"Levy, Robert J - Jack Stacey ASBR" - читать интересную книгу автора (Levy Robert J)

ROBERT J. LEVY

JACK STACEY, A.S.B.R.

I was busy alphabetizing books on Milton's punctuation when I looked up from the
card catalog into an imposing pair of horn-rims. It was a woman, and she was
scared. She had the haunted, hunted look of a heroine from 19th-century fiction.
Tess, Anna, or that Bennett girl.

"Jack Stacey?" she whispered.

"Well, it's not Italo Calvino," I said. I like to lead with a joke. It puts
people at ease. But she wasn't having any.

"I was given your name," she continued hesitantly.

I knew what she wanted, of course, but she had to admit it first herself. That
was part of the process.

"I. . . I'm a voracious reader," she said. "At least I was. I used to finish
two, three novels a week. Not your average page-turners either. Solid stuff.
Dickens, Melville, Dostoyevski."

"Interesting," I said, "but how can I help you?"

"A month ago, I picked up The House of Mirth, Edith Wharton's acid-tinged
portrayal of turn-of-the-century New York society. After a few pages I grew
dizzy. My eyes started to close. I. . .I was. . ."

"Bored?" I ventured.

"Yes!" she said excitedly-- and too loudly. A chorus of shushes echoed around
the reading room. She lowered her voice: "Can you help me? My friend said, for a
price, you'll customize a reading list."

I eyed her carefully as she warmed to her story. Her cheeks had flushed red, and
her hair had come undone. A touch of Bronte's Catherine played about her face.
There were fires banked deep down in this bibliophile.

"Yes, in addition to being a librarian here at the Queensborough Branch I am
registered with the A.S.B.R."

She looked confused.

"American Society of Book Recommenders," I said.

"Well," she said, breathless, "Will you?"