The Crazy Book Lady of Dobre
I don’t know what came over me when I requested to volunteer at the old cow house for a week. It was my love for books, sure, but that was the last thing on my mind when I entered Josie’s home. Hers was a bare-boned, sprawling, disheveled existence. Bare-boned in how basic the living conditions were, sprawling in how large the cow house was (almost two thousand square meters spread over two floors), and disheveled in the mere haphazardness of everything; piles of wood, old clothes, blankets, suitcases, cupboards, toys, boxes, posters, puzzles, bottle caps, ropes, and many more that my peripheral vision could not immediately process.
There were surely more assortments of things here than seconds in a lifetime? I thought.
And then I came to the books.
Before I saw them though, the smells hit me. Of sooty pages. Of damp bookcase wood. Of the foggy glasses on the wall-mounted shelves. I’d no idea they had a smell until I’d smelled them. Clear and strong.
Then I saw them. “There are at least a million books in here,” I breathed out in wonder. They looked to me like books on exile, resigned to a lifetime of oblivion.
She nodded, looking pleased, not noticing my tone. “When I moved here, I asked my neighbours and relatives to donate whatever they could. I was going to build an international learning centre. I have more than eighty thousand books and magazines and periodicals too. Everyone donated to me whatever they could. It’s wonderful how much people have in their homes. How much we collect over a lifetime.”
“And you have them now.”
“Yes, I have their memories with me now,” she replied, beaming.
A library-in-the-making. My task was to set up and catalogue the children’s section. Josie had advertised online for volunteers in exchange for stay and board. The adult’s section had already been set up, by Josie herself, over the two years she had lived there. Bit by bit, she’d given shape to her grand dream. And now for a week, the children's section was going to be my playground, mine to shape.
As soon as I’d settled in, I decided to expend advice. “ What about organizing kids summer camps here? Start with the kids and the adults will come streaming in.”
“I do organize events from time to time,” she replied. “But I live so far away, it’s difficult for people to visit.” The cow house was a thirty-minute car ride away from the nearest town. A bus stopped at her village once a week, on a Friday.
“How often have you done it?”
“Three times until now. It was mostly my friends who came. The ones who donated these things.”
I stared at the thick layer of dust on everything. The crayons on the floor. A stack of mops on the side which was probably never used. Everything was stained, with grease, farm mud, dog hair, cookie crumbs or sketch pens.
Pieces of paper stuck out of corners, some made into birds, some into boats. When I sat on something, I was never on my own; there was always something sticking to my butt. At night, when I lay on the bed to sleep in the upstairs loft, mosquitoes buzzed in my ears, mice chattered in the shadows. A moody bulb ineffectively lit the hundredth part of a corner beam, then flickered off. I lay terrified, my eyes outlining the edges of the donated sofas, abandoned mattresses and chairs, outgrown clothing hanging on nails like decapitated ghosts. I quivered in fear until finally, owing to the efforts of the day and nothing else to do, my eyelids closed.
So much space, so much potential, I thought to myself ruefully. If only she could clean this up. Organize everything. Market properly. Advertise to the right people.
Standing next to me, Josie gave a barely audible sigh. It was as if she’d heard my thoughts.
During the evenings, I sometimes joined her on a walk with her dog. We talked about books and our bittersweet lives. She had bought the place after her divorce. Her dream was to have an international library where people could congregate and chat. Children could pick their favourite books off shelves or play with puzzles. She could teach. It was a way to get her brain cells going and meet new people.
“In time I realized it was hard work,” she said. “Now I am nearing seventy and can hardly keep up.”
I repeated to her, “But you must! You can do so much with these books.”
Her eyes gazed at the far distance. “Bibliomania I think the disease is called,” she said with a dry chuckle. “Luckily for me, online shops don’t deliver here.”
The village of Dobre had nine families and fifty people. It was quiet and sleepy as we strolled around the half-formed pathways. Dogs barked as we passed, glad for something to do. A woman sitting by a window swatted a fly. The sky was overcast. Bees buzzed loudly in my ears. A placid breeze carried the sweet smell of summer under our noses. Hens that had escaped from the neighbour’s coop clucked in protest at being foiled and stomped away. The lake’s water made a ripple now and then: were they fish? They jumped mighty high if they were. The solitary brown-roofed chapel watched as we made a circle around it. Then another.
This tranquillity was marvellous. Perhaps the books were on a pilgrimage and had found their ultimate resting place?
“But it cannot be safe out here on your own,” I said. “And it must get lonely.” Cows were housed there once. The locks were flimsy. The upper floor did not even have any. She’d merely stuffed the farmhouse with old cosy things, opened its doors wide and expected life to flow inside.
“It does get lonely,” she replied. “But I have my ways.”
I spent a couple of days with her, arranging and cataloguing books, putting them in cupboards, labelling them, often spending hours marvelling at the authors I’d dreamt of once reading, I held them in my hands now, and read a few pages in between.
We woke up early and slept early. We ate simple meals. Time passed slowly and I felt each second. Just like the two clocks in the living room, tuned to tick half a second after one another, annoying at first, then comforting in their routine.
And I wouldn’t tire of repeating how much potential there was, what she could do with all the treasure she was hoarding. What was the point of amassing all the worlds’ wealth, when she couldn’t share it? I wasn’t convinced she was doing enough.
She shook her head subtly each time, acknowledging my advice, murmuring she couldn’t do it alone at her age; she needed a partner; she had far-flung children and grandchildren to visit and take care of… and she was happy enough.
Then, it was time for me to go.
It had been a beautiful week and we had grown close as family. It was hard to leave her behind, knowing I was never going to return. My heart was heavy as I lugged my bag downstairs, upset at parting from both the lovely old woman who had fed me and swapped stories as well as her topsy-turvy house which challenged my rules of propriety while granting me the kind of cosy comfort only a grand mess can provide.
Josie walked alongside, opened the door to let me out and said she was going to miss me too. She was sure the books would miss me as well.
I laughed. True that.
She shut the door softly as I stepped out and stood there looking through the glass. I would need to walk five minutes to the bus stand where the Friday bus was going to rumble past and take me to my next destination.
It had begun to rain. I placed a hand over my eyes to save them from the ill-timed patter, then turned to wave Josie goodbye.
Then stopped in my tracks.
What was that?
The old book lady…
… She wasn’t alone.
I blinked in confusion.
The rain grew steadily harder around me.
Josie waved again but this time there was a questioning look on her face.
Because I stood stock-still.
Could it be true what I was seeing? Or after days of being cooped up inside and reading nonstop, I’d begun imagining things.
Josie’s weathered face was pressed against the glass, suspended like a blob of caramel, bordered by the orange door frames.
Behind her, the looming bookcases seemed to expand and fill the space around. Through soggy eyelids, I saw the books in them shiver, as if life was breathing into them. They pulsed, growing in size, then throbbed, like newly oiled machines.
Had it been a clear day, maybe I would’ve heard them too: the soft purr of books coming to life.
As the rain came down harder around me, the books grew vaster, sprouting arms, wings, bodies. The covers transformed into beautiful, breathing faces. They seemed to envelop her…
…and her body disappeared.
And now it was only her face hovering in the air. The faces on the books, like a medley, formed the rest of the door. They all seemed to be looking right back at me, as if sad to let me go too.
Just as she had said.
I realized my breath was caught in my throat. I let it out slowly.
I let my face clear.
She smiled.
I smiled and waved.
And thought to myself, she was going to be all right.
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