In looking at Rabbit, he had the feeling that she was waiting desperately to become Real. Waiting to be loved, even. And the waiting had taken its toll on her. Not on her outward appearance, which was very attractive (although Paul would have said she was clearly too thin and too pale, something a good deal of Vermont milk and dairy products could have improved). Not that, but on her soul, which he thought was beautiful but sad.
Paul wasn’t even sure he believed in souls until he met Rabbit. And now that he knew her, he had to believe. He hoped privately that some day she would become what she wanted to be, that someone would love her and she would transform from a frightened rabbit into something else.
Something bolder. Something happy.
Not wanting to indulge himself in too many literary flights of fancy, Paul swiftly decided that he needed to distract Rabbit from her sorrows, and so he smiled at her again. Then he led her to a door that had a brass nameplate on it that said in very elegant cursive script: Professor Gabriel O. Emerson, Department of Italian Studies.
Julia noticed with interest that none of the other doors had brass nameplates on them. She also noticed that Paul had taped an index card with his own name on it underneath the nameplate. She imagined Professor Emerson coming along and ripping the card off out of spite. Then she noticed Paul’s full name: Paul V. Norris, MA.
“What does the V stand for?” She crooked a finger at the homemade sign.
Paul looked uncomfortable. “I don’t like using my middle name.”
“I don’t use mine either. And I can understand if you don’t want to tell me.” She smiled, turning her gaze expectantly at the locked door.
“You’ll laugh.”
“I doubt it. My last name is Mitchell. It’s nothing to be proud of.”
“I think it’s nice.”
Julia reddened but only slightly.
Paul sighed. “Promise you won’t tell anyone?”
“Of course. And I’ll tell you my middle name: it’s Helen.”
“That’s beautiful too.” He drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. Then he waited. When he could hold his breath no longer, and his lungs were clamoring for oxygen, he exhaled quickly. “Virgil.”
She stared incredulously. “Virgil?”
“Yes.” He opened his eyes and studied her for a minute, worried she was going to laugh at him.
“You’re studying to be a Dante specialist, and your middle name is Virgil? Are you kidding?”
“It’s a family name. My great-grandfather was named Virgil…He never read Dante, trust me. He was a dairy farmer in Essex, Vermont.”
Julia smiled her admiration. “I think Virgil is a beautiful name. And it’s a great honor to be named after a noble poet.”
“Just like it’s a great honor to be named after Helen of Troy, Julia Helen.
And very fitting too.” His eyes grew soft, and he gazed at her admiringly.
She looked away, embarrassed.
Paul cleared his throat as a means of lessening the sudden tension between them. “Emerson never uses this carrel — except to drop things off for me. But it belongs to him, and he pays for it.”
“They aren’t free?”
Paul shook his head and unlocked the door. “No. But they’re totally worth it because they’re air conditioned and heated, they have wireless internet access, and you can store books in here without checking them out at the circulation desk. So if there is anything you need — even if it’s reference material that you can’t check out — you can store it in here.”
Julia looked at the small but comfortable space as if it were the Promised Land, her eyes wide as they wandered over the large built-in workspace, comfortable chairs and floor to ceiling bookshelves. A small window offered a very nice view of the downtown skyline and the cn tower. She wondered how much it would cost to live in a carrel rather than in her not-fit-for-a-dog hobbit hole.
“In fact,” said Paul, clearing some papers off one of the bookshelves,
“I’ll give you this shelf. And you can have my extra key.”
He fished around and came up with a spare key, writing a number down on a piece of paper. “That’s the number on the door, in case you have trouble finding it again, and here’s the key.”
Julia stood, gaping. “I can’t. He hates me, and he won’t like this.”
“Fuck him.”
Her eyes widened in surprise.
“I’m sorry. I don’t usually cuss — that much. At least, not in front of girls. I mean, women.”
She nodded, but that was not exactly why she was surprised.
“Emerson is never here. You can store your books, and he’ll think they’re mine. If you don’t want him to catch you, you don’t have to work in here.
Just drop by when I’m around — I’m here a lot. Then if he sees you, he’ll think we’re working together. Or something.”
He smiled sheepishly. He really wanted to key her — to know that she could drop by at any time. To see her things on his shelf…to study and to work next to her.
But Julia didn’t want to be keyed.
“Please.” He took her pale hand in his and gently opened her fingers.
He felt her hesitate, and so he ran his thumb across the back of her hand just to reassure her. He pressed the key and the paper into her palm and closed her fingers, taking great care not to press too hard lest he bruise her.
He knew that Emerson had bruised her enough.
“Real isn’t what you are; it’s something that happens. And right now, you need something good to happen to you.”
Julia started at his words, for he had no idea how true they were.
Is he paraphrasing from…? Impossible.
She looked up into his eyes. They were warm and friendly. She didn’t see anything calculating or crude. She didn’t see anything underhanded or harsh. Maybe he truly liked her. Or maybe he simply felt sorry for her.
Whatever his mysterious motivations, in that instant Julia chose to believe that the universe was not entirely dark and disappointing and that there were still vestiges of goodness and virtue, and so she accepted the key with a bowed head.
“Don’t cry, little Rabbit.”
Paul reached out to stroke away a tear that had not yet fallen. But he thought better of it and placed his hand at his side.
Julia turned away, ashamed of the sudden and intense rush of emotions she was having, over being keyed of al things, and having him cite beloved children’s literature to her. As she frantically looked for something, anything, to distract herself, her eyes alighted on a cd that was sitting by its lonesome on one of the bookshelves. She picked it up. Mozart’s Requiem.
“Do you like Mozart?” she asked, turning the jewel case over in her hand.
Paul averted his eyes.
She was surprised. She moved as if to put the cd case back, worried she had embarrassed him by going through his personal effects, but he stopped her.
“It’s all right, you can look at it. But it’s not mine. It’s Emerson’s.”
Once again, Julia felt cold all over and slightly sick.
Paul saw her reaction this time and started speaking very quickly.
“Don’t tell anyone, but I stole it.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“I know — it’s terrible. But he was playing one track from the damn thing over and over and over again in his office, while I was cataloging part of his personal library. Lacrimosa, lacrimosa, lacri-fuckin’- mosa. I couldn’t take it anymore! It’s so damned depressing. So I stole it from his office and hid it here. Problem solved.”
Julia laughed. She closed her eyes and laughed.
He smiled with relief at her reaction.
“You didn’t do a very good job of hiding it. I found it in what, thirty seconds?” She giggled and tried to hand him the cd.
He cautiously pushed her long hair back behind her shoulders so he could have an unobstructed view of her face. “Why don’t you hide it at your place, instead?”
Instinctively, she stiffened and took a step backward.
Paul watched her head go down and her teeth clamp onto her lower lip. He wondered what he’d done…should he not have touched her? Was she worried that Emerson would find out she had his cd?
“Julia?” His voice was quiet, and he made no move toward her. “I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong?”
“No. It’s nothing.” She glanced at him nervously and placed the cd on the shelf. “I love Mozart’s Requiem, and Lacrimosa is my favorite part. I didn’t know he liked it too. I’m just…um…surprised.”
“Borrow it.” He placed it in her hand. “If Emerson asks, I’ll say I have it. But at least if you borrow it you can upload it to your iPod and give it back to me on Monday.”
Julia looked at the cd. “I don’t know…”
“I’ve had it all week, and he hasn’t been looking for it. Maybe his mood has shifted. He started listening to it after he got home from Philadelphia.
Not sure why…”
Julia impulsively slid the cd into her decrepit knapsack. “Thanks.”
He smiled. “Anything for you, Julia.”
He wanted to hold her hand. Or at least to squeeze it for an instant.