The Librarianist

Now Mr. More moved the group like a drover into the dining room, encouraging Ida and June to drink from the breathing bottles of red wine before he retired to the kitchen, where he clanged pots and ran water and hummed and praised and admonished himself. Alice returned without Mr. Whitsell and began the work of setting the table. Bob looked up at her as she lay out his napkin and cutlery; she knocked him with her hip and tugged at his ear, familiarities which did not escape Ida and June, who both began whistling casual melodic scales at the newness of the information that he and Alice had established some style of bond. Mr. More called out from the kitchen: “What did Mr. Whitsell say, Alice?”

“He said to say he wasn’t sure. He said to say he wants to think it over.”

Having apparently done this, Mr. Whitsell did shortly arrive in a cloud of perfume and with a look of delight stamped upon his small, soft, rounded face. He lapped the table, greeting each diner in turn with a bow and a shoulder touch. As he took his seat he said, “Well, I didn’t see this coming!”

“We hope we haven’t disturbed you?” asked June.

“Disturbed me? My good woman, you could have knocked me out with a feather! There I was, making my nightly bedways trek, when young Alice came rapping. Talk about a bolt from the blue! An invitation to dine? If you insist, then I must accept!” He unfolded his napkin and set it across his lap. “But, what shall we speak of? I never know just where to begin in a conversation — or where to end, for that matter.”

“Let us speak of small and easy things,” June proposed.

“Or not at all,” said Ida.

“Like monks, eh?” said Mr. Whitsell. “Well, it’s your party, and so I will follow your lead.”

Mr. More soon brought in a steaming bowl of spaghetti and a loaf of bread under his arm. There was no butter to be had, and the bread was days old, but the meal served its purpose, and was devoured. Bob was digesting when he noticed a framed poster on the wall above the table featuring a full-body photograph of Mr. More, and in the place where his arm should have been there was an arm-shaped text that read: LES IS MORE! Across the bottom of the poster, in a soberer font, were the words: GIVE ME A HAND THIS ELECTION DAY! ELECT LESLIE MORE TO THE OFFICE OF CITY COUNCILMAN! Mr. More, having noticed Bob’s interest, was turned about in his chair, pointing at the poster with his fork. “Yes, Bob, I did once dabble in local politics. I don’t regret the time and money spent, but it was a lesson learned for me, and a bitter one. You talk of corruption? I thought I knew my neighbors. Not by a long shot I didn’t.”

Alice, in her monotone, said, “He got nine votes.”

“That’s what they would have us believe,” said Mr. More.

“Nine votes,” said Alice.

“It was folly, top to bottom, side to side, and clean through to its center. You should have seen the man I lost to, my goodness. He was unburdened by human dignity or even an animal dignity; he was without shame, scruples, and social grace, and he won by a landslide.”

June was grinning into the palm of her hand; and neither did Ida look uninterested. “How do you account for the loss, Mr. More?” she asked.

“Welcome to my dark night of the soul, Ida. It’s a question I can’t ask myself straight out; I need to approach it indirectly, and stepping lightly. It may be that the very notion of public office was a fool’s errand but I always felt, I don’t know, that I was meant for something larger than hotelier.”

“What’s wrong with being a hotelier?” asked Mr. Whitsell.

“Nothing in and of itself. But am I not capable of something more demanding and challenging?”

“It’s not an uncommon story,” June told him. “Just about anyone you pass on the sidewalk is wondering why they’ve not fulfilled their potential.”

“But I’m not talking about garden-variety disappointment, June.”

“I think perhaps you are.”

Mr. Whitsell told Mr. More, “I voted for you.”

Mr. More set his fork down. “I wondered if you had,” he said. “I hoped you had. But tell the truth, now, did you vote for me because you felt duty bound, or because of your admiration for my platform?”

“I did feel duty bound.”

This was not the answer Mr. More had hoped for, judging by his expression. “Perhaps,” he said, “perhaps it was that you felt duty bound while also admiring my platform.”

“I haven’t half an idea what your platform was,” Mr. Whitsell said.

“Did you not read the literature I left in your room?”

“Shame on me, but no, I didn’t. I’m sure it was a thrilling document. I’d have voted for you twice if I could have.”

“Then he’d have had ten votes,” said Alice.

Ida had been watching Mr. Whitsell for a time, and now she addressed him: “Mr. Whitsell, can I ask you a question?”

“Oh, yes, please, fire away,” he said, and he then propped himself up in his seat, preparing to be asked he knew not what.

“I’m just curious as to why you’ve been living here at the hotel for such a length of time?”

“I don’t know, really. Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Have you no other plans?”

“No.”