followed the man’s broad back, he caught sight of a woman collecting an oilskin-wrapped bundle from a merchant.
He knew her, and guessed what she was now carrying, a heavy load caught up in both her arms and clutched to her chest. She was intending to go towards the Town Hall, away from where Thaler was, but she sensed she was being watched.
She turned quickly, curls of long dark hair escaping from her loose plait.
“Mr Thaler? Can you now
smell
books?”
She smiled and stopped. The weight she was carrying made it seem boorish to expect her to walk a single extra step towards him, so he went to her instead.
“Miss Morgenstern.” There was something else he should be saying. “Happy…”
“Purim, Mr Thaler. It starts on Friday.” She smiled at him. “Happy Purim indeed.”
“And this Purim? You build tents, yes?”
“That’s the Feast of Tabernacles, Mr Thaler. At Purim we get wildly, incoherently drunk and burn an effigy of the wicked Haman.” She smiled again, and hugged the bundle of books a little tighter. “The men do, at least.”
Thaler nodded with satisfaction. “Just like all
our
festivals, then. We’ll make good Wotan-worshippers of you Jews yet.”
“I think Father would have something to say about that.” She hefted the books again. They were clearly heavy. She looked down at them, then up at Thaler. “I’m sure he’d welcome you to our house later, if you wanted to pay a visit. He’s busy now organising the wood for the bonfire, and a hundred other things I’m sure.”
“Do you know …?”
She looked up at the sky with a little flick and shake of her head. “A copy of the works of Josephus, which I’m sure you already have, a part of Maimonides – I’m not sure which part, and I don’t think Father does either – and a Berber translation of a discourse on Greek geometry. Euclid? Or did he say of the school of Euclid? I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, Mr Thaler.”
That a Jewess knew of Euclid, let alone carried one of his books in her arms, was odd enough. “Tell your father I may well drop by. I’d like to check his Maimonides against ours.”
“He’ll be delighted as always, if a little distracted. I have to go, or I’ll drop them on the way. Tell me, Mr Thaler, why do they have to make books so big?” She adjusted her load one last time and, before he had a chance to answer, started to stride up the quayside, her skirts flapping and snapping like a sail.
“The words, Miss Morgenstern,” Thaler replied. “It’s because of all the words.”
She didn’t wave to show that she’d heard, just carried on towards the bridge and the road that led off it, up the hill to the Old Market and Jews’ Alley where most of her kind lived. There was even room for a man as unorthodox – that was their word, not his – as Aaron Morgenstern.
So: no more delay. To work – the first books to find would be whatever the library carried of the Rabbi Maimonides, and then he’d see about Büber’s unicorn. The confusion he’d felt had gone like a mist burnt away by the rising sun. He set out, his footsteps over the cobbles almost energetic.
He hated winter, hated the cold and the dark and the damp. Even the library, bathed in perpetual light, seemed smaller and more joyless under a thick blanket of iron-hard snow. Everything was just more difficult.
And now it was spring. The Ostara festival had been earlier that week, an excuse for eating and drinking and being as merry as the Jews were planning to get for their Purim celebrations. Not that librarians were supposed to get drunk, though they sometimes did. Neither were they supposed to engage in the more earthy offerings of the goddess, though that, too, was sometimes honoured more in the breach. And they weren’t supposed to marry: their books were to be their wives, their fellow librarians their family.
It was mostly enough for Thaler. Only sometimes – as with the mention of Büber’s casual whoring – did it
He knew her, and guessed what she was now carrying, a heavy load caught up in both her arms and clutched to her chest. She was intending to go towards the Town Hall, away from where Thaler was, but she sensed she was being watched.
She turned quickly, curls of long dark hair escaping from her loose plait.
“Mr Thaler? Can you now
smell
books?”
She smiled and stopped. The weight she was carrying made it seem boorish to expect her to walk a single extra step towards him, so he went to her instead.
“Miss Morgenstern.” There was something else he should be saying. “Happy…”
“Purim, Mr Thaler. It starts on Friday.” She smiled at him. “Happy Purim indeed.”
“And this Purim? You build tents, yes?”
“That’s the Feast of Tabernacles, Mr Thaler. At Purim we get wildly, incoherently drunk and burn an effigy of the wicked Haman.” She smiled again, and hugged the bundle of books a little tighter. “The men do, at least.”
Thaler nodded with satisfaction. “Just like all
our
festivals, then. We’ll make good Wotan-worshippers of you Jews yet.”
“I think Father would have something to say about that.” She hefted the books again. They were clearly heavy. She looked down at them, then up at Thaler. “I’m sure he’d welcome you to our house later, if you wanted to pay a visit. He’s busy now organising the wood for the bonfire, and a hundred other things I’m sure.”
“Do you know …?”
She looked up at the sky with a little flick and shake of her head. “A copy of the works of Josephus, which I’m sure you already have, a part of Maimonides – I’m not sure which part, and I don’t think Father does either – and a Berber translation of a discourse on Greek geometry. Euclid? Or did he say of the school of Euclid? I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, Mr Thaler.”
That a Jewess knew of Euclid, let alone carried one of his books in her arms, was odd enough. “Tell your father I may well drop by. I’d like to check his Maimonides against ours.”
“He’ll be delighted as always, if a little distracted. I have to go, or I’ll drop them on the way. Tell me, Mr Thaler, why do they have to make books so big?” She adjusted her load one last time and, before he had a chance to answer, started to stride up the quayside, her skirts flapping and snapping like a sail.
“The words, Miss Morgenstern,” Thaler replied. “It’s because of all the words.”
She didn’t wave to show that she’d heard, just carried on towards the bridge and the road that led off it, up the hill to the Old Market and Jews’ Alley where most of her kind lived. There was even room for a man as unorthodox – that was their word, not his – as Aaron Morgenstern.
So: no more delay. To work – the first books to find would be whatever the library carried of the Rabbi Maimonides, and then he’d see about Büber’s unicorn. The confusion he’d felt had gone like a mist burnt away by the rising sun. He set out, his footsteps over the cobbles almost energetic.
He hated winter, hated the cold and the dark and the damp. Even the library, bathed in perpetual light, seemed smaller and more joyless under a thick blanket of iron-hard snow. Everything was just more difficult.
And now it was spring. The Ostara festival had been earlier that week, an excuse for eating and drinking and being as merry as the Jews were planning to get for their Purim celebrations. Not that librarians were supposed to get drunk, though they sometimes did. Neither were they supposed to engage in the more earthy offerings of the goddess, though that, too, was sometimes honoured more in the breach. And they weren’t supposed to marry: their books were to be their wives, their fellow librarians their family.
It was mostly enough for Thaler. Only sometimes – as with the mention of Büber’s casual whoring – did it
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