Destiny at the Reference Desk
On this cold December day, almost a year into a global pandemic, here is the story of my favorite reference interaction of my career (so far). It is, I swear, completely true.
Many moons ago, I had a summer position as an adjunct reference assistant for NYU’s Bobst library. One night a week, I would hurriedly take the subway downtown from 86th street where I spent my days working at the Institute for the Study of the Ancient World Library to Union Square. From there, I would make my way further downtown to the library by foot, cutting through Washington Square Park while typically also shoving a piece of pizza in my mouth before settling in for three, typically quiet, fairly well paid hours behind a desk waiting to help whoever happened to be on campus in mid-July.
On this one day, I had a little more time to kill than usual and, despite being on my way to a library, ducked into The Strand bookstore to buy a book to keep me occupied between reference questions during my upcoming shift. Browsing the discount section, I was drawn to a striking eggshell blue, well designed paperback. Reading the back, it sounded interesting enough - a kooky mystery set in the Swiss alps. I had never heard of the title or the authors, but the description promised that this book was “essential reading for fans of Soviet science fiction, classic mystery, and, of course remote ski chalets snowed in by avalanches.” “Sure,” I thought. I bought my book and was on my way.
Some time later that evening, I was sitting at the reference desk, browsing away on the internet (rather then reading the book that I had just bought for this exact scenario) and an older woman approached me. As you may not know, Bobst Library is not generally open to the public - it is a private library for the use of the University community only - except to those that live in the surrounding Greenwich village. This patron was part of this membership.
She kindly and politely told me that she was looking for a book by a set of authors in the original Russian. She wanted to read them aloud to her grandson to introduce him to the Russian language and help sow interest in his heritage (she herself immigrated from Russia). The problem was, she could not remember the author names or the titles of any of their books. Anyone who has ever interacted with the public around books will tell you this exact scenario is very very common.
“Hmmmm…” I thought, opening Google. The catalog would be no help to me here without more specifics. She began to describe the books as she remembered them and we worked together for a few minutes to search various words and phrases with no real luck. But as we continued to speak and she continued to describe, I had a nagging sense of recognition.
“Wait… wait,” I said, getting up from my chair. I went over to my tote bag, shoved on a shelf on the other side of the u-shaped reference desk. I pulled out the book I had just bought an hour or so earlier.
“Are these the authors that you’re looking for?” I asked, excitedly, tentatively.
Yes. Yes, they were.
Boris and Arkady Strugatsky.
It seemed too truly perfect to be believable, to be anything other than a fantasy or a fairly tale or a Lifetime movie, but here we were.
One thing, in addition to the plot summary, that had struck me about The Dead Mountaineer’s Inn was that according to the back, the book was “beloved by Russian-speaking readers since it’s publication in 1970.” “This hilarious and wildly off-kilter mystery,” the copy continued, “is finally available in an English translation for the first time.” The new translation bit, was not only what peaked my initial interest, but also what really tipped me off that these Strugatsky brothers might, maybe, just be what my patron was looking for.
We both laughed and marveled in shock and awe about the whole thing. She said that God had brought us together, that we were meant to find each other today.
I don’t know how it happened or who might have made it happen, but I can’t say I disagree with her. It did and still does, feel like a brush with magic.
In the end, the library did indeed have copies of the Strugatsky brothers books in the original Russian. I sent her off with call numbers and instructions on how to find them in the stacks. A few minutes later, I watched as she crossed the hard marble floor in front of me, waving and smiling as she walked past, off to check out the title at the circulation desk.
(also, I did read The Dead Mountaineer’s Inn and it was kooky and fun, and very strange, but a good ride)