SCENE

Shelves of books extend the entire length of the room, rising to dizzying heights. The volumes are an odd collection of engraved titles, swirling scripts intermixed with Gothic styles. Colors seem muted, names arbitrary. A sense of well-composed randomness permeates the scene. The amass of novels appears endless.

A large mahogany desk sits at the heart of the room, if room is the correct word for the expanse of infinite space the books occupy. A potted tree sits on the floor beside, drooping lifeless and brown. In the tree, a small golden cage hangs. A tiny songbird beats against the outside of the cage, singing frantically as it tries to get in. The woman behind the desk carries an air of professional indifference, her hair scraped severely back, glasses perched just so, voice as crisp as words printed on a fresh page. Her hand holds an ink pen, scratching names into parchment with a small, precise font.

Few people are scattered around the area, most scrolling their eyes around the titles. The girl standing right before the desk is wary, mouse-like. One hand rubs the flesh of the other arm. Her eyes dart around purposelessly.

LIBRARIAN: Eyes on her writing. Name?

ANA MARIE: Excuse me, but-

LIBRARIAN: There is no one in the books by that name.

ANA MARIE: Startled. I... I’m sorry?

LIBRARIAN: Slowly, as if to a child. There is no one in the books by that name.

ANA MARIE: Oh… Stumbling. Ana. Ana Marie Kline.

LIBRARIAN: Dips pen into ink. Date of birth?

ANA MARIE: Look, there must be some kind of mistake, I-

LIBRARIAN: We do not make mistakes. We make books.

ANA MARIE: Yes, I realize you make books, but-

LIBRARIAN: Date of birth?

ANA MARIE: Growing exasperated, a touch frantic. Listen to me, I... Well, it’s just that.. I- I’m not supposed to be here. Could you please direct me to-

LIBRARIAN: We are not here to direct you. We are here to make books. Now. Date. Of. Birth.

ANA MARIE: Frustration bubbling, slams a hand on the desk.  I’m not supposed to be here! Don’t you understand that?!

LIBRARIAN: Slowly flicks her glance down to the hand on the desk. Coldly. There is a line.

ANA MARIE: Looks behind her. No one is around. What do you-

LIBRARIAN: Next.

ANA MARIE: What?! What- no! Please, just listen to me! I need-

LIBRARIAN: Next. Continues to look down.

ANA MARIE: No, please ma’am! I’m not supposed to be here! This is wrong. This is all so wrong! (Continues to beg in vain, receiving nothing but silence. On the brink of tears.) You know what? Forget this! (Storms down an aisle of books. The leaves of the dead tree crinkle in a forlorn song with the wind of her departure.)

SCENE

Here and there people stand alone, fingers caressing the sides of books. Most are older, one a child. None pay Ana Marie any mind as she hysterically marches down the row. The walls of books are suffocatingly close, the bird tweeting madly in the background. Her mind is frantic, her words the scratching claws of a wounded animal. Their peace seems to inflame her chaos.

ANA MARIE: Screams. What are you all looking for?!

COLLECTIVELY: Turn to her. Shh…

PERSON ONE: No one knows.

ANA MARIE: Exasperated. Then how will you know when you find it?

PERSON TWO: Frowns. You ask the wrong questions.

ANA MARIE: Only because you don’t know the answers.

CHILD: Tugs on her shirt gently. Gives an odd, pitying look. Only because the answers don’t matter. (Thinks a moment.) It isn’t important what we’re looking for. You can only search for things you already have some suspicion exist. What you need is the unknown. If you keep looking for things you already know, you’ll be here a long, long time.

ANA MARIE: How long have you been here?

CHILD: Shrugs. Longer than most, shorter than some.

ANA MARIE: How long is that?

CHILD: Shakes head sadly. You ask all the wrong questions. Turns away.

ANA MARIE: What do you mean? (Child continues to walk away.) Wait! (Stares after the departing figure, with a growing sense of unease. Running a few steps forward.) What do you mean? (Akimbo.) I need answers!

CHILD: Looks back sadly. You don’t even know the questions to ask.

ANA MARIE: Stops dead in her tracks. Watches the child leave in frustration. Well… well, fine! (Continuing to storm around. When she gains no recognition for her actions, she gradually slows to roam the aisles idly, her hands lightly brush against rows of novels, the fingers trembling. She walks, bearing no semblance of time, though visibly unsettled. To herself.) So wrong… all wrong… (Stopping to consider the title of a particularly elaborately covered book of a fine red leather. Pulls the novel from the shelf. Tracing the golden script with a ginger touch, reads slowly aloud.) Gav..rilo... Prin...cip. Gavrilo Princip. Huh. (Flips through the pages, words bleeding into one grey blur.)

THE BOOK KEEPER: Out of sight. Do be careful with that.

ANA MARIE: Looks up startled. What? (Snaps the book shut.) Who was that?

THE BOOK KEEPER: Enters into vision, wearing a vest, hat, and worn suit, as if plucked from another era. I said (Gently takes the book from her hands.) Do be careful with that. Tenderly wipes the front before placing it carefully back on the shelf. It’s one of my favorites.

ANA MARIE: Watches his slow movements with impatience. It’s just a book. 

THE BOOK KEEPER: Gives her a long look under a raised eye. His voice is even, unrushed, as if time embeds upon him no significance. Why, child, that is indeed exactly what it is. And what, pray tell, could be more powerful?

ANA MARIE: Bitterly. How about a truck doing 90 in the opposite lane?

THE BOOK KEEPER: A low, sad chuckle. Oh, my dear, you do not even have the knowledge to comprehend how incredibly and beautifully wrong you are.

ANA MARIE: Well then why don’t you tell me? (Louder, to the aisles of books themselves.) Why won’t anyone tell me what the h*** is going on?!

COLLECTIVELY: Unseen people, quietly. Shh… (The bird cries in the silence.)

THE BOOK KEEPER: Why, I suppose no one has told you, because you never have asked.

ANA MARIE: Never asked? I asked an entire group of people, and they all ignored me!

THE BOOK KEEPER: Chuckling again. To himself. Oh, how far there is to go. (To Ana Marie.) I believe, my child, that you asked them what they are all looking for.

ANA MARIE: Yes, that’s exactly what I asked them. And not a single one could give me a straight answer!

THE BOOK KEEPER: I believe they told you no one knows.

ANA MARIE: My point exactly!

THE BOOK KEEPER: Well, naturally no one knows what they all are looking for. A man is lucky enough just to learn his own desires. He has no time to ponder on the search of the man next to him. (Begins to walk slowly down the row, hands relaxed in pockets.) Purpose is difficult to find in ourselves, but I assure you, it is impossible to find in others.

ANA MARIE: Rushes to follow. Yes, that sounds alright. But listen, I think there’s been some kind of mistake. I-

THE BOOK KEEPER: With a sad smile that does not reach his eyes. Mistake?

ANA MARIE: Yes, I don’t think I’m supposed to be here. Everyone else walks around here like…

THE BOOK KEEPER: Prompting. Like?

ANA MARIE: Like they’re meant to be here. I mean, I know what happened. I know I can’t go back. But, I just.. (Fumbling for words.) I don’t belong. Not here.

THE BOOK KEEPER: Why, no one belongs here, my dear. I would consider it the greatest of tragedies for any person to call these shelves a permanent place to rest.

ANA MARIE: Hope growing. Then if you could just help me find the exit, I would really appreciate it.

THE BOOK KEEPER: Ah. Certainly, certainly. (Pulls a pocket watch out to examine the face. Ana Marie cannot see the numbers.) Plenty of time. Walk with me. (Continues his unhurried stride. Hums a bit to himself, a simple, lonely tune.)

ANA MARIE: Sighs with relief and visibly lightens her mood. Thank you very much, really, sir, I- Oh! Well, I guess I don’t know your name, Mister....?

THE BOOK KEEPER: I am The Book Keeper.

ANA MARIE: That isn’t much of a name.

THE BOOK KEEPER: Why, no, I suppose it isn’t much of a name. It is a title. But then, I’ve never been fond of names. One does nothing to earn them. A title may be given, but it has no meaning until it is earned.

ANA MARIE: Mildly interested. And you’ve earned yours?

THE BOOK KEEPER: Genuinely and tinged with sadness. Only a trillion times over.

ANA MARIE: Sounds like quite the accomplishment.

THE BOOK KEEPER: With a pained smile. I only wish it were less. (Whistles the same tune softly.)

ANA MARIE: Fidgeting a bit, unable to commit to silence. Well, I’m Ana Marie. (Waits for an acknowledgement. Receiving none, grows a bit annoyed.) I was named for my grandmother, Anastasia, and my mother, Marie. (Waits again for a response but receives nothing but the ceasing of the whistling. Presses.) I never really liked it to be honest. It’s a bit of a mouthful, and people always misspell Ana with two n’s. I can’t stand that! But I liked the idea that I was living out their legacy, you know? (Growing in confidence as if reaching an impressive conclusion.) You might not be a big fan of names, but you have to admit a family name has history. I have their character. Something grand to live up to. Or at least, a story behind who I am.

THE BOOK KEEPER: You are a human being, my dear. No one else has anything to do with that story.

ANA MARIE: A bit offended. Well, I wouldn’t have lived without them, now would I?

THE BOOK KEEPER: Looking at her squarely. Are you your grandmother?

ANA MARIE: That’s not the point. I-

THE BOOK KEEPER: Are you your mother?

ANA MARIE: No. But-

THE BOOK KEEPER: Simply. If you are not them, then they are not you. A precedent is nothing more than a lesser form waiting to be corrected.

ANA MARIE: More offended. You’re calling my grandmother and mother “lesser forms”?

THE BOOK KEEPER: Goodness sake’s, child, do learn to listen! I find no human being to be fundamentally less than any other. Afterall, time considers every living thing an equal, and who am I to question the verdict of the universe’s watch? (Chuckles, as if in a private joke.) No, I said their precedent is nothing but a lesser form. We show no growth if old truths are never proven lies.

ANA MARIE: Snorts. Yeah, it might sound nice to say we’re all the same, but I won’t buy into that. You can’t tell me the life of a pedophile is worth the life of a saint. Or that the life of a murderer is worth the life of an innocent.

THE BOOK KEEPER: Shakes his head slowly with his sad smile. Do you know the only difference between a martyr and a madman?

ANA MARIE: His sense of morality.

THE BOOK KEEPER: The difference (Stops walking) is where you are standing (Turns around abruptly and looks her dead in the eyes) on the battlefield. (Whistles woefully again, turns, and continues to walk.)

ANA MARIE: Stands still for a moment. Shakes her head fiercely and runs to catch up. I should’ve expected that sort of comment out of a man who adores an assassin!

THE BOOK KEEPER: Breaks his whistle to laugh heartily. Gavrilo Princip? Ah, yes, what a wonderful creature. Do young folk still talk of him?

ANA MARIE: Only in disgust. To slaughter the Archduke in cold blood, to kill his wife and unborn child, to be the sole start of a war that claimed millions of lives... I hardly see what’s wonderful about a man who could stand to do that. And I’m repulsed by a man who holds him in high regards.

THE BOOK KEEPER: Chuckles again at her attempt to offend him. Repulsed by a man who honors a fallen hero?

ANA MARIE: A murderer is no hero.

THE BOOK KEEPER: Funny that we award Medals of Honor to distinguished ones then.

ANA MARIE: I don’t like the way you talk.

THE BOOK KEEPER: No, I don’t suppose you would. (After a pause, in a different tone.) He was just a young man, hardly more than a boy. Poor, sickly. Watched six siblings die under his roof. When he knew his fate would be the same, he took action into his own blackened hands in the name of his people. And for that, he died in prison, disease-ridden and amputated… They call him a hero in Yugoslavia.

ANA MARIE: You’re just twisting the story to the benefit of a killer.

THE BOOK KEEPER: That is absolutely what I’m doing. How can you see every angle of an object without wringing it in your hands? I would quite like to see you solve a Rubix cube without twisting it.

ANA MARIE: Pressing her lips into a hard line. You can’t compare the face of evil to a child’s game.

THE BOOK KEEPER: I have nothing else to compare it to that you can comprehend, my child.

ANA MARIE: Blushing in anger. Evenly. I want to find the exit now.

THE BOOK KEEPER: You are certainly not looking very hard, then.

ANA MARIE: Hands balling into fists. You’re supposed to be leading me there!

THE BOOK KEEPER: No. I am supposed to be helping you find it. Perhaps we have been operating under conflicting definitions of “help”.

ANA MARIE:  How am I supposed to know where I am when I don’t even know what the h*** I am anymore?! How can I help you when I’m surrounded by all these d*** books?! (Whips her head around to hatefully glare at the piles of text.) Look at them! They’re all the same thing! (Lunges at a section of books. Tears them from the shelf at the punctuation of each word.) All. The. Same. F***ing. Thing! (Stands panting and crying in a pile of fallen books, strewn about her like wounded bodies.)

THE BOOK KEEPER: Gazes over the books sadly. They stand in silence for awhile, hearing only the sound of her tears crescendoing into heaving sobs. The songbird weeps in the distance. Finally, quietly. No amount of pain awards you the right to treat another human being’s soul with such cruelty.

ANA MARIE: Shaking her head, voice thick and broken with lament. They’re just books.

THE BOOK KEEPER: Then I, just their keeper.

ANA MARIE:Sniffling, controlling the sobs down to a manageable shudder. Hearing the bird. Why don’t you just let that d*** bird back into the cage already?

THE BOOK KEEPER: If she were caged, she would cry just as desperately to be free.

ANA MARIE: Maybe she just wants to go home.

THE BOOK KEEPER: She only knows home as a place she cannot reach.

ANA MARIE: Quiet for a long time. Nods as if in understanding. Yes. Yes, alright. (Stoops to begin cleaning her destruction. Puts a few away slowly, methodically. Stops abruptly, a single book in hand. She shakes her head over and over.)

THE BOOK KEEPER: Leaning towards her. Hm?

ANA MARIE: This is my father’s name. (Falls to her knees. Flicking through the pages.) This is his book. My god… (Reads a few lines. Flicks to the end.) Why are all these pages still blank?

THE BOOK KEEPER: My dear, he is not like you.

ANA MARIE: You mean he isn’t…

THE BOOK KEEPER: Gently. Dead? Why, no, not yet. Do close his book; it’s rather rude to stare.

ANA MARIE: Shaking her head harder, tears threatening to spill again. Well, I mean.. I mean.. he’s my father, isn’t he? I have the right to look. I have the right to read it! I… (Faltering. Whispers.) What am I? (Looks up from her knees as if in prayer, eyes pleading.)

THE BOOK KEEPER: Places a hand on her shoulder. You are a human being. Your death does not change that.

ANA MARIE: Staring off. I barely even had time to notice them coming. It all happened so fast… I remember hearing the brakes. I remember the smell of burning. And screaming.. someone was screaming. Maybe it was me. But I don’t- I don’t remember how to… how I felt. (Looks down at the book, then up at him sadly.) I don’t remember what it feels like to die.

THE BOOK KEEPER: Not all is worth remembering.

ANA MARIE: I just… I know this is wrong. This isn’t what heaven is supposed to look like. This isn’t how I imagined it.

THE BOOK KEEPER: Why no, this is not heaven. And despite your clear distaste of literature, it is certainly not hell. (She smiles briefly.)

ANA MARIE: Is it.. is it purgatory?

THE BOOK KEEPER: Well, no. Brimstone and fire are not good for the books.

ANA MARIE: Laughs through tears. Thinks for a moment. Do I have a book?

THE BOOK KEEPER: Helping her rise slowly, with a lonely smile. I thought you would never ask.

ANA MARIE: I would like to read it.

THE BOOK KEEPER: Yes, I thought you would. (Begins to walk down the aisle in the direction from where they came. Ana Marie walks in tempo at his side.)

ANA MARIE: Is that what everyone hopes to find?

THE BOOK KEEPER: No, not everyone. Some have another burning desire to quench. A man looks back on the parents he left to fill in the blanks between spreading his wings and digging their graves. Mothers watch their children grow strong, watch them find love and loneliness. Jealous lovers search for words never said and promises never kept. In every last breath there lies some twinge of regret in finding the world still continues to turn with one less set of lungs. After all, even though they are but one, they are your one and only.

ANA MARIE: Looking upward. Quietly. I don’t think I ever knew.

THE BOOK KEEPER: Knew what, my dear?

ANA MARIE: Looking at him. I never knew a heart could feel this empty.

THE BOOK KEEPER: One rarely knows it exists until they feel it break.

ANA MARIE: My father… I feel as if- as if I’ve degraded him. I threw his book. But, I mean, it’s just a book. It’s nothing but bound paper. My father is a man, and somewhere he is still alive. He’s much more than a jumble of phrases. He’s flesh and blood. Then why does it seem… So detrimental? I’m not sure- I’ve never felt something so deeply that I can’t name.

THE BOOK KEEPER: Most call it being lost. (A pause.) If Nazis had feared the concept of bound paper, they would have burned blank notebooks. No, ignorance has always feared ink. The power in a written word is unlike any other. Your father’s book is a compilation of his thoughts, his feelings, his very essence. To toss it aside is to toss away a life. A man can be murdered long before his body fails him: just cross out the mark of his mind. Then flesh and blood is not so vital. We are remembered in epitaphs for our memories, not revered in coffins for our skeletons.

ANA MARIE: It’s strange. We’re remembered for our words, yet this place… it’s so quiet.

THE BOOK KEEPER: Libraries often are.

ANA MARIE: Is that what this place is?

THE BOOK KEEPER: Well, I never could put a finger on what it is. The beauty is in accepting it simply is.

ANA MARIE: The sound of their footsteps echo in the silence for long strides. The bird grows louder. After a time. I think you’re wrong.

THE BOOK KEEPER: I always hope to be proven as such.

ANA MARIE: I think there’s something more powerful than a book.

THE BOOK KEEPER: Certainly not their keeper.

ANA MARIE: No, this silence. You said it would be the greatest of tragedies to rest here enterally... It’s because of this d*** silence. I’ve never heard my thoughts so vividly. There are so many what if’s screaming in my head. The longer I wander here, the more it takes from me. I’m not sure what’s left of me, which part anyway. I’m regretting things I never even did. I feel guilty over the smallest nothings. I want to cry at everything beautiful, and still a part of me wants to smile… Anyone who stayed here would have to go mad.

THE BOOK KEEPER: Laughs sadly. Then I suppose you’re talking to a madman.

ANA MARIE: Not if I’m on his side of the battlefield.

THE BOOK KEEPER: Smiles genuinely, nearly radiant. Why, yes, how incredibly and beautifully right you are.

SCENE

Looking around, the scene is nearly the same as the beginning. The woman sits behind her desk, scratching methodically away. Now, the potted plant beside the desk is in full and luscious bloom, the songbird twittering broken melodies among the blossoms. Before her is a winding line full of chaotic figures. They are of all ages and ethnicities, some weeping, others praying, some furious. They scream or curse. One whispers his love’s name over and over. Another cries of the money she owed her sister. A child stands in silence, tugging at others, waiting to be noticed. All are lost.

ANA MARIE: Who are they?

THE BOOK KEEPER: The line.

ANA MARIE: Why didn’t I see them before?

THE BOOK KEEPER: My dear, you could barely see yourself.

ANA MARIE: Can they see us?

THE BOOK KEEPER: The question is if they want to.

ANA MARIE: And I suppose the answer to that is: no one knows.

THE BOOK KEEPER: That is exactly correct.

ANA MARIE: Walks towards the waiting figures. Slowly, she gently strokes the hair of the tugging child. Whispering. Don’t you know?

CHILD: Continues to tug on another man’s shirt, completely unaware.

THE BOOK KEEPER: Leave it rest, my child. There is nothing to give. What is needed is already there.

ANA MARIE: Stares at the child for a moment. Don’t you know? You’re not alone. Can’t you feel it? Just feel me.

CHILD: Looks at her slightly, as if seeing a shadow of her.

ANA MARIE: Hope growing. Kneels to eye level. I see you. Do you see me? (Extends a hand.) Here. Take my hand.

CHILD: Continues to look at the shape of her. After a moment, turns away and begins to tug at the woman crying for the money she owes.

ANA MARIE: Stays perfectly still for moment. Slowly rises, her hand still extended. A single tear falls from her cheek. Quietly to the Book Keeper. How can you stand it?

THE BOOK KEEPER: Why, my dear, I never said I could. Takes out his pocket watch. Plenty of time.

ANA MARIE: Looks at the face of the watch, brushing aside the tear. There are no numbers or hands. The face is completely blank. It’s blank.

THE BOOK KEEPER: Yes, it is. I suppose you did not catch my small joke.

ANA MARIE: What joke?

THE BOOK KEEPER: The universe wears no watch.

ANA MARIE: Noticing the potted tree. The tree! It’s blooming. I thought it was dead.

THE BOOK KEEPER: Perhaps it still is.

ANA MARIE: Walks toward the tree, resting one hand on the desk and gently brushing the leaves with the other. The songbird pays her no mind. It’s tragic.

THE BOOK KEEPER: In a way.

ANA MARIE: And beautiful.

THE BOOK KEEPER: Coming to stand beside her. Most things are. We just never take the time to look.

ANA MARIE: Drops her hand and looks back to him. Where is my book?

THE BOOK KEEPER: Nodding towards the desk. Right where you left it.

ANA MARIE: Looks beside her hand to the place where she once slammed a fist against the desk. A small white book lies on the table. Carefully, she touches the cover. Nervously, she looks at the Book Keeper.

THE BOOK KEEPER: With a reassuring nod. Well, go on.

ANA MARIE: Opens the book and begins to read. Time passes with no meaning. A series of emotions play over her face, ranging from the most tender joy to the most lovely sorrow. This is when I first tried to play the flute. I never practiced enough to keep at it... And this is when I broke my arm. I had that cast for months… My brother’s first birthday. He just shoved his little hands in the cake… My first kiss.. God, I was so nervous… Graduating. I couldn’t wait to get out of that place. I was going to be an architect. I had all these drawings planned out… I was going to be something amazing... Eventually, she closes the cover on the final page.

THE BOOK KEEPER: How do you find the story?

ANA MARIE: Well-written.

THE BOOK KEEPER: No. Well-lived.

ANA MARIE: Laughs sadly.

THE BOOK KEEPER: Does something strike you as funny?

ANA MARIE: Words are supposed to be such powerful things but… well, I can’t think of a single damn one.

THE BOOK KEEPER: Nods. Have you found your exit?

ANA MARIE: No, but I’m certain I’ve found that I am lost.

THE BOOK KEEPER: That is the first and hardest step.

ANA MARIE: Nods slowly. Looks back at the crowd of wailing people. Her eyes fix on the child for awhile, then back to the Book Keeper. I think I can take the next one alone.

THE BOOK KEEPER: Oh yes, of that I have no doubt.

ANA MARIE: Then I suppose this is goodbye.

THE BOOK KEEPER: Why, Ana Marie, we never even said hello. (Extends his hand towards her.)

ANA MARIE: Takes his hand and shakes it firmly. Thank you.

THE BOOK KEEPER: No, thank you. (Tips his hat.) Now, if you will excuse me.  I have a title to earn. (Walks to the tugging child and gently touches their shoulder. After a moment, the child looks up. Realizing she is not alone, the child grabs his hand, squeezing with all her might. Hand in hand, the two begin to walk away.)

ANA MARIE: Stares down at the book in her hands. Casting a last glance at the other lost people. Tucks the book under her arm. Plenty of time. (Quieter.) Plenty of time. (Walks away in the opposite direction.)