The Incident Report Page 7

  I looked up from my reading. The unconjugated afternoon unfolded.

  INCIDENT REPORT 69

  This afternoon, at precisely 2:25, a male patron in his early twenties began weeping uncontrollably. I approached him where he sat, at computer #507, and asked if he was all right.

  “No,” he shouted at me. “I’m in love and I’m dying. I need my mom. Can someone take me home?”

  Tears ran down his cheeks and he attempted to dry his eyes with the back of his hand. The police were called. They were summoned by Nila Narayan. They arrived swiftly and took the man away—to a hospital, they promised.

  INCIDENT REPORT 70

  The time was 6:00 AM when Janko woke me to tell me about my ears.

  “Did you know, Darkest Miriam, that one of your ears is larger than the other?”

  “You woke me for this? It’s not. I would have noticed.”

  “Oh, yes. This left ear, it grew during the night.”

  My hand went wandering. First it found Janko’s knee, then his navel. “Did you know that you have only one navel, and cannot grow another?” I asked.

  While I waited for his answer, my hand moved very slowly, and through my palm I could feel the heat of everything growing inside him.

  INCIDENT REPORT 71

  While I was shelf-reading from M to Z, in adult fiction, to see if all the books were in their proper places, a man passed behind me three or four times. With each passing his coat brushed against me. I dismissed these fleeting moments of contact, and concentrated upon my task.

  Again the man walked by me, and this time his hand shot out and grabbed my breast. The time was 11:15 AM. I yelled. What I yelled does not matter, nor do I recall what I yelled. The man walked quickly on. He left the library, taking his hands with him. I filled out an incident report.

  INCIDENT REPORT 72

  At 2:48 PM, on a table in the children’s area, I found a letter written in navy-blue pencil on a piece of scrap paper, in a familiar insistent hand.

  To you who dared to touch her breast,

  Do you think I see nothing? Not one of your actions escapes me. Ah, vile scoundrel! Even weaponless this hand will soon be bathed in your blood, you silly fucker; a man has nothing more to fear on earth, if he defends his children’s honour. Ah, you’re all against me! All against me! Well then, I’ll weep. You’re silent! Woe is me! Give me back my daughter; she’s everything in the world to me! Have pity, have pity, sir, have pity. Ah, vile shit. But you shall be avenged, Gilda. Oh, my Gilda of the freckled hands. Now that I have found you, I will not let you from my sight. No further harm, that is my promise to you.

  I made a quick tour of the children’s area, but discovered nothing unusual. I did not feel frightened but experienced a curious floating sensation. I thought of Suitcase Man, but suddenly realized he could not be the writer as he’d not come in all day. “It’s not Suitcase Man,” I announced to myself, and I no longer wanted an answer. I willed myself to remove my hands from my pockets.

  INCIDENT REPORT 73

  The time was 1:00 AM. On the inside of Janko’s thigh, I arrived at a place that was very smooth. It was a small place.

  INCIDENT REPORT 74

  This evening, a sultry summer evening under clear skies, at precisely 7:05, a worker from a local group home returned a number of items—ten in total—which she had retrieved from the room of Kevin Winkler.

  Mr. Winkler, a former resident of the group home, had torn the barcodes and library labels off most of the items. Some were charged out on his record, others presumably stolen. Several he’d ripped apart and used as wall decorations. Most were between six and eight months overdue.

  The worker said she would sleep well, now that her conscience was clear. I told her it is difficult to bear responsibility for the actions of others.

  INCIDENT REPORT 75

  The time was 11:25 PM. I returned to the small smooth place on the inside of Janko’s thigh, and wet it with the tip of my tongue.

  INCIDENT REPORT 76

  The time was 11:35 PM. Janko’s full weight descended upon me, burying my belly, and my breathing slipped inside his. In the spreading sweetness my name fell from his mouth.

  INCIDENT REPORT 77

  “Let the cops deal with these people. They’re paid more than we are,” concluded Nila Narayan, filing off the ragged edge of her fingernail.

  “My God, girls, how do we bear it, serving patrons who have lost their minds and weep all over you one minute, then bite your head off the next? Not to mention those who piss in their pants and can’t seem to find their bloody way to a shower. Have they never heard of soap? You’d think it hadn’t been invented. The stench. I tell you, we ought to be paid twice as much as some of those cows in administration who haven’t a goddamn idea, if you’ll pardon my French.”

  She put away her nail file, and crossed the workroom.

  “Four more hours to go, girls. I think I hear a toilet overflowing. Shall we close the branch? I don’t think I’ll last until 8:30.”

  She threw her arm dramatically across her forehead.

  “Thank bloody goodness for tea. Who’ll have a cup?”

  She reached down and plugged in the kettle.

  INCIDENT REPORT 78

  The time was 7:45 when Fainting Man joined the short line of patrons waiting to check out their books at the circulation desk. What worries us is that we are unable to predict the exact moment at which he will faint. We are concerned he may hit his head on a railing or fall backwards down the stairs. Fortunately, his pattern of behaviour is becoming familiar to us. He selects his materials and approaches the circulation desk. A thin young man of average height, dressed most often in a blue windbreaker, faded jeans and bright new running shoes, he does not seek to attract attention. After several minutes waiting patiently in line, he collapses to the floor. There he remains, unconscious and in a condition of utter stillness, for up to three minutes. These minutes elapse slowly for us, as we are uncertain he’ll recover. Upon opening his eyes, he sits up, and when asked how he’s feeling, states unequivocally that all is well. He requests that no ambulance be called. Should such an incident occur again, as he assures us it will, we are not, he insists, to call an ambulance. We have informed him of our legal obligations. An ambulance must be called. This news does not please him. “I haven’t the money to pay. I just arrived in Ontario and don’t have an OHIP card yet. Each time you call, they bill me. Nothing can be done for me. I have been examined by the best neurosurgeons in the country. They do not understand.”

  INCIDENT REPORT 79

  Janko, Janko, am I pronouncing your name perfectly? Janko. Janko. Janko. How well do I know you?

  INCIDENT REPORT 80

  “Janko, Janko, where are you hiding?”

  “I’m not hiding.”

  His voice came from the bedroom. I took off my shoes, went into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “When did you lose your finger?”

  “I already told you”

  “Tell me again.”

  “I was nine and trying to repair my bicycle. My finger caught between the spokes, and the bicycle rolled.”

  “How did it roll?”

  “One of my brothers pushed it. He didn’t see what I was doing. I was hunched over. I’d leaned my bicycle against a tree. My brother, he was running and suddenly he saw the seat of the bicycle and the trunk of the tree, and he had an idea.

  “My brother had his idea quickly. The idea came as he ran. He wanted to know what would happen if he shoved the bicycle. How loudly would the bicycle crash? How badly would I yell at him? He would keep running, right through the noise, faster and faster—that was his idea.”

  “The idea came to him, just like that? His clever idea that cost you a finger.”

  “He wanted to see what would happen. Miriam, Darkest Miriam, have you never wanted to see what would happen?”

  INCIDENT REPORT 81

  This afternoon, that is to say, Thursday at 3:05, a man
named Carl Blake was walking along the alley behind the library when another man approached him.

  This second man, claiming to be a “producer,” suggested that Carl write a book. As Carl was on his way to vote in the municipal election, he happened to be carrying with him the voter’s card sent to him by the government. The “producer” took Carl’s voter’s card and wrote his own name and phone number in the upper corner, using Carl’s pen.

  Carl explained that he was not interested in writing a book. Upon receiving this news, the “producer” tore off the upper corner of Carl’s voter’s card.

  As the “producer” was tearing the card, his hat dropped to the ground. Carl bent over and picked up the “producer’s” hat, which he refused to give back until the “producer” returned his pen.

  The two men entered the branch at approximately 3:30. The “producer” requested that I call the police. Carl stood beside the “producer,” holding the “producer’s” hat by its brim. I phoned the non-emergency number and described the situation in which the two men found themselves. I was advised to call back later, but only if the men’s disagreement intensified. I hung up, and proposed an exchange—hat for pen, pen for hat. The exchange was successfully carried out and the two men went their separate ways. The times of their respective departures from the library were not recorded.

  INCIDENT REPORT 82

  The sheet of lined paper protruded from between the pages of a vegetarian cookbook. I unfolded Rigoletto’s message. I read calmly:

  He offered his services and I agreed to pay. Are you horrified?

  His name was Sparafucile. He had a sister, he explained. She would lure the Duke to their inn. Once the Duke was asleep, it would be easy enough to slit his throat. Life is not always pretty. Honour makes its demands. I wanted to save my daughter from further shame and suffering. Do you not understand that I loved her? I was to pay him half his price in advance, the remainder upon receiving proof of his deed. He was a man of his word, a professional. Sparafucile—his name appealed to me. I liked his manner. I could trust him not to cheat me. He offered to dispose of the Duke’s body, but I wanted the pleasure of heaving my former master into the river myself. The Duke, that nasty fucker, sewn into a sack of rough cloth, was dragged along the ground and in this way delivered to me. I paid Sparafucile, and when he’d gone I knelt beside the accomplishment of my revenge. It was then that I heard singing. If my brain had had hairs, they would have stood on end.

  Perhaps indeed my heart is covered in fur, and I am as monstrous as my bulging back leads others to believe. I listened. The Duke sang with the joyful passion of a man who has known all his life how to satisfy his desires.

  I untied the sack. My daughter lay inside. Her eyes were closed. What action must I take to convince you that I loved her? Now I have found her again, she and I will never be parted.

  I went down into the basement, into the staff washroom, and locked the door. Seated on the closed toilet, I shut my eyes. I waited, then opened my eyes, but the fear that had crept inside me remained.

  INCIDENT REPORT 83

  I found Irene in her office and showed her the Sparafucile note. She tapped her pencil on the desk. “I’d like to notify the police, if you’ve no objection.”

  “I don’t mind. You’re probably right. But there hasn’t been a crime.”

  “His notes contain threatening suggestions. ‘Hired killer.’ ‘We’ll never be parted.’”

  She slid a strip of chewing gum out of its silver wrapper and apologized. “Such an ugly habit.” She placed the gum in her mouth. She rolled her pencil between her soft but nervous fingers. Her hands did not have one single freckle. The note lay on her desk, between us.

  “Rigoletto used to be one of my favourite operas,” she remarked. “It was, until these notes. All this is completely unfair to you.” She picked up the receiver and dialed.

  INCIDENT REPORT 84

  A patron I’d never seen before presented himself at the Reference Desk. Youth was coursing through him. The time was 4:05. All skinny legs, neck and elbows jutting out, he shifted from one foot to the other. He pushed his heavy-rimmed glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. He was sixteen and living in a shelter, he explained. Again he shifted from one foot to the other.

  “Rational, sensible, in moderation, if you live rationally, sensibly and in moderation you’ll get where you want to go, you’ll be all right, sensible, moderate, rational, that’s all there is to it, always try to be moderate, sensible and rational—the rest will come,” he advised me, loud in his nervousness, sweat dampening his forehead.

  “I’m trying to live rationally, smoking only two cigarettes a day, I’m succeeding, sensible, moderate, sensible, everything in moderation, this time I’m really trying, everything in moderation, sensible, rational, sensible, rational, I’m really doing it this time, sensible, and you know what I mean, moderate, rational, and pretty soon everything will be OK, moderate and sensible and rational, you understand, don’t you?”

  He glanced at the clock on the wall behind me.

  “Well, I see it’s getting late. Everything in moderation, don’t want to keep you too much longer. I’m going now. Good luck to you, to all of you.”

  He waved goodbye. He pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose and with a wide smile walked out of the library.

  INCIDENT REPORT 85

  The time was 4:40. A police officer entered the library. It was me he was looking for. I spoke with him in Irene’s office, and some of what I said he jotted down for his report. He took away with him, in an envelope, photocopies of the five Rigoletto notes. I returned to the Reference Desk.

  INCIDENT REPORT 86

  At 6:30, I knocked for the fifth time on the door of the men’s washroom. A voluble grunt of displeasure was the only response offered. A queue of several male patrons, wishing to relieve themselves, had formed outside the washroom.

  I inserted the master key in the lock and opened the door. A man was seated on the toilet in a condition of nudity. His only garment, a pair of orange coveralls, lay on the floor. His condition was one of utter vulnerability. He stared at me. His condition was one of drunken indifference. I told him to dress.

  Whenever I’m forced to open the door, it is this man that I find naked, seated on the toilet. He is a regular.

  He gazed at me blankly, from the depths of his private and reeking oblivion.

  INCIDENT REPORT 87

  My head was rising and falling, slowly with Janko’s breathing, as I stared up and along his chest to where his nipple stood, immense.

  “What has been the most frightening moment in your life, so far?” I asked.

  “You mean there will be more?”

  “Of course.”

  “I don’t want to sort through everything frightening.”

  “Was it when you lost your finger?”

  “Now.”

  “Now is the most frightening?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have met you.”

  INCIDENT REPORT 88

  This afternoon, at 1:14 PM, a male patron wished to leave the library but refused to open his bag for inspection, though it set off the security alarm. This was the third day he’d refused to cooperate. I spoke to him firmly, and in accordance with the Rules and Regulations I did not touch his bag. He started to yell that I could not force him to open his bag, and that if I so much as came near his belongings, he would cut of my arm.

  The police were called. From inside his bag they removed a large knife and a can of bear repellent. Handcuffed, the patron in question was led away. He was not a regular.

  For the remainder of the afternoon, I could not help but think about the suffering of medieval performing bears.

  INCIDENT REPORT 89

  This afternoon, at 2:45, a patron, Mr. Macgregor, a regular, expressed an interest in history. He asked to see a list of every title owned by the Public Libraries of Toronto, under the subject heading of His
tory.

  He sat in a state of expectancy—hands on knees, eyes alert. His shirt was buttoned properly and his thin hair combed. His clean-shaven, rosy skin gave him a youthful air, though I judged him to be well over fifty.

  “History,” he said. “I would like to know what you have.”

  Though I tried, I could not convince him to select a particular period or country. At his request I turned the terminal as far in his direction as possible, so that he could watch the hundreds of titles glide down the screen. As I scrolled from page to page, his breathing deepened.

  “That’s good, ah, yes, good, good, a little more, scroll down a little further, yes, ah, that’s it.” His breathing became shallow, more rapid, as his eyes moved from title to title. “History,” he sighed. “Yes, yes, just a little more, a little further.”

  INCIDENT REPORT 90

  “Slow day? Busy day?”

  “Slow.”