Alice lifted the single copy ofThe Plagueby Albert Camus off the shelf, waving it at Madeline. “How isThe Plagueabout love?”
Madeline barely glanced up from her novel, as though she was bored by the line of questioning. “Every story can teach you something about love, for what is life without love? But you must not confuse the love in books with love in life. Books can prepare you to love, but they aren’t the same as loving.”
Alice had no response, so she returnedThe Plagueto the shelf and kept searching. “Why don’t you keep authors together?”
“All of my Margaret Atwood books are together,” Madeline said. Indeed Atwood’s books, everything fromThe Robber BridetoOryx and Crake, occupied two shelves in the middle of the library.
“Sure, but why aren’t they by the door, filed underA? Why aren’t your books alphabetized?”
“Why should they be?”
“It makes it easier to find what you’re looking for.”
“I can always find what I’m looking for. I know where every book is filed.”
“How?”
“Because they are arranged chronologically.”
This was patently untrue.AtonementandRemains of the Dayappeared just beforeVanity Fair.
“Perhaps we have different definitions of chronology.”
“They are chronological to me, to how I read them.” Madeline sat back in her chair and picked upGreat Expectations, seemingly finished with the conversation.
The shelves suddenly told a story Alice had not seen before, Madeline’s evolution as a reader, insight into how her mind worked. She had gone through phases: magical realism, gothic and southern gothic, briefly noir. It was such a perfect way to arrange a library that Alice couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of organizing her own books that way.
Which just made clearer to Alice the one book she needed to find, the book every other book gravitated around.
She continued to walk around the library, letting her fingers linger on each title, wondering if she would feel the energy of the book when she encountered it. When nothing sparked, she asked, “And is the book you found in the park, Gregory’s book, is it somewhere in here too?”
Madeline did not look up from Dickens. “I already told you that’s private.”
“Why?” Alice asked.
“Because love is always a private conversation between the people in it. You cannot read the book and understand us. You will never understand us.”
“If I don’t understand the love you lost, how can I understand the love you want now?”
“Alice, you’re the writer. You should have confidence in your gift. You should not be afraid of a challenge.”
“I’m not,” Alice said, annoyed. “But I don’t know how to help you.”
It felt surprisingly freeing to admit this until Alice saw the expression on Madeline’s face. It was cold and stern.
“A book will not assist you with that. You can’t read our book and understand us. That’s not why I asked you here.” Madeline stood and brushed at her pants. “I think that’s enough for one day.” She walked to the door, and held it open, forcing Alice to follow. From there, Madeline whisked her down the hall, down the stairs, and toward the front door, which she also held open, expecting Alice to leave. Alice hesitated. It would be so easy to storm off, to take her beastly old car down the mountain, to forget about this place, about Madeline, her love library, the story Alice couldn’t write. Instead Alice’s feet remained fixed to the floorboards. Madeline cleared her throat, motioning with her eyes for Alice to leave. The old woman’s frustration just made Alice more resolute.
“No.” she said. “You asked me here to write you a story, and I’m going to do it. But you need to help me. You need to make me understand why, after everything that has happened to you, the tragedy, why you want to fall in love again.”
The frustration fell from Madeline’s face and she looked sad suddenly, sadder than Alice had seen her. “I don’t know if I do,” she confessed, “I want to believe that I still can.”
This was the source of her problem, why she’d been unable to write Madeline a story.
“Well,” Alice said, “let’s figure it out together.”
11
International Stationery Day
