Bibliothèque du Champs de Mars

[The Exodus]

The distinct scent of books and the unmistakable stillness of a library are cultural universals, without linguistic barrier. The books, too, permeate language barriers as the Bibliothèque du Champs de Mars carries titles in most modern languages, plus Latin and Ancient Greek. So come, get lost in a good book. And who knows? You may learn something new.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Kenneth Dahl

Kenneth tapped his toes mindlessly and read behind the desk silently on the outside, but on the inside, he was on a pirate ship with Jim Hawkins, hiding in an apple barrel and eavesdropping on Long John Silver and his confederates. The moment was intense and any movement from either he or Jim could get their throats slit as they listened to this plan of mutiny.

And one woman with two restless, but adorable children gave them away. “Excuse me, but I need to check out this book.”

“And I need to find out this pirate’s plan. Just a moment. There’s no talking in a library anyway.” Kenneth said in a hushed, but even tone. As much as he loved his job, the book held his attention and he frantically read in search for a stopping place.

And there is was, the blank space that indicated a scene change, an end of topic or situation, a stopping point. He sighed and folded the page down, pushing the book aside.

“Can I stamp the book?” one of the children asked and Kenneth smiled. He loved to see eagerness and excitement for learning and reading, especially these days where everything was digital and cheapened the reading experience. He obliged and handed over the stamp, for which the two children fought, stamping “4 January 2012” on their foreheads in the process. “Madame, please control your young. This is a library, not a zoo.”

Kenneth bagged her books, reminding himself that he loved and needed this job.

He shined his nametag and proudly took some returned books to be placed back where they go. It was possibly his favourite part of his job and he took it seriously.

He slid hardbacks and paper backs alike into their designated spots with a smile. He loved the feeling of organizing books; the way they felt in his hands, the way they looked in place, inviting people to take them and read them. It was like tucking kids in bed, Kenneth figured. Well, minus the “inviting people to take them” part.

[The Exodus]

Damien Blackwood-Michaud

Damien didn’t get why everyone was calling him a Scrooge lately. Just because he wasn’t exactly looking forward to Christmas this year, didn’t mean he took a piss on the poor of Paris or that he stole crippled children’s crutches. Or whatever Scrooge did in the original Dickens novel. No. The Grinch was a far more fitting nickname of late. Damien just wanted peace and quiet for Christmas. He didn’t want to shuffle between three houses this holiday season. He didn’t want to go to his mum’s house and hear her kvetch about his dad. He didn’t want to go to his dad’s house and hear him act like all the Christmases before this weren’t real because this was his “real” family. He just wanted to stay in Bill’s apartment and get blind drunk. That sounded much more Grinchy than Scroogey. It wasn’t like he was saying “Bah Humbug” to the spirit of the season. Just to his family. And really, everybody did that. Families were annoying during the holidays.

Grinch isn’t even accurate, Damien thought, flicking through the Dr. Seuss classic. Poor bugger doesn’t even have a family to drive him batty.

Family madness was a staple of the holiday season. Damien could remember a time, back when his parents were married when the kvetching was about in-laws and not each other. He could remember when his dad would give toasts about how this Christmas was the best yet that didn’t make Damien feel like chopped liver. They’d been a unit. Now he was part of two units and that meant his cellphone rang and rang louder and more often than last Christmas, which was during the beginning of his parents’ separation and they both pretty much left Damien alone or the year previous where they’d all sat together at the table in front of a meal Natalie had cooked. He and his mother had been texting absent significant others while his father did the dishes. In fact, so many Christmases past had been quiet that if there was one thing Damien hated about this Christmas, it was all the noise, noise, noise.

He quite sympathized with the Grinch up on Mount Crumpet. Watching the Whos must have been like watching the MaCarthys. Jealously. Enviously. Meanwhile, the phone kept ringing and carolers kept singing and the church bells kept tolling and people kept chatting and children kept laughing and Damien wanted to suck up their happiness for himself. He was happy he had friends, yeah. But that didn’t meant he didn’t also want a family who sat around, ceremoniously carving the roast beast.

The library was quiet, thank God. That was why Damien came here in the first place. They made you silence your cell phones when you walked in the doors. He had a legitimate excuse for not answering . His parents both loved books and would be all mushy-gushy happy that he still took time to read. Even if it was Dr. Seuss. They didn’t have to know that bit. In his defense, Damien was doing this to be helpful. The last long-winded voicemail Lucian left said something about a four year old named Calvin coming for Christmas Day. Ashton’s nephew or something. Damien wasn’t sure if he was going to be stuck at the kids table with Calvin, but he planned to come prepared, just in case. He’d be thoroughly sauced—marinated, in fact—and he’d have a ton of children’s books and crayons and paper. Not his nice crayons though. No way was some four year old getting his grubby paws on Damien’s Prismacolors.

Damien looked at his watch. It was three o’clock. He groaned. He had to go to work tonight. Help dress the girls at the Rouge. He saw more bras clasped and unclasped than any straight man he knew on any given night of the week. Damien didn’t look forward to it, either. Mostly because these half-naked girls would pull themselves into his designs, his creations, and complain that he’d messed up or that she looked fat in it or whatever. It was a nightly assault on his art. Art that wasn’t even very tasteful. Two degrees—one from Oxford, one from the London Institute—and Damien was making sequined monstrosities for fleshy monstrosities. Go figure. Sitting in the children’s section of the library, staring at the pages of “The Grinch” made Damien wish he was a book illustrator. That would have been fun. Rewarding. Some of these pictures were stunning. Of course, then they’d get drooled on or torn by toddlers. So, scratch that. Damien wasn’t sure if there was really any way to be appreciated when good artists were a dime a dozen in Paris. He tried to think of a place where art hadn’t been discovered, where he could actually make a difference.

No luck.

He sighed and tucked the book under his arm before scuttling to the circulation desk. Behind it was a ginger man and a book. This was not particularly unusual, since it was a library. What was unusual was that the ginger man was so engrossed in his reading that Damien didn’t think he was actually working. He cleared his throat a few, awkward times before speaking.

“Hi,” said Damien. “Can you help me find other Christmas books? Kids’ books, preferably. I have this awful feeling I’ll be in charge of entertaining a four year old for most of Christmas day.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Kenneth Dahl

Sword fights, treasure and marooned pirates filled Kenneth’s mind now. It was really getting good. So good, in fact, that he hardly noticed the man who approached him to check out his books. That was, until he spoke. And Kenneth thanked his lucky stars there was a bloke here who spoke his language, who also hailed from England.

“Hi,” said Damien. “Can you help me find other Christmas books? Kids’ books, preferably. I have this awful feeling I’ll be in charge of entertaining a four year old for most of Christmas day.”

Kenneth smiled, dropping his book. Finally. He had something to do, someone to help. Business was slow today, after all, so working was almost a blessing.

“I’d be beyond happy to help you. With the book hunt, I mean. Not the entertaining, although I’m sure that’d be fun, too. I mean if you really want help with that…” Kenneth stopped himself and took a breath. “Children’s’ Christmas books. Right this way…” Kenneth led the man around the large library, up to the second level where the asked for books sat. “I don’t know why they even put the kids’ books on the second level. In my experience, kids and stairs don’t mix well…”

And then Kenneth went silent. He scanned the area. It was still new to him. Humming lightly to himself, he searched around for anything childish and festive.

“Does your four year old speak French?”

[The Exodus]

Damien Blackwood-Michaud

If you really thought about it, Damien sitting at the kids’ table would be irrational and unfair. Lucian was marrying a woman five months younger than Damien. If Ashton was an adult, so was Damien. And if Damien was a kid, Lucian would obviously be going to jail or Ashton would be sitting at the kids’ table. But right now, logic didn’t extend that far. Of course Damien and Ashton were both adults. And of course they’d both be seated at the grown-up table.

And of course, Damien wouldn’t be left alone with the four-year old nephew of his twenty-four year old stepmother-to-be. That was faulty logic. Probably. Because the kid’s parents would probably be there, but also because if all went according to plan, Damien would have a monster hangover and spend his time drinking to mitigate pain, awkwardly explaining to Ashton’s dad why he backed out of their agreement, and eventually hiding with Lucian in the kitchen because they were supposed to squeeze in some father-son bonding this holiday season.

But explaining that to the still nameless ginger wouldn’t do much good. He just needed a couple of library books.

“I’d be beyond happy to help you. With the book hunt, I mean. Not the entertaining, although I’m sure that’d be fun, too. I mean if you really want help with that…”

Damien raised an eyebrow. People were strange. Hell, he was strange. He decided instantly to forgive the ginger for the awkwardness. He probably would have answered the exact same way if he was working customer service. There was a reason Damien was an artist, after all. He expressed himself best in pictures; not words.

“Children’s’ Christmas books. Right this way…” The redhead led Damien upstairs. “I don’t know why they even put the kids’ books on the second level. In my experience, kids and stairs don’t mix well… Does your four year old speak French?”

“Dunno. He’s not my four year old.” Damien folded his arms. “He’s my dad’s fiancée’s nephew. Why would you say he was my four year old? Do I look like someone’s dad?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Kenneth Dahl

“Dunno. He’snotmy four year old. He’s my dad’s fiancée’s nephew. Why would you say he was my four year old? Do I look like someone’s dad?”

Honestly, Kenneth didn’t know. People had kids at young ages sometimes, sometimes families looked a little different. And that was okay. Kenneth wasn’t there to judge. He was there to find a book for this customer.

Kenneth shrugged at the man’s answer and walked towards a shelf, procuring a book. “How about ‘Olive the Other Reindeer’? My dad used to read my sister and me this book every Christmas. And I think we have a cartoon version of ‘A Christmas Carol’ if you want that. It’s nothing like the true Dickens experience, but for children, I’m sure it comes close. Plus, illustrators aren’t paid by the word.” Kenneth offered a nervous, pathetic laugh at his weak joke before shaking his head and pressing onward. The man probably didn’t get it—most people wouldn’t and didn’t it seemed. Perhaps explaining it was better. “You know, because Charles Dickens and other authors during that time were paid by the word, but this book has a lot of pictures and few words… Because it’s a children’s book?” Kenneth stopped there, feeling that sinking in his gut that usually signified a social flub-up.

“Anyways, here it is. How many books do you need, exactly?” said Kenneth, handing the man yet another book, hardback this time.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

OoC: Kenneth/Liz BiC:

Kenneth Dahl

In sooth, I know not why I am so sad. It was the opening line to William Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice, said by Antonio. Even after analyzing, Kenneth didn’t know why he was so sad, either, but he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the bloke. Kenneth was Antonio today. He had an emotion he couldn’t shake and didn’t now the source. Maybe he was hungry. But then he remembered he had just eaten. Maybe he was tired. But then he realized how absurd that was since he was on such a strict sleep schedule. Or perhaps he was just lonely, being in a new city and shy as he was. That was a possibility. Really, he was probably just bored.

Thank God he worked in a library. He was surrounded by something mentally stimulating. He waltzed to the Classics section and perused for the Merchant himself. He hardly needed the play to know what came next. It wearies me; you say it wearies you;

Kenneth settled into a seat. But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, what stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born…

Kenneth saw the words without reading them, not realizing he was saying these words aloud. “I am to learn; and such a want-wit sadness makes of me, that I have much ado to know myself.” He was no actor, but he was surely passionate, reading the iambic pentameter as directed by William Shakespeare himself.

“Shush!” said someone nearby and Kenneth sank in his seat, muttering the next part quietly to himself in hopes no one could hear his reading and have right to complain.

[Deleted]

Liz Dixon

A library was not quite the typical place to find Liz Dixon. She was more likely to be out shopping somewhere, talking a walk along the Champs, something out and about with lots of social interaction. Today however she found herself surrounded by the smell of bound leather, paper and the sound of turning pages. Why was this? She was trying to find a monologue, something that could get her another acting gig...any acting gig. In the hunt for something serious she got distracted though and stumbled on the comedy section, pulling down every book she thought sounded remotely interesting.

Carrying the pile, she walked over to a table and a rather comfortable chair and began to read, immersing herself in the comedy and laughter. Liz loved to laugh and to make others laugh and comedy seemed to bring her an even greater ability to bring laughter to others. Forgetting where she was Liz began to snicker out loud and then to laugh. It wasn't long before someone got annoyed.

"Hey, shut it!" they yelled.

"Quiet down! I'm trying to read here!" Liz swung back with a smile on her face and a snicker at knowing that she'd just confused her heckler quite thoroughly and if not confused, at least frustrated. She couldn't stand people that tried to steal the joy of others and Liz wasn't the only one being told to quiet down by this clearly unhappy and jealous individual.

Liz noticed a young man that was reading nearby, somewhat outloud but not obnoxiously so. It was his turn to get yelled at now, “Shush!” the voice yelled. The young man immediately backed down. Liz looked over to him, trying to catch his eye.

"Hey! Don't let that fun-stealer bother you."

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Kenneth Dahl

Salarino’s soliloquy provided a quiet entertainment, but it felt forced. Plays were meant to be said aloud, not read silently to oneself. That was what novels were for, for singlehandedly, silently soaring through new worlds and adventures. Plays were different. Plays reflected some aspect of reality and relied heavily on inflection and punctuation and diction. It wasn’t fair to the playwright, deceased or otherwise, to simply read the material.

"Hey! Don't let that fun-stealer bother you."

Kenneth jumped at the sudden exclamation, but smiled none the less. “Thank you, ma’am. I do love Shakespeare.” He glanced awkwardly back down at his book, turning the page studiously. Realising he just closed a door to conversation, he then reopened it, with “Do, um… Do you like William Shakespeare?”

[Deleted]

ooc: Andi & Maurice ! BIC:


Andi Foster

It was her first week in Paris and Andi had found herself curled up in the library's corner, her legs folded beneath her, and completely engulfed in dozens of books on choreographing legends. Andi Foster was freaking out about this new job, because she got it that it was a complete risk hiring someone at her younger age and he had never seen her work professionally. Myron Bolitar may have more faith in her than she did because she had been nervous this entire week, when this week was just used for settling in and getting her office together. In a few days from now she would be thrown into being in charge of dozens of dancers, numbers, and the soul of Moulin Rouge entertainment. No pressure, right?

It wasn't like reading All His Jazz: Life and Work of Bob Fosse , or reading up on Paul Taylor was going to suddenly make Andi the greatest choreographer of all time. They were her inspirations though, and right now she needed a little inspiring. Enthusiastically flipping threw the pages, Andi was stunned at the way Paul Taylor could use gestures instead of dance moves, and still make it so musically fitting. He told a story, whereas Bob Fosse was all about the theatrics. It was a good pairing for what she needed to bring.

Sure, she should have been doing what people do their first week of Paris, sight seeing and possibly finding where the hospital was, the nearest grocery store- the important essential things. Andi Foster much rather be spending the afternoon with Fosse and Taylor.

[The Exodus]

Father Maurice Mowbray

When Maurice left France in his late twenties, Paris had been a very different city. He’d taken a few day trips from the seminary with friends. Most of his friends had been fellow seminarians; even more of them had come to Paris with fictional versions of the city in mind, intent on spreading God’s word to the godless prostitutes that teemed the city or else to the pagan hoards they imagined infiltrating from the exoticized East. Many of the other men had been sorely disappointed to find few desperate converts, but also to see that those they hoped to save were French humanists, unimpressed with their religiosity. Maurice, unlike his brothers, split off on his own to explore the city for itself and had come across some of the most glorious libraries and parks he’d ever seen in his life. Even fifteen years later, he could still recall the Bibliotheque du Champs de Mars as it had been. At first glance, little had changed. The towering shelves still dwarfed six-foot tall Maurice and the smell of paper and ink still clouded the air. But gone were the desktop computers of old—the big, tan monstrosities that beeped and hummed while you typed a paper and they debated whether or not to cooperate. And gone was the ornate cabinet brimming with catalogue cards. Instead, in Maurice’s long absence, the old computers and old filing system seemed to have gotten married and birthed a dozen sleek computers with filing systems coded in them.

And for those who’d witnessed the birth of a new generation of computer, it was likely a glorious and helpful thing. But for Maurice, who’d spent the last several years in poverty-stricken regions, it was like encountering an alien world. He stared at the sleek new machine, which did not beep at him, but instead offered him a long fill-in-the-blank form, asking him what he was looking for. And for a minute, Maurice wondered what the point of the librarians at the front were if everything was now being done by computer. He sighed and typed in “Le Rouge et Le Noir” and waited. He’d given his own copy of Stendhal’s classic to a young man he’d met in India who had a passion for reading. Truthfully, giving the book away wasn’t just an act of charity or friendship. Maurice still felt a little guilty because one of the abbots he had been working with at the time deemed Stendhal—and several other authors Maurice enjoyed—“subversive” or “perverse”. Maurice had purged some of his collection and hid other books. And now that he was in Paris, he couldn’t help but think that the abbot was wrong. But just to be sure, he planned to reread “Le Rouge et Le Noir”.

Or rather, he had planned to reread Stendhal. When the computer screen flashed “No Matches”, Maurice couldn’t help his dismay.

“What?” he asked, just above a whisper. It was enough to garner a few irritated glances. Maurice hit the backspace key a few times, trying to get the screen to go back so he could try to search again. “That’s impossible…”

[Deleted]

Andi Foster

"What?"

For the first time in an hour, Andi Foster looked up from her reading. Maybe it was the fact that it was such a discouraged voice that she had to see what was happening, or that she couldn't read to herself from the angry couple taps. Ah, yes, it was the infamous angry backspace pound. She was embarrassingly too familiar with that sound, as all problems must be her Dell's fault if things weren't going right, and as everyone knew, the backspace was the computer's punching bag. Scanning around, Andi searched for whomever was the boxing contender. It took her a second, because a lot of eyes were directing her as they stared too in a way that made her really want to give them all chill pills.

“That’s impossible…”

It was a priest, apparently a non-believer in the computer system. He probably didn't realize how his voice was traveling. Andi looked at him for a second, watching as a few people whispered. How was this entertaining for them? She felt bad for him. Not being able to find a book was frustrating, and especially when there was no one around to help. It took three seconds for Andi to get up onto her feet and walk over to him, marking her page of her book and setting it aside. Andi Foster walked over to where he was standing and approached him from the side, placing a hand nearby the mouse.

"I feel like technology really defeats the atmosphere of a library." She told him in a low murmur and a bright smile.

Not wanting to offend him, because offending a priest would just suck, Andi gestured her head toward the computer screen which read that he was struggling to find a book.

"I'm not a computer genius, but maybe I can help you take a crack at this?"

[The Exodus]

Father Maurice Mowbray

The atmosphere warmed as another person joined Maurice. He looked to his right to see a hand with delicately shaped nails and slim fingers resting beside the mouse. He looked up to see a young woman with curly, dark hair and a bright, twinkling sort of smile standing beside him.

"I feel like technology really defeats the atmosphere of a library," the woman said, as if able to read Maurice’s thoughts exactly. She inclined her head towards the computer, still smiling. "I'm not a computer genius, but maybe I can help you take a crack at this?"

Maurice knew better than to refuse help when offered. Often, he told himself with a small, inaudible chuckle that the Lord worked in mysterious ways and He offered His help in the form of well-meaning strangers and not actual computer geniuses. But a part of him was just relieved to know that there were always still decent people in the world, who didn’t roll their eyes and scoff every time someone else needed help.

“Be my guest,” Maurice said with a smile, rising and offering the stranger his chair. “You’re bound to have more luck with this than I’ve had. The last time I was here, the filing system was made up of little manila cards.”

[Deleted]

Andi Foster

It was one of those things where she had been so enthusiastic to help out, that Andi had forgotten that she had absolutely no idea how to help out. Truth be told, Andi Foster was not a stranger to the library computer struggle tango. In fact, just a little over an hour ago she was in the same seat, receiving the annoyed glares, and being appointed the struggle bus driver as she chose to go on a scavenger hunt up and down the aisles. She could have pointed him to the nearest librarian, but she genuinely enjoyed helping people out. Plus, Andi needed to take a second shot at this, because it really had gotten on her compulsive nerve she couldn't do it. But she had it this time! Working under pressure was her forte. That, or, giving out a limp helping hand was her forte.

“Be my guest." He gladly said, moving up and giving up the seat, accepting her offer. “You’re bound to have more luck with this than I’ve had. The last time I was here, the filing system was made up of little manila cards.”

Andi's eyes widened as she took the seat, looking over her shoulder at him with a determined smile. She could not imagine life without library books for that long. "Well, lets get you hooked up as quick as possible then." She told him, looking at the computer screen now, as she began clicking around. "You've got a lot of reading to do that you've missed out on."

She had managed to get to the screen where the search engine was, giving her the options of how she wanted to search. Easy enough so far, and Andi relaxed a little into the back of the chair.

"Alright," She murmured, putting an elbow on the desk before swiveling around to look at him. "So was there a particular book you wanted, a type of genre, or an author?"

[The Exodus]

Father Maurice Mowbray

It was strange, being in a public library after being the closest thing to a library for fifty miles each way. Maurice’s collection of books had been lent out over three continents and there had never been a formal system of keeping track of where the books went and when they made it back. They’d been Maurice’s one, treasured luxury item. He counted them as one then; he still did. Other priests he knew carried around their old guitars, which they had retrained to play Christian pop songs instead of old Beatles and Bob Dylan covers. Some maintained gardens that they carted from missionary camp to missionary camp with the sort of tender love Maurice had previously thought reserved for children and favorite pets. Still others couldn’t live without a treasured memento from home or life before the seminary. But for years and years, it had been most important to Maurice that he owned his own books. To reject them wasn’t to reject worldly attachments, but to reject an education—something Maurice thought invaluable. And yet now that he owned his own apartment, Maurice couldn’t help but wonder if maybe access was more important that ownership.

Of course, he may never have access, if it wasn’t for this kind stranger.

She took the offered seat and she shot him a brilliant white smile.

"Well, let’s get you hooked up as quick as possible then." She told him, looking at the computer screen now, as she began clicking around. "You've got a lot of reading to do that you've missed out on."

Maurice chuckled. She’d be surprised. Ordering books wasn’t nearly as tricky as finding them in a library these days. His Amazon account had seen a lot of use over the last few years, much to the chagrin of his companions, who thought he’d do better to take his vow of poverty much more seriously.

"Alright," the woman murmured, putting an elbow on the desk before swiveling around to look at him. "So was there a particular book you wanted, a type genre, or an author?"

“ ‘Le Rouge et le Noir’,” he said. “It’s by Stendhal, though I have no clue what genre it is. It was written around the time of the Revolution, if that helps at all.”