The Geographer's Library

The Geographer’ s Library
set you somewhere safe. I guess I should have put foam rubber on all the sharp
corners.” My ears got hot and started ringing; I wanted to run out and redo the
entire introduction. I stood next to the upended table—my dripping jacket in
one hand and a reporter’s notebook in the other—frozen, mortified.
“I was just kidding. A joke. No blushing necessary,” she said, taking my
jacket and draping it over the radiator. “Sit down and relax. No, don’t try to
straighten that up; just put the table back and leave everything else. Sit here,”
she said, laying her hands on my shoulders and guiding me into the chair.
Instinctively, I reached up to my shoulder and touched her hand—whether in
thanks, acknowledgment, or apology I don’t know—but she lifted her fingers
and gave mine a polite squeeze as I sat down. “Now. Stay there, and I’ll put
on some music and get the tea. What do you want to hear?”
“I don’t really know that much about music. No strong preference. Whatever
you’d like.”
She smiled and pressed a button on a stereo in the corner. The sound of a
single cello—rich, mournful, plaintive, expressive—filled the room. The pattern
of the notes fell just short of a melody; the register and deliberately
irregular rhythm made it sound almost like human speech. I had never heard
anything like it; it filled my brain; I hung on the completion of each phrase.
“What is this?” I called to her in the kitchen.
“Marais. It’s a viola da gamba duo called Les Voix Humaines. Here
arranged for a single cello. It’s supposed to sound like a human voice. I think
it sounds like a poem, or a prayer.” She set a tray with a teapot, two cups, a
bowl of sugar cubes, and a plate of cookies on the newly clean table. “See,
you did good without intending to. Where would I have put the tea if you
hadn’t made a space for it?” She sat down next to me and gave one of her
thawing smiles. I returned her look for longer than was merely polite, then
took my notebook and two pens from my shirt pocket.
I always envied Art his ability to open a conversation with disarming small
talk that led seamlessly into purposeful questions. He had told me repeatedly
how important it is to make your interview subjects feel comfortable. Of
course, Hannah was far more comfortable than I was; my stomach was doing
the Pretty Girl Shimmy, and I was starting to sweat. I couldn’t think of anything
to say except what I had come to say. “Can I ask you about Jaan?”
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