Yesterday at supper my father said the library was in a parlous state and something had to be done about it. There’s the job for you!”

“Librarian?” I cried. “But I….”

“Why not? If Romitelli can do it….”

This line of reasoning convinced me.

Pomino advised me to get Aunt Scolastica to talk to his father. It would be best.

The following day, I went to visit my mother and told her all about it, since Aunt Scolastica refused to see me. Thus, four days later, I became a librarian. I earned sixty lire a month. I was richer than the widow Pescatore. I could claim a victory.

The first few months were almost entertaining, working with Romitelli, to whom there was no means of conveying the information that he had been pensioned off by the council and no longer needed to come in to work. Every morning, at the same time, neither a minute early or late, he would appear, on all fours (by this I mean to include the two sticks he had, one in each hand, which were more useful than his own legs). As soon as he arrived, he took from his waistcoat pocket a large, antique watch, made of brass, which he hung on the wall, attached by its redoubtable chain. He would sit, his two sticks between his legs, take his smoking-cap out of his pocket, along with his tobacco pouch and a red and black chequered handkerchief. He then took a large sniff of tobacco, wiped his nose, then opened the desk drawer and took out a library book, entitled Historical dictionary of musicians, artists and amateurs, living and dead, printed in 1758.

“Signor Romitelli!” I would shout, seeing him carry out all these operations calmly, without giving any sign of being aware of me. But there was no point. He would not have heard cannon-fire. I shook his arm, and so he would turn, blink, contort his whole face to squint at me, then bare his yellow teeth, perhaps meaning to smile at me. Then he would lower his face onto the book, as if intending to use it as a pillow; but no, that was how he read, an inch from the page, using one eye only. He read aloud:

“Birnbaum, John Abraham … Birnbaum, John Abraham had printed … Birnbaum, John Abraham had printed in Leipzig in 1738 … in Leipzig in 1738 … a pamphlet in octavo … in octavo: Impartial observations on a delicate stage in musical criticism. Mitzler … Mitzler included … Mitzler included this work in the first volume of his Encyclopedia of Music. In 1739 ….”

And so he continued, repeating names and dates twice or three times as if trying to memorise them. I have no idea why he read in such a loud voice since, as I have said, he would not have heard cannon-fire.

I would go on watching him, astonished. What could it matter to a man reduced to that state, with one foot in the grave (in fact he died four months after I was appointed librarian), what could it matter to him that Birnbaum (John Abraham) had a pamphlet printed in octavo in Leipzig in 1738? And besides, it cost him so much effort to read. He must have decided that he needed those dates and details about musicians (deaf as he was), artists and amateurs, alive and dead, up to 1758. Or perhaps he thought that as a library is created for reading in, he, as librarian, was obliged to read, since he had never seen another living soul in there. He had selected that book and now was unable to pick another. He was so senile that this supposition is possible and actually more probable than the first.

Meanwhile, the large table in the middle was covered with a layer of dust at least an inch thick. It was so dense that I, in order to make up in some way for the bleak ingratitude of my fellow citizens, was able to trace in large letters the following inscription:

“This stone has been laid in the honour of

MONSIGNOR BOCCAMAZZA

munificent benefactor

by the citizens of this town

in eternal grateful recognition of his generosity.”

Now and then, two or three books would tumble from the shelves, followed swiftly by giant rats, as big as rabbits. They were like Newton’s apples.

“That’s it!” I cried, joyful. “That’s the job for me, while Romitelli reads his Birnbaum.”

First of all, I wrote an extremely flowery, official communication to the most worthy Cavaliere Gerolamo Pomino, Minister of Public Instruction, asking that the Boccarnazza Library, otherwise known as the church of St. Mary, should be supplied with the utmost urgency, with at least two cats, whose upkeep would cost the council almost nothing, since the above mentioned animals would have ample sustenance from the proceeds of their hunting. I added that it would also do no harm to provide the library with half a dozen traps and the necessary bait (rather than saying ‘cheese’, a vulgar word, which I did not feel appropriate in a missive for the minister of Public Instruction.)

First they sent me two little cats that were so pathetic that they were terrified by the enormous rats, and to avoid starvation, tried to steal the cheese from the traps themselves. Every morning I found them, stuck in the traps, thin, scruffy and so sickly that they had neither the strength nor the will to mew.

I complained, and two lovely fat cats arrived, sturdy and serious intentioned, who lost no time in attending to their duties.