list of the contents of the escritoire and filing cabinet, then noted the furniture and carpets, with a brief description of each item. I left the library to check on the mantel. The deep red finish was drying nicely. When I returned, Raphaella was standing on a three-step riser, sticking a label on the top edge of a bookshelf unit by the window. Bits of yellow, pink, and blue paper adorned the shelves all over the room.
“Good. You’re back. Now, take a seat.”
I flopped into a leather chair as Raphaella perched on the edge of her working table. Pointing with a pencil, she began.
“We already know the books are arranged by author surname. They are grouped by subject—history, art, et cetera—but that’s still too cumbersome when there are so many books. All Mrs. Stoppini needs is an inventory, right? And a way to find a certain book, if necessary. So I’ve come up with a plan. Each of the bookshelf units will be called acolumn. Starting to the right of the doors over there we have column one. Beside it is—”
“Column fourteen.”
“What? Col—?”
“I thought it might be more interesting if we numbered the columns randomly.”
“Garnet, don’t be immature.”
“But being immature is part of my boyish charm.”
“You don’t have any charm, boyish or otherwise. May I continue?”
“Indeed.”
Raphaella flashed a smile. “To the right of column one is?”
“Two?”
“Excellent. Two. And so on, moving clockwise around the room till we come to the doors again. Got it?”
I nodded.
“Each shelf in a column is called a row,” she went on, “and each row is numbered, starting from the top. Each book in each shelf or row is called a slot.”
“Brilliant. Your talents are wasted in a health food store.”
“Garnet.”
“No wonder the Orillia Theatre Group always chooses you to stage-manage their productions.”
“Test time. Roman numeral V, baby Roman numeral x, arabic numeral 12 is?”
“Column five, row ten, slot twelve,” I answered.
“Which is—” Raphaella slipped off the table and crossed the room to the shelves beside the newly painted wall above the fireplace and placed her index finger on the spine of a book—“
Fresco Techniques of the Italian Renaissance
.”
“I’ve been meaning to read that, but I never seem to find the time.”
Raphaella ignored my remark. “When I enter the titles in the database, every book in this room will be identified and easy to find. For the books that will be listed in more detail—the ones in the alcove—we can put in the particulars afterward.”
“It’s clever, astute, and brainy,” I said. “Really.”
Raphaella gave a mock bow, then walked back to her table and picked up her backpack. She consulted her wristwatch.
“I’m glad you’re pleased. Now you can take me home.”
III
A FTER SAYING GOODBYE to Mrs. Stoppini I locked up the shop, then Raphaella and I drove into town. I dropped her at her mother’s store on Peter Street, turned around, and headed for the fresh produce market out by the highway. It was my turn to cook dinner.
When I approached our back door with my groceries, I heard loud voices coming from Mom’s office. Angry voices. At first I thought it must be a radio or the TV , but I soon realized it was my mother and father, hammering away at each other in a way I’d never experienced in my life.
I slipped through the kitchen door and quietly placed my grocery bags on the table. I couldn’t believe my ears. Myparents had never fought like that. They argued once in a while, and not always good-naturedly. They grew impatient with each other—or with me—now and again. But the noises coming out of the next room were shocking.
“No, no, and no again!”
“Gareth, you’re shouting. Control yourself, for heaven’s sake. I’m trying to explain—”
“There’s nothing to explain,” Dad insisted.
“The war is in the south. I’ll be in the western part of the country, in Herat.”
“The war
“Good. You’re back. Now, take a seat.”
I flopped into a leather chair as Raphaella perched on the edge of her working table. Pointing with a pencil, she began.
“We already know the books are arranged by author surname. They are grouped by subject—history, art, et cetera—but that’s still too cumbersome when there are so many books. All Mrs. Stoppini needs is an inventory, right? And a way to find a certain book, if necessary. So I’ve come up with a plan. Each of the bookshelf units will be called acolumn. Starting to the right of the doors over there we have column one. Beside it is—”
“Column fourteen.”
“What? Col—?”
“I thought it might be more interesting if we numbered the columns randomly.”
“Garnet, don’t be immature.”
“But being immature is part of my boyish charm.”
“You don’t have any charm, boyish or otherwise. May I continue?”
“Indeed.”
Raphaella flashed a smile. “To the right of column one is?”
“Two?”
“Excellent. Two. And so on, moving clockwise around the room till we come to the doors again. Got it?”
I nodded.
“Each shelf in a column is called a row,” she went on, “and each row is numbered, starting from the top. Each book in each shelf or row is called a slot.”
“Brilliant. Your talents are wasted in a health food store.”
“Garnet.”
“No wonder the Orillia Theatre Group always chooses you to stage-manage their productions.”
“Test time. Roman numeral V, baby Roman numeral x, arabic numeral 12 is?”
“Column five, row ten, slot twelve,” I answered.
“Which is—” Raphaella slipped off the table and crossed the room to the shelves beside the newly painted wall above the fireplace and placed her index finger on the spine of a book—“
Fresco Techniques of the Italian Renaissance
.”
“I’ve been meaning to read that, but I never seem to find the time.”
Raphaella ignored my remark. “When I enter the titles in the database, every book in this room will be identified and easy to find. For the books that will be listed in more detail—the ones in the alcove—we can put in the particulars afterward.”
“It’s clever, astute, and brainy,” I said. “Really.”
Raphaella gave a mock bow, then walked back to her table and picked up her backpack. She consulted her wristwatch.
“I’m glad you’re pleased. Now you can take me home.”
III
A FTER SAYING GOODBYE to Mrs. Stoppini I locked up the shop, then Raphaella and I drove into town. I dropped her at her mother’s store on Peter Street, turned around, and headed for the fresh produce market out by the highway. It was my turn to cook dinner.
When I approached our back door with my groceries, I heard loud voices coming from Mom’s office. Angry voices. At first I thought it must be a radio or the TV , but I soon realized it was my mother and father, hammering away at each other in a way I’d never experienced in my life.
I slipped through the kitchen door and quietly placed my grocery bags on the table. I couldn’t believe my ears. Myparents had never fought like that. They argued once in a while, and not always good-naturedly. They grew impatient with each other—or with me—now and again. But the noises coming out of the next room were shocking.
“No, no, and no again!”
“Gareth, you’re shouting. Control yourself, for heaven’s sake. I’m trying to explain—”
“There’s nothing to explain,” Dad insisted.
“The war is in the south. I’ll be in the western part of the country, in Herat.”
“The war
Similar Books
