Title:
The Department of Rare Books
and Special Collections
Author:
Eva Jurczyk
Agent:
Erin Clyburn
Jennifer De Chiara Literary Agency
Publication date:
January 4, 2022
Category: Fiction Format:
Trade Paper Original
ISBN:
978-1-7282-3859-3
Price:
$16.99 U.S.
Pages:
336 pages
This book represents the final manuscript being distributed for prepublication review. Typographical and layout errors are not intended to be present in the final book at release. It is not intended for sale and should not be purchased from any site or vendor. If this book did reach you through a vendor or through a purchase, please notify the publisher. Please send all reviews or mentions of this book to the Sourcebooks marketing department: marketing@sourcebooks.com For sales inquiries, please contact: sales@sourcebooks.com For librarian and educator resources, visit: sourcebooks.com/library
Copyright © 2022 by Eva Jurczyk Cover and internal design © 2022 by Sourcebooks Cover design by Kimberly Glyder Cover images © kosmofish/Shutterstock, Happie Hippie Chick/Shutterstock Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks. The poem “Nature Rarer Uses Yellow” by Emily Dickinson is in the public domain, © 1891. All rights reserved. Replicated as printed in Poems: Second Series, ed. Mabel Loomis Todd and T. W. Higginson (Boston: Roberts Brothers, 1891), 152. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author. All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book. Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410 (630) 961-3900 sourcebooks.com [Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data] Printed and bound in [Country of Origin—confirm when printer is selected]. XX 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Dedication to come
1
From the f irst spin of the lock, she knew she wouldn’t be able to open the safe. What does a librarian know about safecracking? Standing in the office of the venerable Christopher Wolfe, in front of that safe, the combination to which was only stored inside Christopher’s broken brain, she began to stammer excuses. The university president himself stood over her as she spun the dial again and tried her old combination again and failed to open the safe again. Before Christopher’s brain had set itself on fire, he had lacked a talent for details and had been reliant on Liesl to keep him to schedules and plans. Which was why, despite the fact that she was on sabbatical and had no official responsibilities at the library for a full year, she had called Christopher three weeks ago to remind him that the combination to the safe was scheduled to be changed. He was supposed to call her back once it was done and tell her the new code because it was prudent to make sure it was stored in more than one place. But Christopher and details being what they were, the call had never come. Liesl wanted to suggest to Lawrence Garber, the university president in question, that perhaps the priceless object wasn’t in the safe at all so he would begin hunting around the office in panic
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rather than standing over her in panic, but she saw how that was unlikely to be helpful. He hovered; she spun the dial of the safe. Christopher’s office smelled of cigars and vellum, and President Garber smelled of sweat and eucalyptus. She had been in this office hundreds of times but had never noticed the smell of cigars so acutely. Smoking in public buildings hadn’t been legal in decades. She had never chided Christopher for the state of his office and had never questioned his commitment to rules about things like smoking, but she thought that when he woke up and returned to work, she might need to have a gentle discussion with him about tidiness and the consequences of embers for priceless papers. Liesl hated a cluttered desk. If she had to work in here, as Garber had suggested she should, she would ask to have all of the scattered volumes reshelved to create some space. Christopher had been the director of the Department of Rare Books and Special Collections since the department had moved into its current building in 1969. He shook hands and bought lunches and poured Lagavulin and behaved in ways both atrocious and effective at soliciting millions of dollars of annual donations, both in cash and gifts in kind, to grow the library’s collection. The contents of the safe were his latest triumph. Or so they would confirm if they could get the thing open. The valuable title had been courted, acquired, paid for, and delivered all in the weeks while Liesl had been at home working on her own book. There were rumblings that the university’s rivals in Boston wanted it and that the British Library wanted it, but when the day came, neither had bid, and Christopher had easily won the auction, competing against mid-tier schools who made half-hearted efforts at securing the prize for below-market value. At half a million dollars, it was a steal. A contact at Christie’s had grumbled about Christopher scaring off other bidders, but there was no proof of anything like that. Christopher had scarcely had the opportunity to inspect his
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prize before disaster struck. The call to Liesl’s home, summoning the assistant director back to work and ending her sabbatical though it had barely begun, came late on a Sunday as she and her husband, John, were settling in with their port and weathered paperbacks for the evening. Lawrence Garber told her she was an angel, sent to maintain the appearance of order until Christopher regained consciousness, an angel who would keep the ship steadily on course. Liesl wasn’t fond of the mixture of biblical and nautical metaphors, but Garber had been an economist before becoming university president, so she was willing to overlook it. They had bigger problems than poorly deployed literary devices. The donors were arriving to see what their money had paid for, and Christopher had been the only one who knew the new combination. The book inside the safe was a Plantin Polyglot Bible. Some of the money for its volumes had come from the library’s endowment, but most of the cost was covered by a group of donors who were gathering at the library that very afternoon to cup the balls of their new prize horse. The auction house, the shipping department, and several staff had confirmed the Bible’s arrival at the library. But before their insurer could add it to their policy and allow it to be placed on the shelf, it could only be in the very room where Liesl stood. Guidelines dictated that the uninsured book be secured in the safe in Christopher’s office, and presumably one of the last things Christopher had done before a blood vessel that carried oxygen to his brain had burst was to strictly adhere to guidelines. During his forty years as director, Christopher had frequently forgotten to do important administrative tasks, and Liesl had no choice but to suppose that the period of restricted oxygen to the brain had somehow made him more responsible. She would have expected to find one of the volumes lying open on the desk where Christopher had been poring over its pages in awe, the others stacked up alongside. She suggested to President Garber that they call off the donor meeting.
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President Garber planned to do no such thing. He marched around the office. He hadn’t yet removed his bicycle helmet or the reflective Velcro strips around his ankles that prevented his cuffs from entering the gears of his bike. While walking his laps, he would occasionally drop to a crouch and yank at the handle of the safe as though he could force it open with his 150-pound frame and sheer will. An economist, a university president. He had authored books, shaken hands with prime ministers and more than one member of the Saudi royal family. Liesl could see in his eyes that this was a problem he considered solvable. It was unclear to Liesl whether the cycling accessories were part of Garber’s imagined solution. The book needed to be appraised for insurance, separate from the general collection, which is why it was in the safe in the first place. The donors would understand, would be impressed by the level of care with which the library was treating the new acquisition. Liesl suggested again that they call off the meeting and tell the donors the truth. They had already been briefed about Christopher’s stroke and knew that he would not be the one greeting them. “We’ll show them the Plantin as soon as the safe is open, and until then, they know it’s secure,” she said. President Garber was typing something into his phone. She thought he was acting on her suggestion, so she went on. “Everyone knows that these acquisitions take time, and think how nice it will be to pair the first viewing with good news about Christopher’s health as he’s recovering.” Garber continued to type into his phone, and looking at him and waiting for a reply, Liesl could see his jaw clench. Presumably the tension of his jaw against the strap reminded him of the bicycle helmet, and he finally snapped it off. “Just think,” she said. “With a little bit more time to plan? We could bring in a scholar to talk about the book’s importance.”
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Garber looked up from his phone. He was not smiling. Liesl straightened some papers on Christopher’s desk. Garber put his phone in his pocket. Crossed his arms. Uncrossed them. “For God’s sake,” he said. “There are no circumstances under which we are canceling today’s meeting.” “Why shouldn’t we? If it means time to get the book, time for Christopher to improve, time to plan a lecture?” Once she had said it, she went back to the safe to give the handle a yank herself, a feat of force to disguise her self-consciousness at the stupidity of the suggestion. A lecture? she chided herself. “To hell with a lecture,” Garber said. “They don’t want to write a thesis on the book; they want to be the first to see the book.” “I’m sure if we explained…” “This is day one, Liesl. I brought you in to assure donors they can have confidence in us. How can we screw up so badly on day one?” “If we just explain,” she said. “They’ll feel informed.” Still crouched by the safe, she wished it would open for no other reason than to allow her to crawl inside and disappear. “These are major donors. They don’t want to feel informed. They want to feel important. They need to be the first to see it.” “We have expertise enough to deliver a lecture today, and there are probably photographs,” she said. She regretted it immediately, but couldn’t stop the ill-conceived suggestions from coming. She stood up and wiped her sweaty palms on her trousers, stepping away from the safe to find her head. “Photographs?” Garber pulled his phone back out and resumed typing. “They didn’t donate hundreds of thousands of dollars to look at photographs.” He walked over to the safe and gave another yank. “Another book then.” Another book was what Christopher would have proposed. Liesl was sure of it. As sure as she was that Garber didn’t want
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a creative solution from Christopher’s second-in-command. He wanted Christopher. “What other book?” he said. He tapped his phone against his chin. “Go into the stacks and get them something that no one ever gets to see, something Jesus or Shakespeare or Marx used to wipe his chin. Something transcendent.” He left the room still typing into his phone, his bicycle helmet dangling from one wrist.
2
That f irst morning, in the swampy heat of early September, exactly three minutes after Garber exited the library and just as Dan Haberer was about to hit Play on the secondhand Discman that he lorded over adherents to more convenient forms of technology, Liesl took him by the arm and asked him to retrieve the Peshawar manuscript. As an afterthought, she told him to bring a couple of book trucks to Christopher’s office to gather various scattered volumes for reshelving. Dan made an offended display of removing his headphones. Liesl waited until they were all the way off—wrapped in their cord, placed gingerly upon the Discman—and the middle-aged man clad in head-to-toe denim was face-to-face with her before repeating her request. While waiting for the headphones and listening to Dan’s vague grumbles about book request slips and policies and work he had planned for the morning, Liesl had plenty of time to reflect on how unusual Dan’s heavy-denim-and-combat- boot ensemble was in the academic library. Corduroy slacks that stretched over thick thighs. Well- polished loafers concealing collapsed arches. A short-sleeved polo on a hot day, occasionally. These were the uniforms for their battalion. To be confronted with the workman’s ensemble over Dan’s slender frame as he ambled, for
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Dan always ambled, toward the elevator to get the Peshawar for her and the donors was a contradiction so acute that Liesl never quite trusted her eyes. It was the too-obvious choice, the Peshawar, for the show- and-tell with the money. She could have been creative, could have asked some of the library’s people, could have phoned up a dealer for a one-day loaner. But Liesl wasn’t up on doing things just for the sake of appearances on her very first day of the number one job. Besides, she assumed that this accumulation of money-loving people would appreciate being in close proximity with these pages that had contributed to the invention of modern mathematics. You can’t have a bank balance with eight zeroes unless someone first invents the zero. She flipped through an old exhibition catalog that featured the Peshawar. Finance money, pharma money, family money—she was looking for the angle they’d feel at the front of their trousers. She wasn’t an expert in Sanskrit, mathematics, or early writing, and while that hardly mattered when she was talking to undergraduates, she worried that this group might see through her. This group that flexed their fortunes to acquire pages like these. That, coupled with Garber’s lecture that morning about the need to convince the donors that the library was in stable hands, had her feeling like a schoolgirl about to sit for an exam. Had Christopher been there, he would have done the talking. It all made her rather doubtful of her own level of knowledge and nervous to even touch the book when Dan finally rolled it into the office on a book truck. Then there was another thing. The pages of the Peshawar looked like garbage. The library had been playing a shell game for years, using photos of the leaves in lieu of the real thing. The photographs were just easier to read; they hadn’t been darkening over the decades like the birch leaves had. But Garber had been clear; photographs were going to do little to make this group feel important, so even if the real thing was barely legible and even if