Italian on Duty

Italian on Duty

Italian on Duty

Italian on Duty

by Jennifer L. Armstrong

xcuse  me,”  I  said,

  walking  up  to  the  tasteful  wooden 
desk.
“I  think  that  your  s
ign  is  supposed  to  say, 
Librarian on Duty
.”
The   dark
-haired   young   man   looked   up   from   his  
magazine  and  smiled  pleasantly. 
“No.
The  sign  is  cor
rect.
I
am the Italian on duty.”
“But  this  is  a  library,”  I  said,  glancing  around.  The
subdued  lighting
,  wooden  tables  and  chairs  and  wall
-to-
wall books supported my statement.
“This  may  be  a  library,”  said  the  man,  examining  me 
with his dar
k eyes. “But I am still the Italian.”
Biting  my  lip,  I  looked  around  again,  this  time  at  the 
people.
There    were    men    and    w
omen    scanning    the   
bookshelves  or  seated  hunched  over  notepads  with  books 
open    and    scattered    in    front    of    them.    Some    were   
concentrating   o
n   laptops.   A   couple   of   older   me
n   were  
comfortably reclining with a newspaper or a magazine in a
little    lounge    area    in    the    corner    where    the    current   
periodicals were displayed.
No one seemed to be
unsettled
because there was an Italian on duty instead of a l
ibrarian.
“Well,” I said. “Can you help me fin
d a book?”
The  man  sighed.
  Clearly  he  hadn’t  go
tten  through  to 
me.
“If I were a
librari
an
,” he said with emphasis on the last
word.
“I could help you fi
nd a book. But I am an Italian.
” He
settled back in h
is chair, clasped his hands on his desk and
looked up at me. One his desk was a c
omputer, a phone, an
atlas of Italy and an open magazine.
“OK,” I said slowly. “What can you do for
 me?”
E
He shrugged.
“I  can  tell  you  wher
e  Naples  is.  I  can  help  you  find
  a
re
cipe  for  homemade  tortellini.  I  can  translate  any
  word
you want to know into Italian.”
“OK, how do you say
 . . .” I paused to think, “rhinoceros
in Italian.”
“
Rinoceronte
,”  he  re
plied  in  a  voice  that  said, 
that was
too easy, give me a hard one
.
“How about tiger lil
y?”
He didn’t have to th
ink.
“
Giglio tigrino
.”
“So why are you here
?” I asked.
“To     provide     people     w
ith     accurate,     up
-to-date
information about Italy,” he replied smoothly.
“Who   needs   accurate,
   up
-to-date   information   about  
Italy?”
He looked offended
.
“Obviously   people   li
ke   you,”   said   the   man   whose  
country   had   invented   the   Renaissance.   I   could   tell   he  
want
ed to be outright cold to me, but I was still the patron
and it was still his job to treat me with respect.
“But Italy is halfway around the world!”
“Exactly.
So    where    else    are    yo
u    going    to    get   
information?”
“Well,” I said caref
ully. “If there were a lib
rarian, I could
ask him or her to direct me to a book about Italy . . .”
“But would you?” he
 asked.
“Well,  no.
  Actually,  I  wanted  a
book  on  nutrition.
  But  I 
could

 ask.”
“But  you  wouldn’t,”
  said  the  Italian,  concluding  the 
argument.
“Look, are you the o
nly one on duty?”
He glanced around.
“I seem to be.”
“Is there a libraria
n on duty anywhere?”
He sighed.
“Haven’t  we  been  thr
ough  this? 
There  is  no  librar
ian.
There is only me, th
e Italian.”