We stopped using this years ago, when we converted the catalog to digital, the librarian says, clearing the last of the boxes away. Moved it out here to save space. Then the Crisis hit. Now they still haven’t restored our budget. The city won’t take it and we don’t have the funds to have someone haul it away.
She runs her fingers along the brass labels of the drawers and hooks her finger into the pull.
Here, she says. Let’s take a look. The book I’m thinking of is quite old.
Inside, to Bird’s astonishment, the drawer is jammed with small cards covered in neat typing. With deft flicks the librarian riffles through, so quickly he can barely make out the words. Cats—literature. Cats—mythology. Every one of these cards, he realizes, is a book. He had no idea there could be so many.
Ah, the librarian says, with a sigh of satisfaction. It’s the tone of someone who has solved a puzzle, of someone who’s decoded a riddle and found the treasure beneath the X. She extracts a single card and holds it out to him.
Cats—folklore—Japanese—retellings. The Boy Who Drew Cats.
Recognition chimes in him, setting him aquiver like a tuning fork. A strangled noise rises in his throat.
That’s it, he says. I think—I think that’s it.
The librarian turns the card over and scans the back.
I was afraid of that, she says.
You don’t have a copy? Bird asks, and she shakes her head.
Removed. Three years ago, it says. Someone complained, probably. That it encouraged pro-PAO sentiment, or something. Some of our donors have—opinions. On China, or in this case, anything that vaguely resembles it. And we need their generosity to keep this place open. Or just as likely, someone got nervous and got rid of it preemptively. Us public libraries—a lot of us just can’t take the risk. Too easy for some concerned citizen to say you’re promoting unpatriotic behavior. Being overly sympathetic to potential enemies.
She sighs and slides the card back into its place in the stack.
There’s another book I wanted to find, Bird says cautiously. Our Missing Hearts.
The librarian’s eyes snap toward him. For a long moment she studies him. Appraising.
I’m sorry, she says curtly. That book I know we don’t have anymore. I doubt you’ll find it anywhere.
With a bang, she pushes the long thin drawer shut again.
Oh, Bird says. He’d known it was unlikely and yet deep down, he’d still nursed a flicker of hope, and it goes out in a small sooty puff.
What did they do with them, he asks after a moment. All those books.
He remembers a picture from history class: heaps of books in a town square, set ablaze. As if she can tell what he’s thinking, the librarian gives him a sideways glance and chuckles.
Oh no, we don’t burn books here. This—this is America. Right?
She raises an eyebrow at him. Serious, or ironic? He can’t quite tell.
We don’t burn our books, she says. We pulp them. Much more civilized, right? Mash them up, recycle them into toilet paper. Those books wiped someone’s rear end a long time ago.
Oh, says Bird. So that’s what happened to his mother’s books. All those words ground up into dingy gray, flushed down into the sewer in a mess of shit and piss. Something goes hot and liquid behind his eyes.
Hey, the librarian says. You okay?
Bird snuffles and nods. Fine, he says.
She doesn’t ask any more questions, doesn’t press him or ask why he’s crying, only pulls a tissue from her pocket and hands it to him.
Fucking PACT, she says softly, and Bird is speechless. He can’t remember ever hearing an adult swear.
You know, she says, after a minute or two. It’s possible some library might have a copy of that cat book still stored away. A big library, like the university’s. Sometimes they can get away with keeping things we can’t. For research purposes. But even if they did, you’d have to ask for it at circulation. Present credentials and a reason for requesting access.
Bird nods.
Good luck, she says. I hope you find it. And Bird? If there’s anything I can help with, just come back and I’ll try.
He is so touched by this that it doesn’t occur to him until much later: to wonder how she knows his name.
When his father gets home, Bird decides, he will ask. He’ll ask him to look at work for a copy of the book. He is certain that somewhere in the university library is a book of Japanese folktales with this story in it. They still have thousands of Asian texts, he knows, because every so often, there are petitions to purge all of them—not just those from China and Japan and Cambodia and other places, but those about them, too. The news calls China our greatest long-term threat, and politicians fret that Asian-language books might contain anti-American sentiments or even coded messages; sometimes angry parents complain if their children choose to study Mandarin, or Chinese history. I sent him to get an education, not to be brainwashed. Each time it makes the college paper, then the news; a congressman or sometimes a senator delivers an impassioned speech about universities as incubators of indoctrination; the provost issues another public statement in reply, defending the library’s collection. Bird has seen it in the newspaper as his father turns the pages. If we fear something, it is all the more imperative we study it thoroughly.