The Incident Report by Martha Baillie

I pulled from the shelf the exact book. I returned to the desk, victorious, and revealed my find: Vurdunum , 1591, by Giuseppe Arcimboldo, Italian painter, court portraitist and festival organizer to three generations of Hapsburg emperors, 1527–1593.
    Our pleasure—mine and the pockmarked patron’s—sang in the air. She, the patron, ran herfingers through her lank hair—a regrettable habit—and thanked me. It is of course impossible to measure the intensity of another person’s pleasure.

INCIDENT REPORT 114
    â€œJanko, who taught you to bake?”
    â€œMy mother.”
    â€œDo all Slovenian men know how to bake?”
    â€œI am the only one.”
    â€œHow old were you when your mother taught you to bake a plum tart?”
    â€œI was ten or maybe twelve. I don’t remember.”
    â€œThis is a delicious tart. I have no choice but to marry you.”
    â€œAnd you will live with me in this horrible little apartment?”
    â€œI will.”
    â€œAnd you will be miserable, and become angry with me.”
    â€œI won’t.”
    â€œI will find your anger impossible.”
    â€œIt won’t happen that way, Janko.”
    â€œDid I tell you? I’ve dropped out of computer school.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œYes. Two days ago.”
    â€œYou didn’t tell me.”
    â€œI’ve painted two copies of Roman frescoes. They are now aging in my bathtub.”
    â€œCan I see them?”
    â€œLater. They are not old enough yet. I’ve contacted someone who says he can sell them for a good price. There will be no lying. People will know the frescoes are not real but won’t care, so long as the pictures look convincing and expensive. You were right.”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œUntil I find out how many people in Miami, Florida, want to pay a good price for fake frescoes, I will continue to drive a cab.”
    â€œIt’s a good plan, an excellent plan.”
    â€œThere’s one piece of tart left. Who is going to eat it?”
    â€œYou are.”
    â€œI’ll cut it in half.”
    â€œIt’s delicious, Janko, but I’m full.”
    â€œVery good. I’ll eat my half, and afterwards I’ll eat your half.”

INCIDENT REPORT 115
    At precisely 6:00 this evening, the squat, well-spoken female patron with the nervous disposition, and interested in the paintings of Giuseppe Arcimboldo, approached the Reference Desk. She slid The Rituals of Dinner , an excellent book by Margaret Visser, across the desk for my inspection, and asked if I might recommend another work of equal quality, also on the history of eating.
    â€œI would particularly appreciate anything you can find on the use of food to depict the human body, in works of art from any century,” she clarified.
    I willingly embarked upon the mission she’d assigned me, and began ferreting out possible titles from within our labyrinthine catalogue.
    â€œI am researching,” she explained, her hands restless in her lap. “I am researching cannibalism during the French Revolution.”
    She was watching me closely. She was observing me with anticipation.
    â€œI don’t often divulge the nature of my research,” she confessed quite wryly, and her long fingers took flight from her lap. “Cannibalism arouses fear. As a subject of research, it repulses. People retreat and Ibecome the victim of their unfounded loathing.” Her fingers combed her lank hair.
    I did not loathe her, and I could have told her so. I chose to remain silent instead, as was my right, according to the Rules and Regulations. I could feel her oppressive closeness. I continued my search for titles of books similar to and comparable in quality to Margaret Visser’s The Rituals of Dinner .

INCIDENT REPORT 116
    This morning, at precisely 9:30 AM , one of the smallest and oldest of our male patrons was dropped off by his wife. He wears without fail, regardless of the