The Wallet on the Green Bench

Pilar parked the library van beside the village green and switched off the engine. The morning was bright and quiet. Nobody was waiting yet. She liked this stop best, because the benches faced the old fountain and the grass smelled sweet.

Uzma climbed out of the passenger side with a box of returned books. She had worked on the van for three months, and she still counted every book twice.

"Pilar, come and look," Uzma called from the far corner of the green. "There's a wallet on the bench."

Pilar walked over. The wallet was brown and worn at the edges. It lay flat on the wood, as if someone had put it down on purpose.

"Don't open it yet," Pilar said. "Let's see if anyone comes back for it."

They waited ten minutes. Nobody stopped.

"Fine," Uzma said. "Now can we open it?"

Pilar nodded. Inside, they found a few coins, a shop receipt and a key on a green ribbon. There was also a small photograph of a boy holding a fish. There was no bank card and no name. There was no phone number either.

"Whoever he is, he's careful," Uzma said. "Or very unlucky."

"Or he doesn't want to be found," Pilar said. "But I think he is just forgetful. Most people are."

She put the wallet in her jacket pocket. The first readers had arrived by then, and she had to open the side door of the van. For an hour, Pilar and Uzma stamped cards and answered questions. The wallet stayed heavy against Pilar's side.

At eleven o'clock, Uzma looked up from the desk. "We can't just wait for him," she said. "Let's do something."

"Such as what?"

"Ask around. The village shop is right there. The owner knows everybody."

So they put a sign on the van door that said BACK IN TEN MINUTES. Then they walked across the green. The owner looked at the wallet for a long time and turned it over twice.

"I've never seen it," she said. "A lot of men in this village have brown wallets."

"Do you recognise the photograph?" Pilar asked.

"A boy with a fish. That could be anyone's son, or anyone's brother." The owner gave it back. "The police station is in the next town. That's your best chance."

They tried the barber next. Then they asked the man who sold newspapers and a woman who was watering flowers. Nobody knew anything. Everybody had an opinion, though. One person said the wallet belonged to a farmer. Another said it belonged to a tourist who had already left.

By noon, they were back at the van with nothing to show for their walk. Uzma sat on the step and rubbed her feet.

"That was a failure," she said.

"It was a first attempt," Pilar said. "There is a difference."

"Is there?"

"Yes. A failure stops. An attempt tells you what to try next."

Uzma laughed. "You should put that on a poster."

The afternoon was slow. Pilar offered to drive the wallet to the police station, but Uzma shook her head. "Then the owner has to find the police station first," she said. "Think about it. He would never look there. He would look where he lost it."

Pilar took the wallet out again and spread its contents on the desk. She looked at the coins, the receipt, the key, and the photograph. Then she noticed something she had missed before. A thin strip of paper had slipped behind the photograph. She pulled it out carefully.

It was a due-date slip, the kind the van printed for every borrowed book. The ink had faded, but the stamp was clear. It showed a small van with open doors, the old symbol of the library.

"Uzma," Pilar said. "Look at this."

Uzma leaned over her shoulder. "A slip from our van. What's the book?"

"Small Boats and How to Mend Them." Pilar read the faded line again. "He borrowed it two years ago. Before you started."

"Can we find him in the records?"

"No. We delete every name when a book comes back. That is the rule, and it is a good rule." Pilar smiled slowly. "But he must have loved that book. People keep slips for books they love."

"So he might come back for another one."

"Exactly. Nobody will come looking for a lost wallet. But a man who loves boats will always come looking for a book about boats."

Uzma stood up. "Then we stop chasing him, and we let him chase us."

They worked quickly. Pilar found the last copy of Small Boats and How to Mend Them on the bottom shelf. Uzma set it on a stand beside the door. Next to it, she placed a hand-written card. It said: A WALLET WAS FOUND ON THE GREEN BENCH. IF YOU CAN DESCRIBE WHAT IS INSIDE, ASK THE DRIVER.

They kept the stand there for the rest of the afternoon. Several people stopped to look at it. Nobody claimed anything.

At four o'clock, Pilar started the engine for the second stop. It was a farm road at the edge of the valley. Uzma held the book stand steady on her knees. The road was rough, and the van shook like a loose drawer.

Only one reader was waiting at the farm road. He wore a blue work shirt and stood at the gate with his hands in his pockets. His fingers were dark with oil. He came up the steps slowly and stopped when he saw the stand.

"Is that Small Boats?" he asked. "I've been looking for that for two years."

"We kept it for you," Uzma said, before she could stop herself.

Pilar gave her a look, then turned to the man. "Did you lose anything today? Anything small and brown?"

The man put a hand to his back pocket and froze. "My wallet," he said. "I thought I left it at home. I've been turning the house over since lunch."

"What is in it?" Pilar asked.

"Not much. Some coins. A receipt for wire. And a photo of me when I was seven, with the biggest fish I ever caught." He grinned. "That was a lie, by the way. It was a small fish, and my father held it closer to the camera."

Pilar handed over the wallet. The man checked every part of it, one thing at a time. He seemed afraid the items had changed. Then he held the photograph up to the light and laughed.

"I sat on that bench to read the first chapter of this book," he said. "I must have put the wallet down to turn the page. How did you find me?"

"We didn't," Uzma said. "You found us."

He borrowed the book at once. Pilar stamped the card, and Uzma printed a new slip, which he folded carefully into the wallet. At the door, he stopped and took the key on the green ribbon out of the wallet.

"Please keep this for me," he said.

"Why?" Pilar asked.

"Because I have another one at home, and this is the last one I should carry around." He pressed it into her hand. "I'll tell you what it opens when I bring the boat."

He went down the steps and walked toward the gate, whistling. Pilar watched him go, with the key warm in her palm.

"What boat?" Uzma whispered.

"I have no idea."

Pilar hung the key on the hook above the driver's seat. It swung there while they drove home, tapping the glass. Neither of them said another word about it.