hadn’t been answered by her research trip to Princeton.
Lily’s father had deployed a number of tactics to help Lily heal from her mother’s sudden death. For months he’d let her wallow in grief in their Chicago house, where she’d grown up. He’d encouraged her to finish her degree. He’d suggested places where she could work in Chicago, friends of his that could help her get a job. None of it appealed to Lily, until he mentioned that he was going to a conference in Princeton and would be there for several days. Would she like to come? Lily had read in a biography about Sylvia Beach that her archives—her personal papers, items from her bookstore, all the things that were left behind after her death—were in the university’s collection. Sylvia was originally from Princeton and had been buried there. When Lily told her dad she wanted to accompany him to New Jersey, he seemed relieved to have finally offered something that she wanted.
At the Princeton library, Lily gave her driver’s license to a man who guarded the entrance to the collections rooms, telling him she was there to see the papers of Sylvia Beach. He didn’t express interest in her or her subject. Not the chatty type, Lily thought. Then she spied the portrait on the wall.
“That’s Sylvia, isn’t it?” she said. He nodded, perking up slightly.
“Yes, it is. Done by Émile Bécat. It came with all the other things we got from her estate. We’ve even got the sign from the bookshop.” He pointed into the library.
Lily peered around him. The wooden sign hung as it would have at Shakespeare and Company, perpendicular to the wall. The beruffled Shakespeare was completely at home in the proper Princeton library, but for Lily it was stunning to see these artifacts in real life. She couldn’t help but gawk when he led her into the research room, a round space filled with blond wood desks and high windows that gave the room a quiet, open feeling.
Sunlight coming through the windows warmed the space. Two women sat at their desks, surrounded by stacks of books and papers. At the head of the room sat a larger desk, and at it an imposing black woman dressed in African garb. She bowed her scarf-wrapped head at Lily but said nothing. Lily was glad that she’d accepted her father’s invitation to come.
Lily scanned the collection catalogue the man had given her. Hundreds of boxes held the possibility of finding something secret about Sylvia, something she hadn’t read in the biography. She began noting the numbers of boxes she wanted to look at. Once she had her list, she paused. The room was starkly quiet. The sun warmed Lily’s back. The two other scholars were lost in their research. The African woman sat at her table still as a statue. Lily couldn’t tell if her eyes were closed or if she was reading something on the desk. The woman’s hands were folded in front of her. She could be mistaken for someone in meditation.
Lily scraped her chair back from the table. She hated to disturb the woman, but she only had two days here and there was a lot of stuff to look at. She approached the desk, a rush of anticipation making her hand shake and her list rattle.
“Excuse me,” she said. The woman opened her eyes. She had been sleeping, Lily thought. She smiled, enjoying that a proper librarian had been caught asleep on the job. But the woman’s gaze was clear and steady. It wasn’t the look of someone who had been napping on the job. Lily tried to keep her cheerful expression, but the woman’s demeanor penetrated Lily’s false politeness. “I’d like to see these boxes, please.”
The woman took the paper. She lifted her glasses off her enormous chest and settled them on her nose. The red, black, and yellow beads of the eyeglasses chain swayed slightly as she assessed the list.
“Sylvia Beach, hmm?” She raised an eyebrow at Lily. She had an accent, her English tinged with what Lily thought might be French.
“Yes,” Lily said. “Do
Lily’s father had deployed a number of tactics to help Lily heal from her mother’s sudden death. For months he’d let her wallow in grief in their Chicago house, where she’d grown up. He’d encouraged her to finish her degree. He’d suggested places where she could work in Chicago, friends of his that could help her get a job. None of it appealed to Lily, until he mentioned that he was going to a conference in Princeton and would be there for several days. Would she like to come? Lily had read in a biography about Sylvia Beach that her archives—her personal papers, items from her bookstore, all the things that were left behind after her death—were in the university’s collection. Sylvia was originally from Princeton and had been buried there. When Lily told her dad she wanted to accompany him to New Jersey, he seemed relieved to have finally offered something that she wanted.
At the Princeton library, Lily gave her driver’s license to a man who guarded the entrance to the collections rooms, telling him she was there to see the papers of Sylvia Beach. He didn’t express interest in her or her subject. Not the chatty type, Lily thought. Then she spied the portrait on the wall.
“That’s Sylvia, isn’t it?” she said. He nodded, perking up slightly.
“Yes, it is. Done by Émile Bécat. It came with all the other things we got from her estate. We’ve even got the sign from the bookshop.” He pointed into the library.
Lily peered around him. The wooden sign hung as it would have at Shakespeare and Company, perpendicular to the wall. The beruffled Shakespeare was completely at home in the proper Princeton library, but for Lily it was stunning to see these artifacts in real life. She couldn’t help but gawk when he led her into the research room, a round space filled with blond wood desks and high windows that gave the room a quiet, open feeling.
Sunlight coming through the windows warmed the space. Two women sat at their desks, surrounded by stacks of books and papers. At the head of the room sat a larger desk, and at it an imposing black woman dressed in African garb. She bowed her scarf-wrapped head at Lily but said nothing. Lily was glad that she’d accepted her father’s invitation to come.
Lily scanned the collection catalogue the man had given her. Hundreds of boxes held the possibility of finding something secret about Sylvia, something she hadn’t read in the biography. She began noting the numbers of boxes she wanted to look at. Once she had her list, she paused. The room was starkly quiet. The sun warmed Lily’s back. The two other scholars were lost in their research. The African woman sat at her table still as a statue. Lily couldn’t tell if her eyes were closed or if she was reading something on the desk. The woman’s hands were folded in front of her. She could be mistaken for someone in meditation.
Lily scraped her chair back from the table. She hated to disturb the woman, but she only had two days here and there was a lot of stuff to look at. She approached the desk, a rush of anticipation making her hand shake and her list rattle.
“Excuse me,” she said. The woman opened her eyes. She had been sleeping, Lily thought. She smiled, enjoying that a proper librarian had been caught asleep on the job. But the woman’s gaze was clear and steady. It wasn’t the look of someone who had been napping on the job. Lily tried to keep her cheerful expression, but the woman’s demeanor penetrated Lily’s false politeness. “I’d like to see these boxes, please.”
The woman took the paper. She lifted her glasses off her enormous chest and settled them on her nose. The red, black, and yellow beads of the eyeglasses chain swayed slightly as she assessed the list.
“Sylvia Beach, hmm?” She raised an eyebrow at Lily. She had an accent, her English tinged with what Lily thought might be French.
“Yes,” Lily said. “Do
Similar Books
