The Invitation

Friday arrived the way Fridays arrive when one has spent four days pretending not to be waiting for them: slowly, and then all at once, and with the slightly insulting punctuality of weather that has not been asked to participate. Iyla had not slept well on Thursday, which was the kind of fact she noted in the daily notebook the way one notes the reading on a barometer — without recrimination, as data. She had told Mr. Behr on Wednesday, after closing, in the back room that smelled of glue and rain, the smallest version of the thing that was still a true version: that a woman had approached her in the café knowing something Iyla had not told anyone, that the woman would be at the café again on Friday at three, and that if Iyla did not come to the shop on Saturday morning he should, please, ask. Mr. Behr had listened with the particular attention of a man who has spent fifty years listening to books and had learned, somewhere along the way, that people were just books that had not yet decided what they were about. He had not asked her any of the questions he could have asked. He had said, "Saturday morning, then," and had given her, without comment, a small brass key on a leather cord, which she had put around her neck under her jumper and which she had not, between Wednesday and Friday, taken off. She did not know what the key opened. She thought, possibly, he did not either, and that the giving of it had been a more honest thing than a key that worked.

At ten to three she went into the café. She did not sit at her table. She sat, as she had written she would, at the table by the door — a small round one she had never used, with a wobble in a different direction, which she did not bother to compensate for. She ordered a coffee, which was not her drink, because a coffee was a thing that could be drunk in three sips if the situation called for it, and tea was a thing one had to negotiate with. She opened a book she had brought from home, a Penelope Fitzgerald she had read so many times she could mouth the sentences while watching the door, and she did not read it. She watched the door.

Saroya came in at three exactly. She was wearing the same grey coat and a different scarf, this one the color of unripe wheat, and she was carrying, today, no map. She had, instead, a thin manila envelope under her arm and a paperback in her hand — Iyla, in the half second she allowed herself, registered it as a slim hardback in fact, library-bound, with the kind of spine that had been rebound by an institution that took its rebinding seriously. Saroya saw Iyla at the table by the door. She did not, Iyla noted with reluctant respect, react. She went, as advertised, to a different table — the one by the window, on the far side of the room, with a view of the street — and she set down the envelope and the book, and she went to the counter and ordered her coffee, and she came back, and she sat, and she opened the book, and she read.

She read for eleven minutes. Iyla, who was timing her by the clock above the counter because timing was a thing one did, watched the eleven minutes pass with the small competitive admiration of a person watching another person be better at not-looking than she was. Saroya did not look up. Saroya turned a page, and then another page, with the unhurried interior attention of a person who was, actually, reading the book. The coffee at her elbow went from steaming to not. The light through the window did the small grey shift it did at three-eleven on an October afternoon. At three-eleven and a half, Iyla — who had, she discovered, already decided, somewhere in the last four days, and had been merely waiting for her body to catch up to the decision — picked up her cup and her book and her bag, and walked across the café, and sat down at Saroya's table.

Saroya finished the sentence she was on. She finished it, Iyla saw, without performance — she had been in the middle of a sentence, and she finished it, and then she put her finger on the place where the sentence ended, and she closed the book over her finger, and she looked up.

"Thank you," she said, "for coming."

"I haven't decided anything," Iyla said.

"No," Saroya said. "I would not have expected you to. Deciding is not what this conversation is for."

"What is it for."

Saroya considered the question. She considered it, Iyla noted, the way a person considers a question she has been asked before and has, each time, given a slightly different answer to, because the question deserved that. "Today," she said, "it is for me to give you a letter, and for you to ask me three questions, and for me to answer them honestly, and for us to part. Tomorrow, or next month, or next year, may be for other things. Today is for the letter and three questions. I have found, in my experience of these conversations, that three is the number a person can ask before they begin to ask questions they will be sorry they asked. We will stop at three."

She slid the manila envelope across the table. She did it without ceremony, the way one passes the salt. The envelope was unsealed. It was addressed, in the small upright hand from the Bulgakov's margins, to Iyla, and nothing else; no surname, no street, no city. The bareness of the name was, Iyla discovered, more unsettling than a full address would have been. A full address was a thing a stranger could look up. A bare first name was a thing only a person who already knew you used.

"You may read it now," Saroya said, "or you may read it later. If you read it now I will sit quietly while you do so. If you read it later I will tell you the parts of it I think you most need to hear, in case you decide, later, not to open it. Either is fine."

Iyla took the envelope. She weighed it briefly in her hand — it was light, two sheets at most — and then, because she was, in the end, the kind of person who opened letters in front of the people who had given them to her, on the grounds that this was the part of the transaction in which the giver could be observed, she opened it.

The paper inside was good. It was the kind of paper that had a small almost imperceptible tooth to it, cream rather than white, and a watermark that was not a logo but, when Iyla tilted the sheet against the window light, a small simple drawing of an open book with what appeared to be a door in the middle of it. She did not, at this, react. She was learning, this afternoon, not to react to things; it was a skill she suspected she would need more of.

The letter was short. It said:

Iyla — You have been seen. This is not, as you may by now suspect, a threat; it is the bare statement of a fact that has, in our experience, sometimes been delivered as a threat by people who did not know any better, and we are sorry for the times that has happened to others before you. You are one of perhaps forty people in the world, at this moment, who can do what you have been doing. Of those forty, perhaps eight can do what you did with the notebook in your kitchen on the evening of the sixteenth. We would like — and we are aware of the weight of this verb, and we use it carefully — to know you. We would like to offer you what we have: a library, a small number of colleagues, a vocabulary for what is happening to you, and the company of people who have, between them, made most of the mistakes you are about to make and are willing, if asked, to describe them. We are called, by ourselves and by no one else, the Society of Readers. We are older than that name and younger than several of our members. We meet on Sunday afternoons in a building you have walked past, we estimate, between four and six hundred times. We are not, in any sense that will satisfy a lawyer, a thing you can join. We are a thing you can, if you wish, be among. The bearer of this letter is one of us and has agreed to speak with you, on the terms she has explained, today. There is no part of this offer that requires an answer this afternoon. There is no part of this offer that requires an answer at all. If you do not reply, we will not write to you again. — On behalf of those who have read you with care, S.

Iyla read the letter twice. She read it twice not because she had not understood it the first time but because she wanted to know, the second time, what she had felt the first time, and the only way she had ever found to do that was to read the thing again and watch what her face did at the same sentences. Her face did, both times, the same small involuntary thing at we will not write to you again: it relaxed, a fraction, in a way she did not entirely approve of. The offer was good. The offer was, in fact, suspiciously good. The offer had been written by a person who knew that the most seductive thing one could offer a person like Iyla was the explicit promise of being left alone if she wanted to be.

She folded the letter. She put it back in the envelope. She put the envelope on the table between them, on her side, not in the middle, because the middle was a thing she had learned, from Saroya's hand on the map on Tuesday, was a position with meaning.

"Three questions," she said.

"Three," Saroya agreed.

Iyla had spent four days making a list of questions. She had ranked them, on Edith's bench and afterward, by tractability and by cost. She had, between Wednesday night and Friday morning, narrowed the list to seven, and then to five, and then, in the bath on Friday morning at seven, to three. She found, sitting at Saroya's table, that she remembered all three of them in order, which she took as a sign that her mind had, at last, been working on her behalf rather than at her expense.

"One," she said. "Who saw me first. Not who has been watching me longest. Who, specifically, was the first person in your — Society — to notice that I was doing this."

Saroya nodded, as if it were a fair question and also as if it were, perhaps, not the question she had expected to be asked first, which pleased Iyla disproportionately. "A man named Tomas," she said. "He is a cataloguer at the central library. He noticed the marginalia you left in The Master and Margarita when you were nineteen, and he flagged it — that is the verb we use — because of the questions you were asking. He did not, at the time, draw the door. The door was drawn later, by someone else, when it became clear you might come back to the book. Tomas is sixty-three. He has never traveled. He is, by his own description, a sorter, not a goer. He is, in my private opinion, the most important member of our Society, and he would be embarrassed to hear me say so."

"Two," Iyla said. She felt the question turn in her mouth before she let it out, because she wanted to be sure she was asking the version of it she had decided to ask, and not the cheaper version. "What does the Society want from people like me. Not in the letter's language. In yours."

Saroya did not, this time, answer immediately. She looked at Iyla for what was perhaps three seconds, with the amber attention, and then she said, "Most of us want the company. A few of us want the artifacts. A smaller number of us, and I will not pretend I am not among them on some days, want the worlds. The proportions shift. The Society exists, in part, to keep the proportions honest. I will tell you that the wanting of the worlds is a thing we have not, historically, managed as well as we should have, and that this is a conversation you and I will, if we continue to talk, have again, and that you should remember, when we have it, that I told you this today." She did not smile. "That was, I am aware, more than you asked. You may have it as part of question two or you may charge me for it. I leave that to you."

"Part of two," Iyla said.

"Generous," Saroya said. "Three."

Iyla had thought, in the bath, that her third question would be about Lentar — about opening correspondence, about the man on the coin, about whether the city would still be there if she stopped writing it. She had thought, on the walk to the café, that it might be about the hand in the margins, about whether Saroya had drawn the door on page forty-seven herself or had merely, as she had said, recognized the hand. She had thought, sitting down at this table, that it might be about the brass key under her jumper and whether Mr. Behr was, somehow, a thing the Society already knew about. All of these were good questions. She would, she thought, ask all of them eventually. She asked, instead, the question that had arrived in her at three-eleven and a half, when she had picked up her cup and walked across the room.

"Three," she said. "What happens to the people who say no."

Saroya's face did something very small. It was not a flinch. It was the smallest possible cousin of a flinch — the registering, on a well-trained face, of a question the face had been hoping not to be asked today, and the simultaneous registering of the fact that the face was glad, on balance, that the question had been asked, because a person who asked it was a person worth answering.

"Nothing," she said. "In the literal sense. We do not punish refusal. We do not, as some of our nineteenth-century members regrettably did, pursue. We do not write again. We do not appear at your café. You will, if you say no, not see me after today unless you call the number on the card, which you have not thrown away, and which you should not throw away even if you decide not to call it." She paused. "That is the literal answer. The honest answer is that the people who say no continue to do what you have been doing, alone, and they make the mistakes alone, and some of those mistakes are mistakes one can recover from and some are not, and we, having promised not to write again, watch from a distance and do not intervene, which is a thing several of us have, over the years, found very difficult, and one or two of us have failed at, with consequences I would rather not, today, describe. So: nothing happens to them. And also: something happens to them. Both are true. I am sorry I cannot give you a cleaner answer. I have not, in twenty-two years of doing this, found one."

Iyla sat with this for a moment. She found, somewhat to her surprise, that she believed it. She did not believe all of it equally, and she did not believe that Saroya had told her everything, and she was not yet ready to believe that the Society was the thing Saroya was, today, describing — but she believed that this was the version of the answer Saroya had decided, before coming here, to give, and she believed that Saroya had given the same version to other people in other cafés, and she believed that the version had been arrived at by people who had thought carefully, over a long time, about how to tell the truth to a stranger without lying to her. This was, she recognized, not the same as the answer being true. It was, however, an interesting thing to know about a Society — that its representatives had agreed, in advance, on the shape of the honesty they were going to perform.

"Thank you," she said.

"Thank you," Saroya said, "for three good questions. I had been told you would ask good ones, and you have, and I am pleased to have been told correctly." She closed her book. She slid her finger out of it and laid it on the table with the cover up, and Iyla saw, now, what she had not let herself read while pretending not to look earlier: it was a slim volume in a language Iyla did not recognize, the title in a script she half-knew and could not place. "I will leave now. The letter is yours. The card is, I assume, still in the pocket over your ribs; you have been touching it through your coat for most of this conversation, which I mention not to embarrass you but to say that I have done the same, in my time, with cards given to me by women in coats, and the touching is allowed. On Sunday afternoons, between two and five, the door of the building at number forty-one Halliwell Street is unlocked. There is no sign. The door is green. If at any Sunday between now and the end of your life you walk through that door, someone inside will be glad to see you and will not, on that first visit, ask you anything at all. You may come, sit, drink tea, leave. You may come once and never again. You may come every week. You may never come. All of these are, to us, acceptable. I tell you the address because it is the part of the offer that does not require you to write to us or call us or in any way notify us in advance; it is the part that is, as far as we can make it, free."

She stood. She did not, this time, pick up her coffee cup, which she had not, Iyla noticed, drunk from. She picked up her book. She nodded, the small nod, and then — and this was the part Iyla would remember later, with a small twist she would not, for some time, be able to name — she paused, with one hand on the back of her chair, and she said, "I should tell you one further thing, because I told you about Lentar on Tuesday and I would be inconsistent not to. The building at forty-one Halliwell has a room in it that you should not, on your first visit, go into. It is at the end of the corridor on the second floor, and the door has a brass plate on it that says Reading Room C, and someone will, if you ask, tell you it is being repainted. It is not being repainted. There is nothing in it that will hurt you. There is something in it that, in our experience, hurts people who see it before they are ready, and we have not yet, as a Society, agreed on what ready means, which is a conversation that has been going on, in one form or another, since 1908. I tell you this not to make the room more interesting to you — although I am aware that I have, and I apologize, and I would have told you anyway — but because you struck me, on Tuesday, as the kind of person who would rather be told where the trapdoor is than be allowed to discover it by walking on it. I hope I have read you correctly. If I have not, I apologize for that too."

She nodded, once more. She walked, unhurried, to the door of the café. The bell above it gave the small flat tin sound. The door closed behind her. Iyla sat at the table by the window with a cold coffee she had not ordered the right drink to be drinking, and a manila envelope with her name on it in a hand she had now seen three times, and a brass key under her jumper whose use she did not know, and a paperback in her bag she had not opened, and the small ridiculous and undeniable awareness that somewhere, in a city she had walked through six hundred times, there was a building with a green door, and that she had, at some point in the last forty minutes, begun to want to see it.

She did not, she noted with the small private respect she was learning to extend to herself, get up to follow. She sat. She finished, in three sips, the coffee she did not like. She put the envelope into her bag, in the pocket where the seam was not torn. She put her hand, briefly, through her coat, over her ribs, on the card; and then, because Saroya had named the gesture and naming was a thing that took the privacy out of a habit, she took her hand away and put it, instead, flat on the table, palm down, and she sat for one more minute in the café in which she had drunk tea twice a week for six years, and she let herself feel, for that minute, the two things at once: the warmth of having been, at last, addressed, and the small clean cold of knowing that the address had been written, with care, by people who had practiced.

Then she got up, and she went, by the long way, to Behr's Books, because it was Friday, and she had promised herself Saturday morning, and Saturday morning, today, felt like a thing she did not want to wait that long for.