The Curator

I sat in the outrageously uncomfortable wooden chair and patiently waited for the man across from me to comb through my credentials. This happened every so many decades. Someone new would either purchase the buildings or a new manager would be appointed.

The present owner of our buildings seemed utterly uninclined to rid himself of the buildings. Instead, he had appointed a new manager to oversee the daily business.

“You speak quite a few languages,” the man said without looking up at me. He continued before I could answer. “And nearly half of them are dead languages. How is that helpful?” He turned his flat, mud-brown unintelligent eyes up to me finally.

“Over half of the items in my building are written in those languages,” was all I said. He didn’t require an answer more complicated than that.

He frowned and looked back down at my file. I knew exactly what it said. It listed that languages I spoke and read, what I had contributed to the running of the buildings and that I, irrevocably, came along with said building. Part and parcel.

Word to the wise; when you are given wishes, word them very, very carefully.

“I believe you have work to return to,” he said in a bored voice.

“Yes, sir,” I answered. I removed myself from the management office as quickly as I could without sacrificing my dignity.

My office was just as I had left it. Stacks of paperwork and files on my desk, neatly organized and the entirety of the surface of the long table covered in books, parchment and maps. Not so neatly organized.

Several weeks ago, I had received a request to translate several of our books that were written in Ancient Greek. Not a complicated task, merely tedious. I settled myself among the parchment and returned to my work in my sanctuary. Books didn’t talk back.

I worked in peace for several hours following that uninspiring meeting. It wasn’t until well after midday when I was interrupted by the bell that sat on the front desk. A requirement that had been set in place by an owner that had long since passed, but the rule stuck. One of the few that I loathed with every fiber of my being.

I rose slowly from my chair and took a selfish moment to stretch my limbs before I made my way through the door of my office and to my desk. As much as I was in control of my building the majority of the time, I was still subject to the whims of readers and the owners.

A man that I had never seen before was leaning against my desk. He turned to look at me when he heard the smart click of my heels on the wooden floors. Deep blue, fiercely intelligent eyes stared me down from under slightly heavy brows. Black hair was shorn short, but still had enough length to suggest curls. A straight, decidedly strong nose sat perfectly between the blue eyes and above full, bowed lips. Square jaw, fighters chin, and thick neck finished out the proud features that were somehow contained within an unassuming suit.

Easily over a foot taller than I was, the man looked down at me, an amused turn of his lips as he waited for me to stop behind my desk. “I requested a translation, Curator.” He handed me the appropriate paperwork and waited patiently as I read over the pages.

“This way, sir,” I said, turning on my heel. I cursed myself for my complacency. Many years ago, I had given up wearing the leather pants and boots under my floor length skirts. A few years after that, I had given up carrying any sort of weapon. No hint of danger had entered my building in a long, long time. Now, it swarmed me, testing me.

Though he was several steps behind me, his very presence crowded me. I made my way to the chair I had been sitting in before his interruption and indicated the chair across from me for him. I smothered an annoyed sigh when he picked up the offered chair and carried it around to sit next to me.

“As accomplished as I may be, I find it overly difficult to read upside down,” he explained.

“Truly a lost art,” I mumbled to myself. I don’t know what was wrong with me. I never spoke such comments out loud.

He let the comment pass. “These are the translations? Why are there so many books? And other languages?”

Well, at least he recognized the difference. “You requested Ancient Greek. I cannot directly translate that to our modern language, sir. Too much would be lost. I must begin with the evolutions of Greek, then on to the beginnings of Latin. The evolutions of Latin into Italian and so on. You see,” I explained, indicating one of the older texts on the table, “this word here has absolutely no translation into our modern language, but it can be translated into Latin.”

“I see,” he said thoughtfully.

I folded my hands in my lap as he reached for the most recent translations and read them over. I hated that I was marveling at the fact that I could almost literally watch him thinking and piecing together what I had translated for him.

“You have done excellent work, Curator,” he said finally.

“Thank you, sir. I will have it completed by tomorrow morning.”

“Wonderful. We will leave then,” he said, standing so quickly that I actually flinched.

“We, sir?”

“Yes. You and me. We are going to Mesopotamia,” he said, looking at me like I was daft.

“Mesopotamia doesn’t exist,” I managed to say. It was the only defense I found that I had.

“These maps say that it used to,” he reasoned, pointing to the very same maps that I had been pouring over.

“You don’t need me with you, sir,” I tried.

“Why ever not? You understand the languages and you can read these maps.”

I was quite sure that he could read them as well as I could. “You will have my translations, sir. You do not need my person.”

“Nonsense,” he waved me off. “You have assistant curators, do you not?”

I felt the trap slam shut on me. “Yes, sir.”

“Right. We leave in the morning. I will collect you at eight. Sharp,” he told me as he returned the chair to the other side of the table. Then he was gone.

I heaved a heavy sigh when I could no longer hear his deceptively light footsteps. The only thing I could do was summon my assistants, assure they understood their instructions, and then pack for this absurd trip.

At seven-thirty the next morning, I was standing in my office. Underneath my perfectly appropriate traveling habit, I wore those leather pants and boots again. I had sworn to myself, as I pulled them out of their drawer the night before, that I would never allow myself to become complacent again.

My luggage was a sum total of two suitcases and a matching bag. I had a leather messenger bag draped across my body and settled against my left hip that held my personal items that I required from my office. Next to my suitcases was one solid traveling trunk that held all of the work I had been translating.

Ten minutes before the hour, the man entered my office after a polite knock. He looked pleased that I was already waiting for him. He summoned four men, dressed in similarly unassuming suits, to gather my suitcases and the trunk.

I used the last flimsy excuse that I had left. I really did not want to leave my building in the hands of my assistants. No matter that I had trained them myself. “Sir, I do not even know you. I cannot be expected to travel with you to a place halfway around the world that does not exist.”

“Are you worried about propriety, Curator?” he asked amused. When I didn’t answer, his smile faded. “You may call me Henry. Do you require a chaperon, Curator?”

I couldn’t hold back the indignance in my glare or the disgust in my voice. “Don’t be absurd, Mr. Devarou.”

He lifted a hand to indicate for me to follow his men out of the office. I didn’t like him walking behind me, but I didn’t have much of a choice at that point. I had spent the better part of the night before trying to find a way out of this needless journey. Aside from contacting the owner and demanding an answer for this over-confident reader, I had nothing.

Outside of the building, waiting on the street like menacing beasts, two shining black vehicles that screamed masculinity waited for our small party. The vehicles rather suited my host, I decided.

“I didn’t realize we needed suburban tanks to travel to the airfield, sir,” I said from where I had halted on the steps.

Mr. Devarou was holding a back passenger door open for me. My luggage was being loaded into the vehicle behind that one. The amused look returned to his face. “I find it is the only way to travel. On land, that is.”

I fought the urge to flee and, instead, climbed into the back seat as gracefully as I could. I screamed inwardly when he tucked my skirt in around my feet. Did he see the boots?

He didn’t react in the least. He merely closed the door, walked around the vehicle, and then climbed into the seat next to me. Not a glance was spared to me as he settled the belt across his narrow hips and tapped the shoulder of the driver.

I settled my leather bag between us on the seat firmly. The only barrier I had between myself and the man who was dragging me to some forgotten part of the world. I could only imagine what the air transportation was like, given the vehicle we were presently occupying.

Looking back, I should have noted immediately that he had asked for Ancient Greek and Mesopotamia. No one had requested those translations in centuries.