s Guide, saying, ‘Read this.’

‘9:20 a.m,’ she adds, glancing at her computer screen, ‘don’t waste any time, go find a seat, the spaces are valuable, we can’t guarantee one for everyone, the readers are bizarre, the books change, things are peculiar right now, ah well you’ll find out for yourself, I wish you good luck.’