The Matchmaker

The Matchmaker

I opened the Collected Works of Edgar Alan Poe and began to read. Near my chair, a large iron radiator creaked, hissed, and smelled of heat. Basking in its prodigious output, my toes had thawed and were now toasty warm. At my feet sat a packed lunch and a thermos of hot tea, but it was still early – ten o’clock – as I plowed through “The Telltale Heart” on my way to “The Cask of Amontillado.”

On this snowy winter morning, I had enjoyed a mug of strong coffee with a big breakfast fry up before bundling up and trudging through the storm to the old university library. Here, among countless books beneath the vaulted Gothic ceiling, I found myself in a magical realm, set apart from the rest of the world as the snow blew and drifted just beyond the windows.

Only one thing could make this moment more beautiful – a female companion to sit and read with. To know that she understood me and I her, and that we accepted each other’s quirks and pasts as part of who were, together.

But here in the cavernous, two-century-old east wing, on a stormy Saturday morning, the place seemed like a mausoleum. I turned the page and heard a faint sound from the shelves in front of me. Glancing up, I noticed a small, black hardbound volume protruding an inch or two from the books on either side. But the dreadful thump of the vulture-eyed victim’s heart was loud in my ears, so I continued reading Poe.

Then the sound repeated, and I saw that the black book was several inches further out than a half minute earlier. I’m not a man who believes in coincidences. I had to investigate. When I finally touched the book’s spine, a comforting warmth and a sensation of friendly familiarity flowed through me. How very strange. It had been so long since I’d experienced it.

The book had no title anywhere on its exterior. When I flipped open the cover, I stared at a text-filled page. Someone must have removed the title pages, so I appeared to have plunged deep into the book’s contents. When I read the first line, my heart skipped a beat.

Your name is Timothy Cogley.

I stopped and felt a bit lightheaded. After all, my name is Timothy Cogley. I couldn’t help but continue on.

I know you’re quite perplexed, but it’s very important that you hurry to the top level in the library’s east wing. Miss Blumley is gathering up too many books, and she’s less than two minutes from tripping and falling down the metal stairs and badly injuring herself.

Was this some sort of surreal dream? I closed my eyes for a few seconds and then read the next line.

Don’t tarry with your eyes shut. Hurry!

I didn’t miss a beat, and with the book in hand began climbing the metal stairs from the first level to the fourth. When I reached the third level, I glanced down again at the page.

No – not these stairs. The ones on the other side!

I glanced across a four-story chasm, around which ran the many bookshelves on each level above the first floor. There it was – the stairs on the far side. My shoes clacked on the linoleum as I hurried along. I considered shouting out for “anyone up there” to refrain from using the stairs, but quiet is the rule in any library, and a sudden booming shout might very well surprise and alarm Miss Blumley, putting her at even greater risk.

At the bottom of the stairway, I glanced into the book and saw:

Hurry up the stairs, before she reaches them! She’s almost there!

I bounded up, taking two steps at a time, and near the top I saw a woman carrying a tall, thin stack of books toward me. The stack was so high that her head, most specifically her eyes, were hidden from view.

“Miss, hang on a minute,” I said in a loud whisper. “That stack of books is too tall. May I please carry half of those for you?”

The woman halted and peeked around the stack. She was strikingly pretty, perhaps thirty years old, her light brown hair arranged in a popular style called a victory roll updo.

“It’s quite alright,” she replied. “I do this every day.”

Everyone has carried things down a set of stairs “by feel”, or what some might term “physical memory”. If I use a set of stairs frequently, I have a good grasp on how far to drop my foot to reach the next step, without necessarily having to see it. But I knew for a fact that, on this occasion, it wouldn’t end well.

“Please let me help. I’m so worried about you tripping on the stairs. With all those books, you can’t hold onto the rail. I couldn’t forgive myself if you got hurt.”

She blinked and smiled.

“Alright then, how about taking the top half of the pile?”

“Very good,” I replied.

I reached out and lifted off a bit more than half of the books, exposing her head and, most importantly her eyes, for her descent down the stairs. Unable to consult the black book as to whether this would be sufficient to prevent her injury, I led the way down. If she fell forward, she’d probably land against my back and be better off for it. Besides, these narrow metal stairs had toothy front edges on them to aid with traction, but they’d really do a number on someone falling hard upon them.

A half minute later, we both stood safe and sound on the third level. Mission accomplished. I followed her to a cart, and we both desposited our books atop it. Then I realized that my mysterious black book was now buried beneath others on the cart. I explained to her that I’d lost my own book in there, and I extracted it, trying to do it quickly enough that she’d fail to notice the lack of any title on the spine or cover.

“That’s odd,” she remarked as I pulled the book free. “Let me see that.”

And before I could protest, she snatched the book from my hands. She turned it about, a puzzled expression on her face.

“No shelf markings. Someone made a mistake here.”

She opened the book near its middle, and my throat went dry. She began reading, her eyes gradually widening. In less than ten seconds, she appeared quite unnerved.

“Is this some kind of joke?” she said.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean. I found that book just a few minutes before calling out to you near the stairs.”

“Well, page 119 begins with, your name is Elizabeth Blumley. You are an assistant librarian in the east wing of the university library. You are thirty-one years old, single, and play the piano at your mother’s house on Bury Street every Sunday.”

“Is the book correct?”

Her eyes shot up to mine.

“Are you following me or something? Did you write this? Are you some kind of obsessed…. I dunno… creep?”

It was the last thing I needed to hear. This was my favorite wing in my favorite library, and just thinking that a member of its staff, especially such a pretty one, would brand me a pariah... In another minute, if our conversation continued this badly, I’d voluntarily exile myself from this place forever.

“I don’t know how to explain that book,” I said. “But it... it warned me to help you on the stairs, just now.”

When she asked why, I told her everything – about how the book had apparently slid itself from the shelf to gain my attention, how it had told me my name, on page one, and then warned me that she was going to fall down the steps and get badly injured if I didn’t help. She went back to page one and read everything to confirm my story.

“Let’s try something, I said. Let’s both view the book at the same time, and you flip to a random page.”

I stood beside her, and the most pleasant, subtle scent of perfume filled my nostrils. With our shoulders touching, she opened it to a spot about two thirds of the way through.

Miss Blumley and Mister Cogley are viewing this page shoulder to shoulder, as they remain mystified as to the true nature of this book. But the path forward remains clear, for both of you. You are both lonely, and you are very psychologically compatible with each other. Mister Cogley finds Miss Blumley very attractive, and Miss Blumley likes Mister Cogley’s appearance and finds his concern for her safety quite touching.

As we both read on, I glanced briefly at her and saw that her cheeks had colored, and I felt some heat in my own as well.

The best way forward is for you to eat your lunches together, enjoy some of Mister Cogley’s hot black tea, and get to know each other better. And on your way to doing so, place this book back in its now-empty slot on the shelf.

And so we agreed to heed the book’s advice. Back on the ground floor, I placed the volume back onto the shelf as she watched on. Then I looked into her eyes.

“I don’t know why something this miraculous happened to me, but I’m thankful it did. I’ve been so...”

She gazed into my face, dewy eyed, and surrendered herself completely to the moment. For a moment, I thought we might kiss, then and there. Then she glanced back up to the shelf, and a look of shock appeared on her face. Without a word, she hastily pulled the book back off the shelf.

“Look,” she said. “It’s changed! The book has changed. It’s now just… a regular book.”

Thunderstruck, we both examined it carefully, noting the title pages, the disappearance of the text we each had previously read, and the shelf catalog numbering on the book’s spine. The book was now a collection of Middle English poetry. The strange warmth I’d felt upon handling it the first time had vanished. Without any way to explain what had transpired, she placed it back onto the shelf, turned to me, and asked me to join her down near the circulation desk.

A bit later, we ate our lunches together and whispered quietly between ourselves in conversation. And the pleasantly hot tea was the perfect drink on this, such a snowy, stormy winter’s day…