“OK, well, sorry. We can’t help you with the De Saurus.”
“D’ye have any books on the foreign legion then?”
“Certainly.”
“And a guidebook to Prague for the wife?”
“Of course.”
He was harmless, really, Mr. McCully. They were all harmless: the only real harm they did was to Israel’s fragile mental and emotional health.
Like Mrs. Hammond, for example.
“I’m looking for a book.”
“Yes, Mrs. Hammond. Good. You’ve come to the-”
“It’s a true story.”
“OK.”
“About a man.”
“Good. What kind of a man?”
“It was on the telly yesterday, sure. A fella was talking about it.”
“I see. And the man was…?”
“It was the fella on the telly. The English man. With the lovely hair.”
“Right. The man who wrote the book was an English man with lovely hair? Or the man who the book is about is an English man with lovely hair?”
“Ach, no, the man with the program on the telly with the lovely hair.”
“Ah. The man with the program on the telly…who interviewed the man…? About his book…about the man…is an English man…with lovely hair?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, let’s see what we can find here.”
And Hughie Boyd.
“I was in last year, sure, and there was a book on a shelf down there, but it’s not there now.”
“Right.”
“D’ye not have it, then?”
“Erm. Whereabouts on the shelf was it exactly?”
“Just there, look. There.”
“Here?”
“No! There!”
“Ah. Oh. Right. There. Well. I’m afraid we’ve moved that book.”
“Typical.”
“Thank you, Mr. Boyd! Lovely to see you! Have a nice day!”
And George Kemp.
“D’ye have Bibles?”
“Yes, indeed, we do, Mr. Kemp. Bibles. Bibles. Let me see. A Bible, anyway. Here we are. Yes.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Erm. Well. It’s reference only, I’m afraid.”
“What do ye mean?”
“I can’t issue it to you.”
“But it’s the Bible.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You can’t stop me getting out the Bible.”
“Well, yes, I can, actually, if it’s a reference book.”
“It’s not a reference book!”
“Yes it is. It’s-”
“It’s the Word of God.”
“Yes. But I’m afraid it’s our reference copy of the Word of God. I’m afraid you can’t take it with you right now. I can get you a copy on interlibrary loan for next week.”
“That’s no good to me, is it? I want to read it now.”
“Well, you can read it here, if you want to.”
“In here? Are ye mad? I want to read it in the privacy of my own home. It’s for the purposes of private devotion.”
“Well, I’m sorry, I can’t-”
“Yer’e not a Christian, are ye?”
“Erm…”
“Ye’re not washed in the blood of the Lamb?”
“Erm…”
“You know you’re going to hell, unless you turn to Jesus.”
“Right. Good. Thank you, Mr. Kemp. Have a nice day!”
And of course Mrs. Onions’s friend Noreen.
“Now, young man, will ye choose me a book?”
“Yes, of course, Noreen. I…Just remind me, what sort of books do you like to…”
“I’ve read them all now.”
“OK. What, all the books in the library?”
“Every last one of them.”
“All the books?”
“Aye.”
“Everything?”
“Aye. I’m eighty-four, you know.”
“Yes. Well done.”
“I waited fourteen years for a knee replacement.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It was crumbling away.”
“Right.”
“I’ve read all these books, you know.”
“Yes, you said.”
“All the Mills and Boons.”
“There are other books you could try, Noreen…”
“Ach, no. I don’t have time for them. I had a friend, she died while she was reading one of them other books.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“You’re all right-it wasn’t a library book. She bought her own books.”
“Right.”
“Her son looked after her rightly. Not like mine. I’ve not a phone call from them from week to week. I wonder, would ye be able to do me a few bits of shopping in?”
Misplaced, that was the word for it. That’s what he was, Israel. That was his problem. He was misplaced. He rightly belonged in delightful places, Israel, filled with delightful people: Ravello, for example, in the 1920s, or somewhere around Lake Como, perhaps, with people who enjoyed painting watercolors of old buildings, and who drank prosecco and grappa from small tumblers, whilst enjoying intellectually stimulating, and ever-so-slightly erotically charged conversations. His natural habitat was formal terraced gardens, swagged with wisteria, with ancient fig trees and vine-covered trellises, and shaded patios leading into light-filled villas with shutters and faded parquet flooring. Even back home in leafy north London, with access to good coffee and a reliable broadband service, that’d do. Instead, he’d somehow ended up as the mobile librarian in a town where Pat’s Manicure and Footcare (“Manicure, Polish, Acrylics, Corns, Calluses, and Verucas”) in the town square was a popular meeting place for young and old alike, and where local fishmonger Tommy Turner’s recent winning of the local chamber of commerce’s Small-to-Medium Business Personality of the Year Award was a cause for celebration (“Small-to-Medium Personality of the Year Awarded to Local Man” ran the headline in the Impartial Recorder).
Israel had always liked to think of himself as a warm, outgoing, friendly sort of an individual who could rub along with anyone. Until he came to Tumdrum, where warm, outgoing, friendly sorts of individuals who thought they could rub along with anyone but who weren’t from round here were generally considered to be pushy, uppity good-for-nothings. He was a square peg in a round hole, a fish out of water, out of step, out of time, and out of place. He was a misfit, though admittedly a slightly lighter, bearded misfit, after his two weeks in bed, contemplating the meaning of life, the universe, and everything, and weeping over Gloria, and the plight of the Hebrew people, and the thought of his forthcoming thirtieth birthday, which he would be celebrating, unbelievably, in Tumdrum. Alone.
He grimaced at his reflection in the windshield. He’d lost quite a bit of weight, what with pretty much surviving on wine, cider, and spoonfuls of peanut butter for the past few weeks, with only the occasional variation.
Not that he was on a diet. Not as such. Since he’d split up with Gloria he’d been losing weight at a rate of several ounces a day-the equivalent of about a bag of lean beef mince a week-and had gone down from a size thirty-six waist to a thirty-two in just a couple of months, achieving a weight and a size that he’d last seen when he was a schoolboy. He was using safety pins on his trousers, and had had to trim some of the vast expanses of his shirttails and use them for rags. His duffle coat flapped around him like a dirty brown toggle-tie blanket left out on the line to dry.
It wasn’t that he’d decided not to eat. He just found that he couldn’t eat; he wasn’t able to eat. It wasn’t a diet; it was more like an unofficial hunger strike: his body was refusing him. Tayto cheese and onion crisps-certainly the best and possibly the only good reason for living in Northern Ireland-tasted like ashes in his mouth. And champ-often he couldn’t manage more than a mouthful of old Mr. Devine’s creamy champ at dinner, all that potato and spring onion and good salted butter going to waste, scraped away for the pigs. Potato bread likewise. Sodas. Even the traybakes-he’d not been able to finish a traybake for weeks. At lunchtime he’d go to the Trusty Crusty and buy himself a couple of caramel squares, and a church window, a fifteen, maybe a Florentine-just the normal day’s Tumdrum home-baked snacks-but it was no go. He’d be about to tuck in, and suddenly his body seemed to just give up, seemed to say, “What’s the point?” Since splitting up with Gloria he’d changed from a coffee-guzzling, comfort-eating, vaguely troubled fat person into a graze ’n’ nibbling, wine-bibbing, deeply troubled thin person. He was hardly eating anything but felt bloated the whole time. His hunger, which had always been his friend, had seemingly deserted him. His headaches were worse than ever, and at night he was having these dreams, vivid dreams all the time-bobbing around on a life raft, scanning the horizon, no land in sight; tripping down mountainsides; wandering lost through vast deserts…abandonment.