A Bird's Eye by Cary Fagan Read Free Book Online

the lake, where people like to stroll on the weekends. Come and see if you like.”
    He led her to the other side of the easel. A board rested on it, divided into twenty small squares. Each square was a little painting in progress: a girl with a balloon by the Eiffel Tower, a dog asleep with the Colosseum in the background. The red and blue had been painted in all of them, but the rest was only sketched.
    â€œThey’re so pretty.”
    â€œI have no imagination. I paint the same over and over. Children like them. Young men buy them for their sweethearts. They make the world small, like a story, a plaything.”
    â€œYou have paint on your face,” my mother said. And because she hungered for tenderness herself, she put the tip of her finger to her tongue and then touched his face.
    â€œBella.” He held her hand there. With his own hand he reached up to touch her birthmark and then, his fingers caressing her neck, pull her close.
    At dinner, a spot of paint on my mother’s neck. She kept touching it with the tip of her finger.

I wanted to know more about what the man in the tuxedo had done onstage, and the library was the only place I could think of to go, although I didn’t feel optimistic. And although I believed that most, if not all, of human knowledge was contained within the walls of the Gladstone Library, I doubted that the sort of knowledge I sought could be found in books. Still, as soon as I thought of it, I headed to the library, not considering the fact that it was after dark and the place might be closed. And sure enough, I stood on Bloor Street and looked at the dark building, outlined by a spill of light from the gas station beside it. I was about to turn away when I noticed a single bulb above a side door, and at that same moment the door opened and a woman stepped out. She juggled a set of keys to lock up. Tall, in a cloth coat and a hat that looked too small for her head. What would Corinne do? is what I thought to myself before walking quickly up to her.
    â€œPlease, miss. I want a book.”
    She turned around and looked at me. She had a long, appealing face, like a horse. “I’m sorry. The library is closed until morning.”
    I must have looked crushed, because her face softened. “Do you have a library card?”
    â€œNo, miss.”
    â€œYou look familiar. Have you been here before?”
    â€œSometimes.”
    â€œAnd no library card. All you have to do is have your mother and father come in. This is just the sort of hurdle we have to overcome with you immigrant families. Well, my evening engagement was cancelled anyway. It wouldn’t hurt to go get some work cleared off my desk.”
    She put the key back in the lock and opened the door again, turning on a light. I followed her in through the back rooms, past coat racks and crowded desks and a battered lunch table, up the stairs and into the broad reading room. I was naive enough to believe that she must have read every book on the long rows of shelves.
    â€œI think it best if we keep most of the lights off,” she said. “We might draw the interest of the local constable and have to explain ourselves. Now, the card catalogue is right here if you haven’t used it. What is the book you’re looking for?” She took a flashlight from a desk.
    â€œI don’t know which one exactly.” The truth was, I didn’t know if there was such a book.
    The librarian pointed the flashlight at me. “Can you tell me the subject?”
    â€œMagic.”
    â€œYou mean witches and sorcerers, that sort of thing?”
    â€œI mean what a man does in the theatre. With cards and cigarettes and making things disappear.”
    â€œConjuring. So that’s what has brought you so urgently to the library. As good a subject as any. Let’s look under the subject heading. You see here? We have just a few titles. Most are for children. I believe that Hoffmann’s Modern