Archives, Room D4
Chapter One
By Ian Febland
In all my twenty-nine years of working at the library, I have never had such a connection to a donor as the woman who contacted our department last fall.
The archives department, of which I am the senior manager, received a letter and sizeable contribution from her, stating the long list of items that had been in her family for four generations. I myself approved the list of items for appraisal after a meeting with the other heads of staff. Cataloging the new items would be a pleasure, and I was eager to meet the woman whose family held these historical pieces of interest.
At her request, I booked an appointment to see her an hour and a half before the library was to open. Security was apprised of her arrival, but I wanted to greet her on the first floor. I imagined an elderly lady, or maybe a bookish reclusive type.
She was a full-bosomed woman in her late thirties or early forties, with deep dark brown skin and a cloud of frizzy curls framing her face. Red lipstick, fashionably dressed, carrying a large case and her handbag.
“Ms. Boudreaux,” I said.
Her hand was velvety soft, her palms as dry and warm as matte sketch paper. Her first words of greeting were nearly lost in the combination of her subtle perfume and large, upturned brown eyes.
I smiled and stepped back, indicating the elevators. “Would you mind a hand with that?” I asked, nodding at the heavy case.
“Please, that’d be great, thank you,” she said, laughing a little.
Her voice reminded me of simmering honey, or anything sweet and smooth. The way she looked at me was so endearing that I coughed to cover up my thoughts.
The elevator was slow, needing renovations that would be conducted in a few months. Never mind that—I was only too happy to point out the main features of each floor through the full-length, reinforced window. Archives were on the eighth floor. When the doors slid open, she exited first, countering her step with dainty appeal by resting her hand briefly on my arm.
I gave her a quick tour of the information desk, the reference materials on the bookshelf, study areas, computer terminals, the study rooms, and the general area, on the way to the separate section where the archives were stored. The case was quite heavy—I imagined she had a good strong hand to carry it all the way to the library.
“Here we are, Ms. Boudreaux. The archives are right this way,” I said, swinging one arm in a semi-grand gesture. “We can look at your material in my office, the Intake Room, or Room D.”
“Mr. Russell,” she stopped to turn to me. “Ona is okay to use. Ms. Boudreaux sounds...matronly!” She laughed again. “Or maybe I’m just an old-fashioned gal.”
“How about we both stick to first names, then?” I got the same itchy feeling of doddering age whenever anyone called me mister, too.
“Agreed! Albert it is for you.” Ona paused in midstep, allowing me to lead the way.
The general area gave way to the archives section adjacent to an L-shaped corridor. My office was the first door on the left, then the Intake Room and storage room. Room D4 was at the end of the corridor, to which only I had the key. Senior Manager is a handy hat to wear for certain privileges.
“My office is where I receive visitors and donors; the Intake Room has all the tools and viewing tables,” I said. She scanned each room as we passed. “Now Room D4”—here I paused and gestured to the space around the corner—“is specifically for those with permission to handle special approved material.”
“Room D4 sounds lovely,” she said. “Which one are we going to today?”
“Straight to the Intake Room. We’re very eager to see the collection you’ve donated.”
Leaving the door ajar, I placed the case on the wide table in the center of the room. She came forward and opened the case without touching the contents.
“It’s been many, many years since I appreciated these papers and photos with family. This is the first time any of it has left my home.” She caressed the latch before opening the case.
“Let’s begin,” I said, “I’ll be using gloves, which is standard here.”
There was an assortment of letters and tickets, bound in ribbon. Along with two original edition books, I was excited to find old photographs, maps with handwritten notes, and music scores. “We can definitely have these looked at by our appraisal team,” I said, keeping my voice calm. I eased open one of the hardcover books. Fine marbled endpaper that still had its bright colours and crisp swirled patterns spoke of a well-kept home library or very good storage practices.
“You think so? I’m glad to hear it. Thank you again,” Ona said, smiling widely. She saw me handling the book and added, “That diary belonged to my grandfather’s colleague,” and she pressed her arm against me as she leaned close. “Can you read what the inscription says?”
I adjusted my glasses higher and peered at the floral writing. “It reads To Boudreaux—all secrets remain within you. Your Friend.” A curlicue of lines underscored the letters. “To whom did this book belong? Did you know or meet this person?”
“He was one of my grandfather’s guests that visited us frequently,” she said, “but he never said his name. I grew up calling him ‘My Friend’ because Grandad always referred to him that way. ‘My Friend is coming over tonight’ meant an evening of amazing games, twists of the mind, visual mysteries. He taught me a lot about perception and his speciality: looking at the world in a new way.” She winked.
“So he was...a magician? An illusionist?”
“No, not exactly,” Ona said, eyeing me with a quirky set to her lips. “Do we have enough time?”
I looked at my watch. “Of course. We have a good hour left.”
“Mind if I show you?”
“Sure.”
“We’ll do something simple. Is that okay with you?”
“Yes, I’m quite curious now what it is.” The dark burgundy red of her nail polish was glossy and caught the florescent light from overhead.
She asked me to stand facing her, then held out her hands for me to do likewise. Ona slowly pulled off my protective cotton gloves, talking to me in a low, hushed tone all the while, stroking my bare fingers with hers. I was aware of it peripherally but it was her gaze that drew me in as her words sunk into my awareness. The room felt warm, but not uncomfortable; my clothes lay on my skin like a fresh sheet on a bed.
I found myself nodding in agreement, then speaking in assent. Yes, what she said was perfectly reasonable. All I had to do was follow along, which would take me to the next step. I needed to know what happened in the next step. That way I would discover what she meant by those visual mysteries. I wondered why she seemed to stop talking. My eyes closed, for it felt easier just to listen and focus.
Open your eyes, Albert,” she said, and I did.
My hands were still in front of me, palms up, as though I were holding an invisible platter. She was twirling a pen in her right hand. Before I could ask how long I’d been standing like a statue, she took the pen—the ballpoint kind with a spring-automatic top—and pressed it, making it click.
I felt my knees buckle slightly, so strong was the wave of tingling that travelled the length of my torso.
“That’s right, very good,” she murmured, watching me intently. “How do you think that happened?”
“I don’t know—ahhh.”
She had clicked the pen twice as I spoke.
The resulting delight made my eyelids slide closed, and I wished she’d do it again, and more.
“Tell me. Take a guess. But you have to open your eyes, Albert.” She laughed a little.
I was thinking hard about the minutes I was listening to her speak, earlier on. I remember how relaxed and natural it felt to close my eyes and just listen. If only I could duplicate these relaxing full-body sensations...
“Keep your eyes open and describe how you’re feeling,” Ona said.
I was daydreaming, working to understand how the pen was doing what she obviously set up. I opened my eyes and was rewarded with another click. I could feel a thin vein of something delicious making its way down my spine to my feet.
“It’s...strange, and I don’t know how you’re doing this,” I began. The pen clicked, and I gasped. “I feel tingly, warm...” Click-click. “Please, keep going,” I managed to blurt out. Difficult as it was, I would rather put aside self-consciousness in favor of feeling good.
“I’m not doing anything, neither is the pen,” she shook her head, smiling. “It is your subconscious, if you allow it, you know.” CLICK. “I’ll prove it. With each click of the pen, That Feeling will get stronger and more intense.” CLICK. CLICK-CLICK. Click.
My legs were starting to shake and a subtle, melting haze filtered in through my pores down to my stomach as she rhythmically clicked her pen. When it seemed as though my head would explode withstanding this strange energy, she grasped my wrist between her thumb and finger, shocking my eyes open again.
“Stop, now.” Ona held my wrist until my breathing settled. “How was that, hm?”
She was looking up at me, caressing my hands, which were still in front of me, palms up. Why couldn’t I feel my arms?
“I know, this is a lot to take in at once. You can rest your other arm by your side now,” she looked at the hand she wasn’t holding, and, almost with a mind of its own, my arm lowered to my side. The wrist she was holding felt light, tingly and a little numb. The pads of her fingertips were warm and soft. “Just for a few moments, I want you to hold my favorite pen in your hands.” Click.
She pressed close to me and, keeping my hand steady by my wrist, she put the pen in the middle of my palm. As soon as I closed my fingers around the pen I experienced a jolt of pure bliss that until now I cannot truly comprehend. She put her free hand around my hand and squeezed, ramping up the lightning of what I had no words for. Her ample hips curved against my legs, and the softness of her blouse rustled as she drew me firmly to her with one arm. In this unusual embrace I rode out a myriad of phantom impressions—what else could I call it?—until they all faded to a quiet simmer.
I sensed her drawing away from me, and I opened my eyes to Ona counting down to one. She tapped my fingers to encourage them to separate and finally retrieved her pen.
“That’s it in a quick introduction,” she said, grinning at me.
“Hypnosis. That’s what this is.” I breathed. Nothing like what I thought, having seen stage shows before, on TV, from the safety of my sofa.
“Yesss,” she purred, “you could call it that. You can call it whatever you want. Do you like it?”
“I do, very much,” I said. “Although I can honestly say much of what you said in the last while I can’t quite clearly recall.”
“That’s because you’re one of those adept types, I could tell. You’re very good at it.”
In spite of myself, I felt the back of my neck grow warm. Compliments are nice whenever they happen.
“I must be off,” Ona gathered up her purse. “I hope these family items will have some historical value or interest for your department.” She pushed the pen into a front zippered pocket.
If I were an overeager person, I would have asked for that pen, to study it later. Instead, I asked her, “Ona, would you like to stop by again? I’d like to explore more hypnosis with you.” Somehow, the words sounded formal and foreign, saying it that way. I expected her to decline.
“Albert, you’re very good to say that. I would love to show you some more things.”
My heart danced a little in my chest. I think I blushed like a novice. “The appraiser will be here in two weeks. Perhaps before then?”
“These old things,” Ona waved her fingers at the case, “are meaningful to my family, but I hope to bring the magic of their story to others.” She smiled at my quick glance at her handbag. “That being said, the ordinary can be extraordinary, with a little change of perspective.”