Words in Deep Blue

by Cath Crowley

  ‘You should record all your songs,’ I tell her as Frank brings our food. ‘Make a permanent record of everything you’ve ever written and played, from start to end.’

  ‘I don’t know if I want to record the end,’ she says, buttering her toast. ‘I’ll think about it. So I saw you and Henry lying together on the floor.’

  ‘We’re back to being friends.’

  ‘You two were never just friends,’ she says. ‘You were inseparable till Amy arrived.’

  ‘What about you and Hiroko?’ I ask. ‘You’re inseparable.’

  ‘We’re not girlfriends,’ she says eventually. ‘She’s the only person I can write with. We’re Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, Hervey and Goodman, Sleater-Kinney. At least we were. Now we’re nothing.’

  I tell her again that they should record their songs. She licks some jam from her thumb, and says, ‘Maybe.’

  I drive home to shower and change. Rose has left a note for me on the kitchen bench.

  I saw you yesterday, walking straight out of the ER. I was about to come after you but I saw Gus. Is something wrong? Call if you need me to come home today. P.S. Your mum called. There’s a message from her on the answering machine.

  I press the button and listen to Mum talking about Gran and Sea Ridge and her new classes at school. She says she’s planning a trip to the city soon. ‘I miss you,’ she says, in a voice that’s flat and sad. I delete the message and take a shower.

  Henry’s behind the counter when I return. I take the coffee cup he offers and sit with him to drink it. Michael joins us after a while, along with Martin and George and Frederick and Frieda. Sophia arrives with croissants, which makes two breakfasts I’ve had this morning.

  I ask Michael if we can close the Letter Library for the duration of the cataloguing. ‘It’s too hard to record the comments if people are looking at the books,’ I tell him, and it becomes clear that Sophia doesn’t know about the job that Michael’s asked me to do.

  ‘Why?’ she asks him.

  ‘My reasons are no longer your concern,’ he tells her, and gives me permission.

  I tape a notice to the front window – The Letter Library is closed for cataloguing. Howling Books is sorry for the inconvenience – and then start work.

  I’d lose all sense of time if it weren’t for George and Martin, who keep walking over to put notes in The Broken Shore. I’ve decided the restriction on the Letter Library doesn’t apply to the staff, so I don’t say anything. At first George shyly places her letters in the book, but after a while, she’s angrily shoving in paper.

  To give her some privacy, I concentrate on recording the notes in Prufrock and Other Observations. It takes a long time to catalogue everything people have written, and in the end I have to leave out some small notes.

  From what I can tell, the poem that Henry read to me that night is the love song of someone who doesn’t think very much of himself. He’s a man debating whether or not he should tell a woman how much he wants her. The notes along the side are mostly from people worrying that life has passed them by. Or, to quote Henry, people who feel a bit shit about themselves.

  ‘Is that why you like it?’ I ask Henry when he’s on a break.

  ‘I think you’ll find a lot of people like T.S. Eliot for reasons other than that they feel a bit shit about themselves. Read the language. It’s beautiful.’

  ‘But it’s basically about him wanting sex isn’t it?’

  ‘I think it’s about him debating whether or not to take a risk.’

  Henry stays with me this afternoon to help and to argue more about Eliot. There are so many comments on the book that my hands are tired, so I read out the comments and Henry types. Eventually we get to the last one and Henry walks back to the counter.

  I’m too tired to start cataloguing another book. I proofread what I’ve done today, and make sure it’s formatted. Then I save the database and shut down the computer. Martin’s not ready to go yet, so I pass the time looking through the books.

  The one I really want to look at is Mark Laita’s Sea. I noticed it on the first day. It’s one of the most beautiful books I’ve ever seen and I can’t believe someone would leave a copy of it in the Letter Library for people to write on.

  I take it off the shelf today. The creatures are hypnotic, glowing off pages in brilliant light. I sit on the floor and look through. I stop when I get to page with the North Pacific Giant octopus, a red spectacular creature, with no eyes that I can see, the end of its body a mouth, open in a kind of blind wonder. I’m staring at that mouth for a long time before I notice a tiny hand-drawn arrow in the margin, pointing to the creature. There’s a word next to that, written in small neat letters, the kind of letters that Cal used: this I love.

  I know before I’ve hardly had time for thought that it’s Cal’s handwriting. I know from the way the tail of his ‘e’ kicks upwards, and the way the arrow is drawn, a tiny arch in its back. I know because he loved this octopus, because he loved this book. I know it in a way I can’t prove.

  I think about that arrow for the rest of the week, the love next to it, the small arch in its back. By Sunday I decide the feeling it gives me isn’t sadness, exactly. It’s too complicated to easily name. It has something to do with Cal being in a library along with other people who no longer exist in the world. The traces of them are hidden, small lines in books. In a library from which no one can borrow.

  The Broken Shore

  by Peter Temple

  Letters left between pages 8 and 9

  16 January – 22 January 2016

  Hi Martin

  I’m writing to explain some things about last night. I was wrong about you – you’re a nice guy. I liked talking to you in the bathroom. I liked hearing about Rufus, who’s no particular breed that you know of. I like that you chose him because he was the strangest dog at the shelter and you thought no one else would take him. I meant what I said – I’d like to meet him one day. I’d like to meet your mums, too, and your little sister. I think you’d make a great human rights lawyer. I like that you like mysteries. I like you.

  And the kiss – what we had of it – was nice.

  But, there’s that guy I told you about. I know, for certain now, that he’s stopped writing because he’s gone overseas, so I’m going to wait for him to get back. I’m really hoping that you and I can be friends. It’ll be a long summer in the bookshop if we can’t.

  George

  Dear George

  Thanks for your letter. I still feel like a bit of an idiot but your explanation helps. (My kiss was nice?? That’s hugely flattering, thanks, George.) You have my word that I won’t try to kiss you again and yes we can be friends. I’d like that. I’d like if we could be friends when we go back to school, too. It’ll be a long summer if we’re not friends, but it’ll be an even longer year.

  Martin

  Dear Martin

  Thanks for your reply. That’s a huge relief. I meant the kiss was really nice. It was more than nice. Not that I’ve had a lot of experience, but I think you’re a good kisser. Sure, we can be friends when school starts, but that might cause some trouble for you with Stacy and her group.

  George

  Dear George

  Friends it is, then. You really need to stop worrying about what people think. That’s half your problem.

  Martin

  Martin

  I have a problem? You’re the one who’s hanging out with Stacy, a girl who likes to call people freaks.

  George

  Dear George

  I’m sorry. I wrote that last note in a bit of a hurry at the end of my lunch break. I didn’t mean you had a huge problem, just that you tend to hang out alone at school, and I know of at least one person who’s tried to talk to you (me!) and you haven’t exactly been friendly. I just meant that you’re a great person and maybe the guy you like would have told you who he was before now if you’d been a bit more welcoming.

  Martin

  Martin

&n
bsp; Fuck off and stop writing to me.

  George

  Dear George

  I’m not fucking off. I’m your friend. Friends don’t fuck off. And by the way, friends don’t tell each other to fuck off, either.

  Martin

  Martin

  Fuck. Off.

  George

  Henry

  it’s the closeness of them that’s mesmerising

  Martin walks over to me around four on Friday the 22nd. I know it’s 22 January because I’m staring at the calendar and Tom, the customer who pretty much lives in the Supernatural section, is trying to teach me to flip the page over to February with my mind. I stop testing my psychic abilities when I notice that Martin is the closest to angry that I’ve ever seen him.

  ‘Your sister,’ he says, holding up a note, ‘just told me to fuck off.’

  ‘She tells me to fuck off all the time. I wouldn’t take it too seriously.’ I share with him the truth that’s universally acknowledged in our family – that we’re shit at love – and he says, ‘I’m not trying to love her. ‘I’m just trying to be her friend.’ He walks away to vent his frustrations on the cataloguing.

  I’ve been having a difficult few weeks myself when it comes to girls. Amy replied to the note I left in her mailbox last week with a cryptic text – Thanks. That means a lot at the moment, Henry.

  She hasn’t sent anything since and I can’t stop wondering what at the moment means.

  I’ve also spent the last few weeks trying to cheer up Rachel, but I don’t know what to say. I can’t do anything obvious, since I’m not allowed to tell anyone about Cal. The only thing I can think of to do is to try to talk to her about it, but she’s told me straight out that words won’t change anything and she doesn’t want to talk.

  She’s not being rude anymore. She’s being what I’d describe as obsessive. She was going crazy on the cataloguing before she found Cal’s note on our copy of Sea. Now she’s a step beyond obsessive. She’s working without breaks. She’s searching, although she hasn’t said, for another word from her brother.

  Frederick walks over to the counter to check on the state of the Walcott search. I don’t have anything new to report, but while he’s here I ask him a hypothetical question.

  ‘If you had a friend who was upset about say, a death in the family, but they didn’t seem to want sympathy, what would you do? If you thought they needed to talk about it, but they wouldn’t talk about it?’

  ‘I think you have to respect their wishes. If they don’t want to talk about it you can’t force them.’ His eyes move towards Rachel and back to me. ‘You might try to make her laugh.’

  It’s easier said than done to make Rachel laugh. She used to laugh all the time. I’ve been checking back over the photos taken of us over the years, and in every one there’s a smile on her face. There’s a smile exactly like it on Cal’s face, too.

  I stared at one last night for the longest time. Every time I put it down I picked it back up. Cal and Rachel at the beach. It was taken in the summer between Year 8 and Year 9. Her arm is slung around his shoulder, and the shot is taken close up. I can see all the freckles on Rachel’s skin, all the fine sand there too, clinging to the leftover ocean. Cal has his glasses on, and there are spots of water on the lenses. It’s the closeness of them that’s mesmerising. That’s how they were.

  I decide it’s too hard to make her laugh, and it seems disrespectful, so instead I decide to write to her about how I’ve been feeling. I don’t know if it’s a good idea, but at least it’s the truth.

  When I’ve finished, I wait until she’s in the bathroom, and then I run over to the Letter Library. I’d intended to put the letter in the Prufrock, but now that I’m here I’ve changed my mind. Her copy of Cloud Atlas is sitting next to her bag, so I leave my letter between pages 6 and 7. I put the book on her seat, so she can’t miss it.

  I go to Frank’s for a celebratory Danish, and when I get back, her copy of Cloud Atlas is on the shelves of the Letter Library, face out. I wait until she’s gone, and then I walk over, hoping that I’ll find a letter.

  Cloud Atlas

  by David Mitchell

  Letters left between pages 6 and 7

  22 January – 29 January 2016

  Dear Rachel

  I hope you don’t mind me writing this letter. I know you came to the city to forget about Cal, but you’re still thinking about him – every second – how could you not think about him?

  This will probably sound stupid to you, but I’m having trouble believing that he’s dead. Maybe I’d be able to believe it if I’d gone to the funeral, or I’d seen his body. But in my memories, he’s alive, so I can’t make my brain compute the information that I’ll never see him again.

  This isn’t sympathy, Rachel. Or, it’s a bit of sympathy, but it’s mostly an observation. You look sad a lot of the time. But sometimes you look confused. Like you can’t compute the information, either. I hate the thought that you might forget and remember, forget and remember. That must be exhausting.

  I wish I’d been there at the funeral. I wish I’d been a good friend. You have my phone number. Use it if you want to talk, or if you require me to carry you home in a storm. Use it anytime.

  I know you’ve said that words won’t bring Cal back and that’s true. But if you want to write, leave a letter in Cloud Atlas (there’s another copy in the Letter Library) between pages 6 and 7. I’ll always write back.

  Henry

  Dear Henry

  Thanks for the letter. I appreciate you writing and I appreciate the offer to talk. But honestly, everyone’s always telling me to talk, and it doesn’t do much good. Talking won’t bring him back.

  Rachel

  Dear Rachel

  I get it, I do. You know where to find me if something changes.

  Henry

  Dear Rachel

  Okay, I know I said I get it, and I do, but I don’t agree with you. I’m sitting in the bookshop tonight, everyone’s gone home, and I’m thinking about the point of words. I’ve actually been thinking about the point of them since you dismissed all poetry three years ago, and dissed all the poets.

  ‘I love you, let’s kiss, let’s have sex’. I’ve found those words to be very useful over the years. Presumably you told Joel that you loved him and found them useful too. I know you told Cal that you love him. Those words mean something, Rachel.

  Henry

  Dear Henry

  Yes, I told Joel I loved him and I definitely told Cal. I still tell him, every day. But I meant that words are useless in the big scheme of things.

  Rachel

  Dear Rachel

  Doesn’t love fall somewhere in the big scheme of things? Isn’t it the biggest scheme?

  Henry

  Dear Henry

  You know what I mean. I mean words don’t stop us from dying. They don’t give us the dead back. Death is the biggest in the big scheme of things.

  Rachel

  Dear Rachel

  I think you’ve got your schemes the wrong way round. Life is the big scheme; death is the little one at the end.

  I think we should go dancing tonight. It’s Friday – end of the week. We’ll invite George and Martin.

  Henry

  Dear Henry

  Death isn’t little. If you think it is, you haven’t seen it. But yes, I’ll dance with you. Let’s go somewhere no one knows us (I’ve seen you dance). I’m having dinner with Rose tonight. I’ll meet you in front of Laundry at nine. We can watch The Hollows, then go somewhere after that.

  Rachel

  Rachel

  even in the nameless lines, I read stories

  The cataloguing stopped being boring as soon as I hit the Prufrock. Even the small lines that mean nothing to me must have meant something to someone, so I’m careful to document them. When I’m tempted to skip some, I think about Cal’s markings on Sea and I don’t.

  I find a lot of people in the Letter Library this week. Even in the nameless lin
es, I read stories. One person has gone through Pablo Neruda’s The Captain’s Verses with the same hot-pink pen and I was halfway through cataloguing it when I realised everything they’d marked was a reference to sex. At least, I think they were references to sex. Or maybe I’m just thinking that because Henry’s on my mind again.

  Henry’s letters in Cloud Atlas this week aren’t romantic. They’re about death, mostly, but strangely, they’ve made me feel like those pink highlighted lines. I love getting them. I go on breaks so I can come back and find one. If I go on a break and there isn’t a letter when I get back, I’m disappointed.

  I’ve wanted to talk to Henry more and more as the week’s gone on. I don’t know whether I like him again or whether I’m looking for distraction or if the love letters I’ve found in the library have set off some kind of madness. Henry is a kind of madness, I’ve decided.

  I’ve started searching for the love notes in the library, while I’m waiting for Henry to write. I’m not working in strictly alphabetical order anymore. I’m skipping around, looking for the interesting notes.

  On Monday I read a series of letters from A to B in The Fault in Our Stars. At first they don’t call themselves A and B. At first they’re just lines on the page, written in different coloured pens. A writes in blue, B writes in black. They write underneath each other – Funny, A writes near a particular sentence. Hilarious, B writes underneath. By page 50 they’re telling each other their favourite lines. By page 100 A says he’s a guy and B says he’s a guy too. By page 105 it’s clear they both like each other. They met, according to the last page of the book, out the front of a club called Hush, on 2 January 2015.