The Rabbit Back Literature Society by Pasi Ilmari Jääskeläinen Page B

write freely, to write something meaningful. She wanted to write. She did, after all, work among great books, in a virtual garden of creativity, when you thought about it, but she herself hadn’t been able to write anything for a long time. She had been scraping together a modest children’s book, but she had stalled even in that pathetic attempt.
    She nevertheless
knew
that she could write something wonderful , something unprecedented, if she could just get started. A great novel that would win at least the Finlandia Prize, and maybe even be an international success, a hit with readers and critics, and sell so well that she could build her family a large house in Rabbit Back’s best neighbourhood.
    But all her energies were taken up with preventing the library from careening into chaos. Books were being ruined all the time. And they were stolen. Faulty works appeared on the shelves constantly. The budget was cut every year. Another part-time library assistant had been laid off and replaced by an unpaid intern who let loose flaccid farts between the stacks, thinking no one would notice.
    Ingrid seized her unpleasant thoughts, shoved them in an imaginary garbage bag, and flung them from her mind.
    Then she cast off her skin. She was no longer Ingrid Katz the librarian. She was now Ingrid Katz, wife and mother, who was just getting off work, about to be greeted with smiles.
    As she started the car she looked around the library grounds. It was dark in the shadows of the trees; there could be anyone lurking there. For several days she’d had bouts of paranoia like she hadn’t felt in years. She glanced in the rear-view mirroronce more to make sure she didn’t have any extra passengers in the back seat. She was conscious of the fact that this was disconcerting behaviour, but on the other hand she did have past precedents for it.
    She drove straight home and greeted her family. She came home every evening in time to put her children to bed. She’d promised her husband she would.
    Ingrid Katz had birthed four children in all. The first two had been made by a more or less mutual understanding. The last two were a gift to her husband, who had always wanted a super family.
    She liked the children, too, of course.
    “This is the life,” her husband would say as they sat surrounded by their children.
    One time Ingrid had answered, “You don’t read books.” She’d meant it as an accusation, as the worst sort of insult. She said it maliciously.
    Her husband laughed. “Books,” he said. “There are a lot more important things in life than books. The children, for instance.”
    This evening the children wanted their mother to read old fairy tales to them. She shook her head and read to them from her unfinished children’s book. They fell asleep so quickly that she wondered if she ought to add some more exciting scenes. She tucked them in. After she’d gone to the bathroom, she put on her winter coat and looked for her gloves. She’d put them in her coat pocket, but now they were gone.
    “Damn it,” she whispered, standing in front of the entryway mirror. She stood looking at her reflection. When had she started looking like that?
    “Are you looking for your gloves, honey?” her husband asked from the kitchen. “I put them on the bathroom radiator to warm for the morning. Are you going for a walk again? Did you remember to take your vitamins? You ought to take some or you’ll come down with something among all those books.”
    “I remembered,” Ingrid lied. “Yes, I’m going out. It’s too bad one of us has to stay and watch the kids. I’m going to the kiosk to buy some liquorice and brush off the book dust.”
    As she went out the door she asked, “Do you need anything from the kiosk?”
    Her husband thought about it. Finally, he said he didn’t need anything. Ingrid Katz left. Her husband never needed anything from the kiosk, she knew that without asking, but ritual required her to ask. Their marriage was a