Page 51 of The Librarians
Zen and the art of cable car tourism, she murmured.
He laughed and escorted her up to the cable car’s boarding point.
I came here for work. How did you end up in Madeira?
They’d alighted from the cable car some time ago and now stood looking over the deep green canyon they’d just traversed.
Hazel’s mother, unable to stop her from finally leaving home to travel on her own, had booked her a long cruise from Singapore to London. Hazel had not minded: Nainai had stepped off just such a cruise to visit her in Singapore six years ago.
It took her a few days aboard to perceive Lillian Kuang’s Machiavellian brilliance: For the entire journey Hazel was lumped in with several hundred septuagenarians.
The ship departed most destinations by eight o’clock in the evening—five o’clock in the afternoon, sometimes—well before local nightlife kicked into gear. And even when it stayed in port for more than a day, the itinerary worked against her—Cape Town on a Monday night was not exactly lit.
And Hazel had barely minded.I’m here in Madeira because I finally ran away from home.
It felt good to say that aloud.
At your advanced age?he teased her.
She giggled a little. She deserved that.Better late than never, I guess. My mom’s always been overprotective.
He studied her. There was a steadiness to his eyes, an intelligent focus.But you seem to have yourself very much in hand. What is she trying to protect you from?
Her heart thudded, whether from his gaze or his question she couldn’t be sure.From life itself, perhaps.
How can anybody do that?
People will try. They don’t want to accept that pain is simply a part of life; they still think, after thirty, sixty, or even ninety years on this earth, that something can be done, if not for themselves, then for those they love.
A leaf fell from the tall plane trees overhead and landed on the parapet that separated them from the canyon. He picked up the leaf.Haveyouaccepted that pain is simply a part of life?
She could not label the question invasive as she herself had brought up the concept, but it was…discomfiting. And then she saw, all at once, that it was discomfiting because no, she had not accepted the inevitability of pain. She had simply come to believe that she had sufficiently equipped herself to keep pain at bay—and would not need her mother’s feebler measures.
She tapped her fingers against the parapet.The honest answer is no.I probably believe that by living very carefully and making no mistakes, I will not hurt.
Will you be happy that way?
I don’t know.How strange that she was speaking of such a deeply personal matter with a stranger. But then again, who better than a stranger to listen to a conversation between a woman and all the forces of the universe?I don’t often think about happiness. Do you?
He expelled a breath.I do, but I’m not sure that I approach it the right way. I don’t seem to care whether I’m happy today, but I worry over whether I’ll be happy when I’m forty-five or fifty.
Well,areyou happy today?she asked impulsively.
He glanced at her, then smiled down at the leaf in his hand.Yes, today I am.
It would be maybe a quarter hour after this, with his suggestion that she try her hand at designing tabletop games, that he sealed his place as one of the most influential individuals in her life. At the time, though, the idea made no impact—it was so out of left field, barely plausible, let alone practicable. At the time she was busy laughing over his purposefully entertaining description of his absolute terror of rapid downward motion because as a child he’d once fallen off a high slide and broken an arm.
And yet he’d come with her on the tremendous downhill rush that was the toboggan ride.
For lunch, once he recovered, they shared an enormous traditional Madeira beef skewer, enjoying it with warm fluffy buns and a glass of local wine each. Afterward, they bought popsicles from a tiny grocery store.
The early afternoon sun was liquid and warm. As they walked past little squares filled with locals lingering over their luncheon—it was a Saturday—she asked him where he was headed next. He told her that after three days in Madeira, his boat would sail to Ponta Delgada, in the Azores, then cross much of the Atlantic to Bermuda, before arriving in Miami. In Miami their current guests, an old couple, would depart and they would welcome a trio of retired siblings and herd them around Cape Horn.
I’m scared. Rounding Cape Horn is the sailing equivalent of climbing Mount Everest—the waves there can toss a yacht end over end. It’s no joke.
But his eyes were undimmed as he looked at her.
They did dim a few minutes later. By then they were back on the waterfront. Her plan called for her to take the hop-on-hop-off bus to Cabo Girão, a nearby scenic point, but he could no longer accompany her, as he had to be back at work by three in the afternoon—it was his turn to cook for the crew.
