Read The Incident Report Online
Authors: Martha Baillie
The Incident Report (14 page)
My mother paused in her reading; she looked up from the page. Years later I wondered if what had caused my mother to read this rhyme to me repeatedly, when I was a child, and each time to pause and look up from the page, was that the Dormouse reminded her of my father.
This afternoon, a male patron of florid complexion reported that a young couple was using one of the library's computers to watch pornography.
The time was 3:00
PM
. I approached the accused pair. No illustrations of any sort accompanied the text they were reading, which appeared to be an email of a personal nature. I apologized for intruding. The couple declared themselves innocent, accepted my apology, but complained quite vehemently that the patron who'd falsely accused them was guilty himself of reading their private correspondence over their shoulder. I promised to discuss the matter with the patron in question, and did so promptly.
At 3:45
PM
, Morality Man, to whom I'd just explained the importance of respecting the privacy of others, strode up to the Reference Desk. His receding hair gave his forehead a disturbing prominence, and the nostrils of his broad nose struck me as unusually large. Somewhat short of breath, he reported that a middle-aged woman, seated alone, typing at one of our newest terminals, was viewing pornography. From where I sat, though the text on her screen was too distant for me to read, I could tell no illustrations
accompanied it. I assured Morality Man that nobody in the library, at present, was engaged in any forbidden activity, not that I was aware of.
Morality Man spread out his thick pink fingers on the desk in front of me, and stated with urgent conviction, “Your procedures are lax. Pornography is a great evil and it will ruin our city, and you don't give a damn. You're even helping. Your policies are designed to encourage evil.”
He pointed across the room once more at the middle-aged woman, and shouted for all to hear, “See herâshe's looking at pornography.”
The woman, engaged in revising her résumé, turned to stare at him, shocked indignation suffusing her face. Morality Man departed, lunging forward with each step as if battling a gale.
Sunday; the time was 1:00 in the morning; Janko cut a slice of bread, smeared it with plum jam and offered it to me. I accepted. I sat up and accepted. He caught the crumbs in the palm of his hand.
At 2:00 this afternoon, twenty-four children, with Irene Frenkel's help and mine, gave their dragon Styrofoam feet, bent his tail upwards and wired its tip in place. Next they created a Styrofoam head. It had two large round cardboard eyes, and a mouth spewing crimson paper flames. We attached the head, making liberal use of a roll of electrician's tape. By 3:10, the children had begun to glue multicoloured scales onto the beast's sides and back.
At 6:30 this evening, stinking of alcohol and dressed in his habitual orange coveralls, a patron, a regular, took exception to my request that he quiet his voice or leave the library. I repeated my demand. In answer, he lifted an empty library cart above his head and held it there. For several seconds the heavy cart hung monstrous in the air. Then he threw it, and the cart crashed to the floor at my feet.
Straightaway a nearby patron, not a regular, leapt from his chair. He forced the man in orange coveralls to his knees, knocked him off balance and sat on his back. A circle of curious observers quickly formed. They urged the fighters on, stamping their feet and raising their fists. They bellowed, “Fight, fight.” Or perhaps they simply watched. I don't recall. It had been a long day.
The cart lay in front of me, a defeated metal beast, its little wheels in the air. I started to step around it, but my legs wobbled and the floor sloped suddenly to the right.
The police, whom Irene had called, arrived promptly. They are to be commended for their swiftness. Nila Narayan brought me a chair and later a cup of tea.
At 3:04 this afternoon, two teenaged boys fought off their boredom by turning up the music on their cell phones. I asked them to turn the music off. They did as I requested, muttering obscenities under their breath.
Next they started photographing the staff. They photographed me.
“We know what you look like,” they warned. “We'll find you.”
Words issued from my mouth, prescribed words: “It is against the Rules and Regulations to take photographs in the library without permission.”
They were not my words. I had none. I stood before the teenagers, empty of any language equal to their disaffection. They laughed. I wished Irene were not away at a meeting.
“We didn't take any photos,” the teenagers jeered. “We don't want your photo. Do you see a camera? Where do you see a fucking camera? This is a phone.”
A male patron, disturbed by the altercation, got up from his chair and came forward in my defence. He stated unequivocally that the teenagers had indeed photographed me by means of their cell phone, and
that if they denied having done so, they were lying. The teenagers turned on the patron and beat him. The police were summoned by Nila Narayan. They arrived with commendable alacrity, but the teenaged patrons in question had already left the library. Their victim, bleeding from the nose and severely bruised, was taken to the hospital, despite his protests that his injuries were mild.
Nila Narayan plugged in the kettle, then covered her face and wept.
The time was 7:25
PM
. Janko came and stood beside me in the kitchen.
“I don't want you to work there anymore.”
“I'm not frightened.”
“You should be.”
“Because of you, I'm not.”
“I can't protect you from anyone or anything.”
“I know.”
“So, why aren't you afraid?”
“Because I'm happy.”
A male patron, commonly known as Scruffy Chessman, whose long, matted grey hair and noticeable odour assure his solitude, has taken to playing chess on our computers. He will play for as long as he is allowed. When asked to stop, because his time has run out, he reads the newspapers peaceably. He frequently falls asleep however, and snores so volubly we must wake him. He occasionally attempts to strike up conversation with young children and their mothers or nannies, admittedly with little success. Older children he appears to resent, and in their presence he becomes agitated. I have, more than once, witnessed older children taunting him. I have intervened.
This afternoon a young boy, seven years of age, tear-stained face glistening, reported having been shoved violently in the back by a man with long hair. Irene identified Scruffy Chessman as the culprit. A letter of eight-week exclusion has been issued.
It is important to play by the rules. Nobody is exempt from the rules. To shove a child in the back is not acceptable.
At 11:20
AM
, a well-dressed patron of advanced years, with admirable posture, emerged from the men's washroom and announced, in a booming voice brimming with delight, “I found my big, blonde beauty in there. But she wouldn't follow me out, so I left her.”
A dark-haired female patron, overhearing him, remarked, “That's what I call fiction. Now that's fiction all right.”
The man in question, being hard of hearing, ignored the response his statement had inspired, and asked for a copy of the day's newspaper. He settled himself with the
Globe and Mail
at one of the long wooden tables, where our regulars congregate to read the news and to keep an eye on the world and its arguable affairs.
At 2:00 this morning, the body of Janko Prijatelj was found in his taxi. The twenty-eight-year-old Slovenian who immigrated to Canada four years ago, and who was working as a cab driver, received a blow to the head and was repeatedly stabbed in the chest. His wallet appears to have been taken and the motive of the murder is believed to be theft. Mr. Prijatelj was an accomplished painter who, in his homeland, had restored medieval frescoes in numerous rural churches. Police are making every effort to apprehend those responsible for Janko Prijatelj's death. Anyone with information relating to his murder is urged to contact the police immediately. He leaves no known relatives in Canada.
My name is Miriam Gordon. I am thirty-five years old. I am an employee of the Public Libraries of Toronto. Janko Prijatelj was my lover.
Lunchtime arrived, as prescribed. I walked to the park. There I sat on a bench. I waited for the young man with the quiet oval face and the eager eyes. He did not come. He could not. Naturally, he could not. The clipped, verdant expanse filled me with rage, as did the orderly and forgiving paths, and the fragile glass dome of the greenhouse. Preposterous acts of survival surrounded me. I got up and walked along the paths until the preposterous became dull and empty, a bell with its clapper removed. I returned to my bench and waited for the end of my lunch hour. To my relief the end arrived. With the end came necessity. I returned of necessity to the library.
I will eat plum jam on toast until the taste and smell of plum jam nauseate me. I will do so every day. I am wearing Janko's socks and underwear. I will quit my job at the library. I cannot stand the sight of so many books. I will buy a ticket to Ljubljana. Janko's sister will meet me at the airport. I will speak with his parents. I will no longer sit behind a desk and endure other people and their stories.
I have handed over the
Rigoletto
notes, the originals, to the police. I have told them that, in my opinion, no connection exists between Janko's murder and the writer of these notes. I have told them it is my hope no connection exists. They have leaned forward, though not so far forward as to make me feel uncomfortable. They have behaved in accordance with the Rules and Regulations. They have scraped my responses into their report. They have used the side of their hand to brush my crumb words off the edge of the table, catching every little bit. I have told them it is my hope that they will quickly discover who killed Janko and prevent this person, or these people, from committing more murders. I have asked that no act of vengeance be taken, though it would give me pleasure to cut off one of the murderers' fingers, should they be caught and brought to me. Yet the physical pain of others affords me no delight. I believe I can safely say this.
Janko's brother has come to empty Janko's apartment and to meet with the police. I have asked if I may keep one of his paintings.
The time was not yet two in the morning. The sun had yet to rise.
They opened the taxi door. They slipped out their knives, knives that were made to be used.
I cannot think it. I cannot say it.
They laid my father among his books.
The day does not answer.
. . . and all that he felt at the back of his head were delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red) . . .
I have taken a bath. If my face looks changed, it's because I've cut off my hair. I am reading
Kekec
. Thousands of words remain. With the help of a dictionary, I've deciphered sixteen sentences. I have purchased a plane ticket. Soon I will be far away.
On its many small feet this day advances.
“This is for you,” said Nila, and handed me the small plastic container she'd taken from the refrigerator. “Yogurt cheese. I made it myself. Eat it before you go. Nila's own, her very best. It won't keep.”
She unplugged the kettle. “I doubt you'll miss this place. But if you do get too lonely, come back. What's happened is horrible. You won't recover right away. How could you? But suddenly, when you least expect it, you'll wake up and it won't hurt so much. Believe me, I should know.”
Teacup in hand, heels clicking, she went down the stairs, back to the workroom.
Through the heating vent in the floor came piano music. Satie's
Gnossiennes
. I sat on the sofa and listened. Whoever was playing stopped playing. I sat forward, willing them to continue. I held my breath. Then the music started up again.
The time was 10:45
AM
. A woman entered the library, carrying a globe on its small metal stand. At the circulation desk she paused. “This world is mine. I brought it in here with me. I'm just telling you, so you know.” She held up the globe for me to see it better. It appeared to be in fine condition. Several borders were wrong, however, and the names of numerous countries out of date. “Don't need nobody coming up later and asking where I got it,” she warned me with a laugh.
