A harmonic mix of smells chafes the nose with a low tympanic stink. An eccentric smell of the librarians, who dab rose water behind their ears and vanilla between their breasts mixes with high notes of musk from books, whose yellowed stained pages bear trace scents of former readers. It smells like incense, but not the blessed burning substance used by the Padre on Sundays. This is the earthy smell of my daily house of worship, the library.
Moving slowly in the dust-mote heat of the afternoon, I scan for the ever-slumbering tuxedoed cat, Felix. And there he is, curled between dictionaries. Paws covering face, a Cyclops eye contradicts his illusion of sleep. A cat wink greets me, and then as if to show his good faith, the eye closes.
Scanning the checkout desk, a relieving breath pushes against my lungs. My favorite librarian Maria Isabel wipes her glasses behind a stack of books. Her large handkerchief swipes broadly, as she blinks in the direction of the yawning door. Out from under the cloth come the spectacles. She places them on her creased plum colored face, and as they come to rest on her nose, she offers a smile of welcome. Pausing, as my eyes grow accustomed to the dimmed light, I focus on that most precious of shelves, the reserved books.
I had been waiting four weeks for this one. Is it there? Is it? Don't people know that returning a book on time is important? The penalty for keeping a book over due should be harsh. Like what? Well, like revocation of library privileges, or being forced to listen to Country Western music, something severe. ¿Que no?
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