by Ian Sansom
Israel took the book down and brought it over to Pearce. It was bound in leather with fine embossed lettering. The pages were musty, and the dust set Pearce to coughing—deep, deep coughing—and hawking, and then struggling for breath. His eyes welled up with tears again. His frail body was shaking with panic.
Joan hurried over. She held up his head and helped him hawk into a handkerchief.
“I think he needs a rest now,” she said.
“Yes, of course,” said Israel. “Sorry. I…”
“Israel’s going now, Pearce,” she said.
Pearce stared up at Israel, unable to find words. His eyes stared up at him—as if he was looking for something, searching for reassurance.
“Go on,” said Joan. “He needs rest.” Israel hesitated. “Please,” said Joan. “He’d rather you went.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Please,” said Joan insistently.
Israel glanced back at Pearce as he left the room: the dogs were sitting quietly by him, Joan was fussing over him. Like he was a child, or a small broken bird.
It was dark as Israel walked down the lane back to the Devines’ and there was a full moon, as though the scene had been carefully set for a theatrical performance. Normally, Israel didn’t respond to nature—he responded mostly to books, and to his own narcissistic impulses and needs—but tonight, brushing past the cow parsley and the whin bushes, and with the sound of his feet in the silence, it felt for a moment that he was outside himself and outside time, and that the whole of nature was somehow audible and available to him, and he was overcome by a feeling of intense love, and of loss—as though he was completely connected to the world and, simultaneously, completely and irrevocably cut off.
He paused before reaching the Devines’, in the little clearing by the big red barn, and stood in the bright moonlight and opened the book that Pearce had given him, turning to a page at random.
“That the dead are seen no more,” said Imlac, “I will not undertake to maintain, against the concurrent and unvaried testimony of all ages, and of all nations. There is no people, rude or learned, among whom apparitions of the dead are not related and believed. This opinion, which perhaps prevails as far as human nature is diffused, could become universal only by its truth: those that never heard of one another would not have agreed in a tale which nothing but experience can make credible. That it is doubted by single cavillers, can very little weaken the general evidence; and some who deny it with their tongues confess it by their fears.”
And he burst into tears. And wiped his eyes. And walked on.
10
Monday morning, Linda’s office. Israel’s six-monthly appraisal.
He hadn’t slept well. The usual sorts of dreams. And thinking about Pearce. About Gloria. About George. About his own deterioating mental and physical health.
“Mr. Armstrong, do you have a copy of your contract of employment with you?”
“No. Sorry,” said Israel. “Was I supposed to—”
“That was in the e-mail I sent you about our meeting.”
“Ah, well…I, erm…don’t have very good connectivity, you see, on the farm, in the chicken coop. It’s Wi-Fi they’ve got. But I haven’t quite hooked into it…somehow.”
“Well, Mr. Armstrong, perhaps you can recall for me the Overall Purpose of your role here?” said Linda.
She always had a tendency to speak like this, Linda, or at least certainly to Israel, and certainly for as long as Israel has known her—a tendency to stating the obvious as if it were both catastrophic and incomprehensible to mere mortals. She spoke as though she were reading the news for the deaf on regional TV.
Israel already had a headache.
“The overall purpose?” said Israel.
“Yes.”
“Of my role here?”
“Yes.”
“On earth, do you mean?”
Linda sighed a sigh of a kind that indicated not so much weariness as utter contempt.
“Clearly not, Mr. Armstrong. I mean your overall purpose in your role here, as Learning Support Officer on the Learning Support Vehicle.”
“Mobile librarian, you mean?” said Israel. It was a bone of contention.
“Learning. Support. Officer,” repeated Linda. “Thank you. But go ahead.”
“Well…” Israel gazed out of the window.
“You might want to try to break it down into your primary responsibilities.”
“Yes. Of course,” said Israel.
“Go ahead,” said Linda. She had folded her arms across her chest in a way that suggested she was preparing for a wrestling bout.
“Erm,” said Israel.
“Would you like me to remind you?” said Linda.
“Well…sure,” said Israel. “Yes. Go ahead.”
“To be responsible—and I quote,” said Linda, reading from a sheet of paper, “‘responsible for the running and administration of Tumdrum’s Mobile Learning Resource Center—’”
“Mobile library.”
“Mobile Learning Resource Center,” repeated Linda. “And your principal accountabilities—”
“Sorry?”
“Your principal accountabilities.”
“Ah.”
“Are ‘to develop and maintain a thorough understanding and up-to-date knowledge of mobile learning center resources.’”
“Uh-huh.”
“‘To be responsible for taking forward specific campaigns in developing user participation; developing an appropriate strategy for each campaign; monitoring and evaluating the effectiveness of the strategy; developing and building relationships with and between diverse groups; developing and supporting links with established groups at all levels; to promote a safe working environment by complying with Health and Safety regulations; and to undertake any other duties that may be required by your manager.’”
“Right. That sounds like a pretty fair summary of what I’m doing, yes,” agreed Israel, jauntily.
“Does it?” said Linda.
“Yes.”
“Good. Well, perhaps then, Mr. Armstrong, you could tell me where in this list of responsibilities it mentions LENDING UNSHELVED BOOKS TO UNDERAGE READERS!”
Linda banged the desk so hard at this point that it shook all of her carefully placed soft cuddly toys.
“Sorry?” said Israel, rubbing his temples.
“You have been lending the Unshelved to underage readers,” said Linda, gathering herself.
“I don’t think so,” said Israel.
“Maurice Morris’s daughter!”
“Who?”
“Lyndsay Morris? She was—”
“The Goth?”
“Yes!”
“Ah,” said Israel.
“So?”
“Well, when people ask for the Unshelved, I…give them the Unshelved.”
“And she asked for the Unshelved and you gave her the Unshelved?”
“That’s right.”
“Yet you know you shouldn’t lend the Unshelved to the young and the impressionable and the—”
“She’s sixteen,” said Israel.
“She’s fourteen!” said Linda.
“Really?” said Israel. “Gosh. They look older these days, don’t they, the…”
“Fourteen!” repeated Linda.
“Well, even so,” said Israel. “There’s no proscribed list, as such, is there?”
“I know there’s no proscribed list, Mr. Armstrong! But it is our responsibility to protect our young people from—”
“What?”
“Things that they should not be exposed to as young people.”
“Like what?” said Israel. “D. H. Lawrence?”
“Yes!”
“D. H. Lawrence? Oh come on, you can’t tell people what to read, Linda.”
“I am not suggesting for one moment, Mr. Armstrong”—when Linda got really, really annoyed, she spoke more slowly, through clenched teeth, and dropped her voice—“I am clearly not suggesting for one moment t
hat you tell people what to read.”
“Well, what are you suggesting?”
“I am simply suggesting that you should steer young people away from what not to read.”
“Which amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it?” said Israel.
“NO!” said Linda, banging her desk again.
Israel took some ibuprofen from his pocket.
“Sorry,” he said. “Just a bit of a—”
“So. Can you please explain yourself?” said Linda.
“Sorry. Regarding?” mumbled Israel as he swallowed the tablets.
“Regarding the Unshelved!” said Linda.
“Sorry,” said Israel. “I don’t really see the relevance of who’s been borrowing what and when to my six-monthly—”
“Relevance?” said Linda. “Relevance? Relevance! You have seen today’s Telegraph, I take it?”
“Er, no,” said Israel. “I’m more a Guardian man, myself, although I’ve found some of their coverage of the—”
Linda flung that morning’s Belfast Telegraph across her desk toward him.
“Maurice Morris’s daughter has gone missing!”
“Sorry?”
“Maurice’s daughter has gone missing.”
Israel read out the headline. “‘Daughter of Local Politician Missing.’”
“Read on.”
“‘Police are this morning searching for the teenage daughter of local businessman and Independent Unionist candidate Maurice Morris. Lyndsay Morris (pictured), fourteen, went missing sometime in the early hours of Saturday morning. Police are appealing for witnesses. Anyone with information is asked to ring Crimestoppers.’ Oh dear.”
“Oh dear?” said Linda.
“Yes, that’s awful.”
“Is that the best you can do?”
“What? How do you mean?”
“This young girl has gone missing, and it turns out she’s recently been borrowing adult books from the mobile library—”
“Well, they’re not adult books, Linda, in the sense of their being ‘adult,’ they’re—”
“They’re not children’s books, are they?”
“No, but I still don’t quite understand what you’re suggesting.”
“I’m not suggesting anything, Mr. Armstrong. My concern is what other people will be suggesting when they discover that we may have contributed to this poor young girl’s disappearance!”
“What? You think there’s a connection between what she’s been reading and her disappearance?”
“Possibly,” said Linda.
“Well, that’s ridiculous,” said Israel.
“When did she last come and borrow books from the library?”
“Erm. It was—”
“Friday,” said Linda.
“Right.”
“And she went missing on Saturday.”
“Well, that’s just a coincidence,” said Israel.
“It might seem like a coincidence to you, Mr. Armstrong, but I don’t want to become the subject of a witch hunt when it’s discovered that this young lady had been borrowing unsuitable books that influenced her to—”
“People don’t just read books and then run off, Linda.”
“Oh, really? And you know that, do you?”
“Well. No. But…I mean, if I play Grand Theft Auto I don’t suddenly go out and start stealing cars and shooting people, do I?”
“I have no idea what effect playing Grand Theft Auto might have on you, Mr. Armstrong. I’m talking about this poor young lady, who has perhaps been influenced by your poor choice of recommended reading.”
“I didn’t recommend her any books,” said Israel.
“Well, what books did she borrow?”
“Last week?”
“Yes, last week!”
“I think it was…American Pastoral.”
“American Pastoral?”
“Yes,” he repeated. “It’s a book, by Philip Roth.”
“Never heard of it,” said Linda, making a note. “How do you spell Roth?”
“R. O. T. H.”
“And what sort of book is it?”
“It’s a…a great work of literature,” said Israel.
“I’m not looking for a book review, Mr. Armstrong. I mean, is it a novel, or is it nonfiction?”
“It’s a novel.”
“Right. And what sort of novel is it. Science fiction? Crime?”
“No. It’s…a great work of literature.”
“Yes, you said. ‘Literary fiction,’ then?”
Israel huffed. “You know, I don’t really agree with the term ‘literary fiction,’ which seems to me—”
“Is there anything in this book,” said Linda, “that might have prompted this young lady to disappear?”
“Well, funnily enough—” began Israel.
“I don’t think ‘funnily enough’ is quite appropriate in the circumstances, do you?” said Linda.
“No, sorry, I mean…Oddly enough, the book is about a girl who…betrays her family and runs away.”
“Oh no,” said Linda. “You are joking?”
“No. I mean it’s a very complex book, really. I haven’t read it for a while, but it has all of Roth’s, you know, zest and elaborations and erm…it’s really a sort of critique, I suppose, of the emotional bankruptcy, and the…moral idiocy, and the intellectual dishonesty—the pure badness—which—”
“All right, that’s enough, Mr. Armstrong. I’m going to be contacting the police this morning with information about this girl’s borrowing record. They may want to talk to you about it.”
“Right, well. Of course, I’d be happy to help, but I don’t think—”
“Good,” said Linda. “We’ll leave that to the police, shall we? In the meantime, I don’t think I need to remind you, Mr. Armstrong, that we do not lend bad books to impressionable young people.”
“Bad books?” said Israel. “Bad books?”
Linda glanced up at the wall clock.
“Anyway, Mr. Armstrong. This meeting was scheduled for your appraisal.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“And apart from your irresponsibility in this particular area there are a few other areas we need to look at.”
“Right.”
“So, it would probably be helpful if at the start of the appraisal I explain to you exactly what an appraisal is not.”
“Right. Yes. Fine. Go ahead.”
“An appraisal is the time we get together to look at some of things you might want to do more of, or do differently, on the Mobile Learning Resource Center.”
“The mobile library,” said Israel.
“Resource Center,” corrected Linda.
“OK,” said Israel. “Fine.”
An appraisal was not about telling Israel how to do his job. Absolutely not, said Linda. What she was interested in, she explained, were solutions, not problems. She was interested in staff development, not staff underdevelopment. And she saw her role, apparently, as helping Israel to begin to implement Quality Control in preparation for the forthcoming Quality Audit. And in order to do so we—and here she moved almost, but not quite, imperceptibly from the first person singular to the plural—we need to make sure that all of the appropriate methods of Quality Assessment are in place, which requires the setting of certain Benchmark Practices and the aligning of Assessment Conventions. She saw her role very much, she said, as assisting Israel in clarifying the threshold standards for Mobile Learning Resource Center activities, which would allow us—by which she meant Israel—to apply the necessary Quantitative Performance Indicators in order to be able to rank the Mobile Learning Center’s effectiveness and long-term viability.
Israel was gazing out of the window, thinking about Philip Roth.
“Mr. Armstrong?” said Linda. “Mr. Armstrong? MR. ARMSTRONG!”
Israel brought his attention to the room.
“Yes, Linda?”
“I have been looking at your SAQs”—Israel had had to fill in a numbe
r of SAQs (self-assessment questionnaires) in preparation for the appraisal meeting over the past few weeks, including SAQ31, SAQ554, and SAQ8A3, detailing the time he spent on various work activities and scoring himself on a scale of Excellent / Highly Satisfactory / Satisfactory / Unsatisfactory and suggesting any “Issues” he felt he needed to address. He had ranked himself, mostly, as Satisfactory; to have ranked himself any higher would have seemed like hubris. “I see you’ve not filled in the section asking you to describe,” continued Linda, “in your own words, a typical period of UCT.”
“Erm…”
“User Contact Time—”
“Ah…”
“—And nor have you filled in the areas asking about the NIF.”
“Erm…”
“—Nature of Information Flow—”
“Ah.”
“—Or what you think are new MAK—”
“Erm…”
“—Mechanisms for Acquiring Knowledge. Or the section asking you, through description and analysis, to provide suggestions for AICS.”
“Aches?”
“Actions for Improving Customer Service.”
“Erm. Yes. Well, some of those sections I found quite difficult to…”
“Well, let’s do them now, shall we?” said Linda, handing Israel a pen.
“Sure.”
Israel quickly did his best to counterfeit some answers based around uppercase keywords such as FACILITATION and ENABLING and WIDER PARTICIPATION, and Linda nodded and listened as Israel read them out, and then she explained that she just needed to input this information into her computer, because the Education and Library Board, in cooperation with a number of leading software manufacturers, had developed some software that would enable her to instantly recommend some improvements in his librarian practice, based on his answers.
“Great,” said Israel.
“This’ll take a few minutes,” said Linda.
“Fine.”
As Linda typed, Israel tried to remember every Philip Roth novel he’d ever read. The Human Stain. Sabbath’s Theater. Portnoy’s Complaint. The Ghost Writer. Operation Shylock.
“Oh,” said Linda. “And while you’re here, I almost forgot, we also need a doctor’s note from you to cover your few days’ sickness.”
“I see.”
“You need to go and see your GP and provide me with a note. For the records. Unauthorized days off would of course lead to an automatic salary reduction.”
