WRITERS' RETREAT
I have been to see the Librarian. The book was there, and within its presentation case, he assured me, the complete work. It was a simple request.
“Can I look at it?”
You would know him. Taller than necessary for a character in a novel, thinner too, bald, pince-nez glasses, as befits the type, tiptoes for silence, but squeaks, high collar, dark suit, almost Dickensian, certainly Jungian, he smiled at me like Jeeves smiling at a baseball hat.
“Certainly, sir. Can I have your completed transcript?”
The accent was Canadian. I exaggerated ignorance and raised theatrical eyebrows.
“Transcript? Transcript?”
A capital fellow - loves every minute of his job. The better to emphasize his authority, he held the book at arm’s length and re-read the title.
“‘Writers’ Retreat’ …James …Moneyglass, this is you?”
I nodded. The arm was immediately retracted, and with it, still encased, the book. A look of alarm, feigned or otherwise, wrinkled his clean-shaven face.
“My dear sir, allow me to remind you of the rules of this establishment.”
He passed me a copy of the brochure I had already skimmed.
