The stranger returns the next night, and the night after. Finally one evening an elderly patron returns the book.
Before the stranger can claim the book, a rival appears. She, too, wants it, and she isn't about to let it go without a fight.
Who are these people? And what's so special about this book that they'll fight to the death to own it?
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The visitor turned his body, like adjusting a puppet, and walked with deliberate steps straight to the lending desk. There he laid both hands on the wooden surface, bent forward, and asked, “Has the book arrived?”
He had long white-blond hair that hung in a straight curtain from his high forehead to below his shoulders. He wore a black T-shirt under a calf-length black jacket with black jeans and boots. His nails were long and cracked and dirty, like he had been digging in soil. There were white hairs on the back of his hands. His skin was too white. Involuntary images of the white larvae in compost heaps and earthworms rose in Robbie’s mind. And this man was old, very old, though Robbie couldn't have said how he knew that. The man's presence was a solid pressure that caused Robbie to take an involuntary step back.
He wore reflecting glasses, and Robbie saw himself, small and distorted in the lenses.
"Uhm, and your name is?" Robbie asked.
"I am Medr." His voice had a curious sound at the back of it, like the rubbing together of rough wings.
"Medr? Medr who? Or is it Mr. Medr?" Robbie asked, confused. The reflecting lenses disconcerted him.
"Medr. That is my name."
"Okay," Robbie stammered. "What is the title of the book, sir?"
"That does not matter. It matters that the book arrives," Medr said.
"Well, there is nothing waiting for you," Robbie said, flabbergasted.
"Then I will wait."
So he waited, perched on a chair like a big bird of prey, the long black coat hanging down to the floor. He did nothing as far as Robbie could see. He didn't read, he didn't fidget. He just waited. At 9 P.M. when the library closed, he stood up and left.
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