He closed the book, allowing Mr. Berger’s change to stand.
“Let’s leave it, shall we?” he said. “Why don’t you put it back on its shelf?”
Mr. Berger took the book reverently and restored it gently, lovingly, to its place in the stacks. He thought about visiting Anna one last time, but it did not seem appropriate to ask Mr. Gedeon’s permission. He had done all that he could for her, and he hoped only that it was enough. He returned to Mr. Gedeon’s living room and placed the key to Caxton Library on the desk.
“Good-bye,” he said. “And thank you.”
Mr. Gedeon nodded but did not answer, and Mr. Berger left the library and did not look back.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
In the weeks that followed, Mr. Berger thought often of Caxton Library and of Mr. Gedeon, and of Anna most of all, but he did not return to the laneway, and he consciously avoided walking near that part of the town. He read his books and resumed his evening walks to the railway track. Each evening he waited for the last train to pass, and it always did so without incident. Anna, he believed, was troubled no more.
One evening, as summer drew to its close, there came a knocking on his door. He answered it to find Mr. Gedeon standing on his doorstep, two suitcases by his side, and a taxi waiting for him by the garden gate. Mr. Berger was surprised to see him and invited him to step inside, but Mr. Gedeon declined.
“I’m leaving,” he said. “I’m tired, and I no longer have the energy that I once had. It’s time for me to retire and entrust the care of the Caxton to another. I suspected as much on that first night, when you followed Anna to the library. The library always finds its new librarian and leads him to its door. I thought that I might have been mistaken when you altered the books, and I resigned myself to waiting until another came, but slowly I came to understand that you were the one after all. Your only fault was to love a character too much, which caused you to do the wrong thing for the right reasons, and it may be that we both learned a lesson from that incident. I know that the Caxton and its characters will be safe in your care until the next librarian comes along. I’ve left a letter for you containing all that you need to know, and a number at which you can call me should you have any questions, but I think you’ll be just fine.”
He held out to Mr. Berger a great ring of keys. After only a moment’s hesitation, Mr. Berger accepted them, and he saw that Mr. Gedeon could not stop himself from shedding a tear as he entrusted the library and its characters to its new custodian.
“I shall miss them terribly, you know,” said Mr. Gedeon.
“You should feel free to visit us anytime,” said Mr. Berger.
“Perhaps I will,” said Mr. Gedeon, but he never did.
They shook hands for the final time, and Mr. Gedeon departed, and they did not meet or speak again.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Caxton Private Lending Library & Book Depository is no longer in Glossom. At the beginning of this century the town was discovered by developers, and the land beside the library was earmarked for houses and a modern shopping mall. Questions started to be asked about the peculiar old building at the end of the laneway, and so it was that one evening a vast fleet of anonymous trucks arrived driven by anonymous men, and in the space of a single night the entire contents of Caxton Private Lending Library & Book Depository — books, characters, and all — were spirited away and resettled in a new home in a little village not far from the sea but far indeed from cities and, indeed, trains. The librarian, now very old and not a little stooped, liked to walk on the beach in the evenings accompanied by a small terrier dog and, if the weather was good, a beautiful, pale woman with long, dark hair.
One night, just as summer was fading into autumn, there was a knock on the door of Caxton Private Lending Library & Book Depository, and the librarian opened it to find a young woman standing on the doorstep. She had in her hand a copy of Vanity Fair.
“Excuse me,” she said, “I know this may sound a little odd, but I’m absolutely convinced that I just saw a man who looked like Robinson Crusoe collecting seashells on the beach, and I think he returned with them to this” — she looked at the small brass plate to her right — “library.”
Mr. Berger opened the door wide to admit her.
“Please come in,” he said. “It may sound equally odd, but I think I’ve been expecting you…”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John Connolly is the author of The Wrath of Angels, The Burning Soul, The Book of Lost Things, and Bad Men, among many others. He is a regular contributor to The Irish Times and lives in Dublin, Ireland. For more information, see his website at JohnConnollyBooks.com, or follow him on Twitter @JConnollyBooks.