Chapter 6 March 1995 Lily Jacobsen—Program Manager
Lily Jacobsen—program manager
Dear Odile,
I’m following in your footsteps at the ALP!
There’s something special about having a key—I feel a thrill each time I unlock the door.
Many Parisians’ favorite stroll is among the trees of the Tuileries, but I prefer the path from my desk, past the rows of stacks, to the reading room.
At the Xerox machine behind the circ desk, I parse out photocopies as an excuse to people-watch.
My timing is chosen—when the head librarian skulks off to smoke.
He hates it when staff use “his” photocopier.
Each workday is as unique as a sunrise; I watch the library, drowsy at first, awaken.
Not unlike zombies, staff roll in through the inner courtyard to the back office.
The collection manager starts the percolator, and soon the scent of crisp newspaper pages competes with the coffee in our mugs.
Early bird patrons are greeted with a warm bonjour from the volunteer at the welcome table.
Students in flannel shirts and Doc Martens amble into the reading room, and I can’t help but gawk at Book Head, the boy I like.
He has soulful gray eyes, and I want to know everything about him, from his job to his favorite book.
Is he an architect or an art historian? French or foreign? Parisian or just passing through?
At my desk, I scour forthcoming titles in French publishers’ catalogs to glean which “big names” will promote their books on French radio and television.
It’s like looking into the future—Amy Bloom and Cristina García will be in Paris in June.
On elegant stationery with the ALP motto—“From the darkness of war, the light of books,” I send letters to their editors, begging them to loan us their authors.
I’m psyched to create my own list of speakers!
At our Entre Nous series, you meet folks from all walks of life, people who in normal circumstances would not cross paths.
Millionaires and starving students, nuns and book thieves.
I adore the Faithful, my own habitués who attend every event, like the Coolidges from Kent, a delightful retired couple, the first in the neighborhood to install solar panels and a garden on their building rooftop.
And a more recent arrival, a redhead like Mary Louise, who everyone calls Tolstoy, probably because he’s often reading the Russian novelist. A Gulf War vet, he suffers from PTSD; loud voices and noises startle him.
He said he appreciates the ALP because he can count on the calm.
Moi aussi, I adore the sighs of students as they peruse the job bulletin board near the entrance; the squeaky wheel of the book cart; the head librarian shushing a patron who forgot herself and raved to a stranger about her favorite mystery series; the scrape of pencil on paper—it sounds like oui-oui-oui.
During my lunch break, I try to capture Paris on paper and hope that one day I, too, will give a talk here.
Don’t you miss the city? Will you ever come back? Please write! I want to know how you’re doing.
Love,
Lily
I didn’t tell Odile that Mary Louise moved out. It hurt too much.
To distract from the pain, I threw myself into my new role. Since Mr. Hayes wanted to host “big names,” that’s what I focused on and wrote to dozens of editors. Wanting to get everything right, I’d asked his opinion on the publicity material that I created for story hour or Entre Nous events.
He glanced at it. “Chill out. The world doesn’t revolve around your posters.” Then he looked closer. “Is this…” His nose wrinkled in distaste. “Garamond?”
“I thought an updated font would be better.”
“Georgia is the only acceptable font.”
“It sounds like your favorite song might be ‘Georgia on My Mind,’ ” I gently teased, hoping to create a rapport.
“Is that some kind of joke? Because changing fonts isn’t funny. You must respect the rules. Documents must be uniform and professional!”
Each morning, on my desk, I found his complaints in Sharpie scrawl. On Monday, he’d left me a Piccadilly Books events flyer. On John Irving’s headshot, he’d written “WHY CAN’T YOU GET A BIG NAME LIKE THIS?” I hadn’t even known the author was in Paris and felt terrible for letting the library down.
The mail arrived early each morning, and I hovered near Meg at the entrance, eager to parse the hefty stack of magazines, ads, and bills, hoping for a letter from one of the French editors I’d contacted.
It took almost two weeks to receive my first response, an envelope with the raised logo of a prestigious publisher.
This could be it, the first famous author who would speak here, sharing her path to publication and her ideas about the world.
Maybe Mr. Hayes would finally be satisfied.
Now, I pulled the letter from the envelope.
Dear Mademoiselle Jacobsen, Many thanks for your interest in having Amy Bloom speak.
Unfortunately, you are too late. Her week here is fully accounted for, between her appearances at literary festivals and on the television show La Grande Librairie.
We wish you every success. Sincerely, Folio publishers
I swallowed. I’d really gotten my hopes up—since I loved the library, I assumed everyone else would, too.
Maybe I should have called the editor. Maybe I aimed too high.
I consoled myself with the fact that a dozen other responses were on the way.
There was still time to book amazing authors.
I would show Mr. Hayes that I could do the job, that I could be successful at something.
Despite the stress, I was enjoying learning the ropes. My first weeks were a swirl of patrons, gossip, and unwritten rules. This afternoon, as I stood behind the circ desk at the photocopier, two warring book club leaders confronted me.
“As the longest-running book club, we deserve dibs on the conference room!” Marge from Better Off Read Mysteries argued.
“My group has always met there,” Don from A-Politics Now shot back.
They inched closer, and I retreated, until my back was pressed against the control panel.
Returning from his cigarette break, Lorenzo glowered at us.
He snapped his fingers and pointed to the Front Line.
Marge and Don retreated to the strip of duct tape positioned a foot from the circ desk.
Lorenzo claimed that the sliver of silver guaranteed confidentiality while patrons checked out books, but really, it was to keep them at a distance.
Far from loved ones and navigating a foreign country, many patrons—and staff—were homesick and touchy.
Book club bickering was an example of little things taking on great importance.
I proposed a noon time slot to Marge, sweetening the deal with unlimited wine; she accepted.
The book club leaders both thanked me and returned to their groups.
I loved getting to know patrons, and finding solutions to these daily dustups was so satisfying.
Maybe this was the difference from my previous job—most folks here were appreciative of my efforts.
Unfortunately, staff couldn’t solve every problem.
Our computers were a big source of contention.
The ALP had only two for public use: Gertrude and Ernest (named after the Lost Generation icons, and about as old).
Each had a five-day waiting list for a thirty-minute session.
Just now, one of our tween users was finishing up a few minutes late; the next patron, a stocky bald man, pointed to his watch and shouted, “Can’t you tell time? ”
The girl’s chin began to tremble as she tried to log out.
Photocopies in hand, I rushed over. Meg migrated from the welcome table and told the man to apologize.
“She should apologize for wasting my time!” he responded.
At that, Lorenzo strode over. “Emma, there’s no rush.” Arms akimbo, he went from dandy to bouncer in three seconds flat. “I’ve had about enough of you, Roth.”
So this was the guy they’d warned me about at my first Entre Nous event.
“Apologize or leave,” Lorenzo said.
“Whatever.” Roth stalked off.
“Are you okay, Em?” Meg asked.
She nodded.
“If he bothers you again, yell good and loud,” Lorenzo said.
The idea of yelling in a library made her giggle.
“Atta girl!” He tugged gently on the hood of her sweatshirt. “Grab some candy from my drawer.”
“The good stuff?” she asked.
“You know it,” he replied.
The three of us watched her pick out a chocolate.
“How long has Roth been a problem?” I asked.
Aware of nearby patrons, Meg and Lorenzo inched closer.
“Forever,” he said in a low tone. “Each semester, he hits on the new crop of Yearlings who study here. He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t accept no as an answer. Last term, he cornered one and threatened her, so I filed a complaint with the cops.”
“They said that until he attacks someone, there’s nothing they can do.” Meg shook her head.
Some things were the same all over.
“You!” The word—an accusation—brought us from our huddle.
Across the room, near the entrance, a blonde aimed her Louis Vuitton clutch at me like a gun. Not a blonde. The blonde, the one I’d kicked in the shin. “I know you,” she said, her tone equal parts curiosity and irritation at not being able to place me.
I held the photocopies to my chest like a shield and waited for the past to catch up with me.
“How does she know you?” Lorenzo demanded in a hushed library hiss.
I didn’t want to admit the truth.
“How does she know you?” he repeated, as if inquiring how Princess Diana had become acquainted with a bus station cockroach.
“We’ve never met,” I hedged.
Meg regarded me thoughtfully. “You mean you’ve never been formally introduced.”
Of course she saw through my prevarication.
“Jennifer de Narp is a trustee and one of our biggest donors,” she continued.