The Sabbatical Letters

Lydia had come to the coastal town of Harlow Bay for a sabbatical year, and by the third week she had learned that the only dependable heating in the place was the public library's. She worked there in the afternoons, at a long table under a window that rattled in every wind, reading and failing to write. On one of those afternoons she took a novel from the returned-books trolley, the librarian having waved her towards it, and found a slip of paper marking the page where a storm began.

Lydia datang ke kota pesisir Harlow Bay untuk cuti panjang selama setahun, dan pada minggu ketiga ia sudah belajar bahwa satu-satunya pemanas yang bisa diandalkan di tempat itu adalah milik perpustakaan umum. Ia bekerja di sana pada sore hari, di meja panjang di bawah jendela yang berkelotak setiap kali ada angin, membaca dan gagal menulis. Pada salah satu sore itu ia mengambil sebuah novel dari troli buku kembalian, setelah pustakawan melambai mengarahkannya ke sana, dan menemukan secarik kertas yang menandai halaman tempat badai dimulai.

The slip was written in pencil, in an upright, slightly old-fashioned hand. "The author has the tide wrong here. It would not run that way against a north wind. Not a criticism of the book, only of the sea." Lydia, who had spent the morning staring at a paragraph she disliked, read it twice and felt, absurdly, that she had been addressed. She wrote underneath, "Then how would it run?" and put the book back on the trolley, telling herself that the librarian would shelve it, the slip would be thrown away, and the experiment would end there.

Kertas itu ditulis dengan pensil, dalam tulisan tangan tegak yang agak kuno. "Pengarangnya keliru soal pasang surut di sini. Arusnya tidak akan mengalir begitu melawan angin utara. Ini bukan kritik terhadap bukunya, hanya terhadap lautnya." Lydia, yang pagi itu menghabiskan waktu menatap satu paragraf yang tidak ia sukai, membacanya dua kali dan merasa, secara tidak masuk akal, bahwa ia disapa. Ia menulis di bawahnya, "Lalu bagaimana arusnya mengalir?" dan menaruh buku itu kembali ke troli, mengatakan kepada dirinya sendiri bahwa pustakawan akan merapikannya ke rak, kertas itu akan dibuang, dan percobaan itu akan berakhir di sana.

Four days later a different book, a travel memoir marked at a chapter about fog, held an answer in four careful lines, with a diagram. The librarian, asked, would say only that the retired harbourmaster, Zaid, borrowed a great deal and returned things on Thursdays. She said it with the empty face of a woman who has watched several correspondences begin in her returned books. Lydia did not ask to be introduced. Having discovered that she could talk to him without being looked at, she was reluctant to risk the arrangement.

Empat hari kemudian sebuah buku lain, memoar perjalanan yang ditandai pada bab tentang kabut, memuat jawaban dalam empat baris yang teliti, lengkap dengan diagram. Sang pustakawan, ketika ditanya, hanya akan mengatakan bahwa mantan kepala pelabuhan, Zaid, banyak meminjam dan mengembalikan barang pada hari Kamis. Ia mengatakannya dengan wajah kosong seorang wanita yang telah menyaksikan beberapa korespondensi dimulai dari buku-buku kembalian. Lydia tidak minta diperkenalkan. Setelah menemukan bahwa ia bisa berbicara dengan pria itu tanpa ditatap, ia enggan mempertaruhkan pengaturan itu.

Through the winter the notes multiplied, though only slightly. They discussed weather, mostly, and then lighthouses, and why one stretch of coast made her homesick when it looked nothing like home. Once he left a small drawing of a knot, captioned "this one holds when nothing else will", and she carried it in her coat pocket for a week. What she noticed was how little either of them asked. He never said why he had stopped going to sea, and she never explained what she was failing to write.

Sepanjang musim dingin catatan-catatan itu bertambah, meski hanya sedikit. Mereka membahas cuaca, kebanyakan, lalu mercusuar, dan mengapa satu bentang pantai membuatnya rindu rumah padahal sama sekali tak mirip rumahnya. Sekali dia meninggalkan gambar kecil sebuah simpul, dengan keterangan "yang ini bertahan ketika yang lain tidak", dan ia membawanya di saku mantel selama seminggu. Yang ia sadari adalah betapa sedikitnya yang ditanyakan keduanya. Pria itu tak pernah mengatakan mengapa ia berhenti melaut, dan ia tak pernah menjelaskan apa yang gagal ia tulis.

Once, in February, she saw him. She was almost certain: a tall man in a worn blue jacket at the far shelves, running a finger along the spines with the patience of someone who has the whole afternoon. Had she been a braver person, she would have crossed the room. Instead she stayed at her table with her pen hovering, and he left without turning round, and on Thursday the trolley carried a note that said only, "The light is coming back earlier now."

Sekali, pada bulan Februari, ia melihatnya. Ia hampir yakin: seorang pria jangkung berjaket biru lusuh di rak-rak paling ujung, menyusurkan jari di punggung buku dengan kesabaran orang yang punya waktu sepanjang sore. Seandainya ia orang yang lebih berani, ia akan menyeberangi ruangan. Alih-alih, ia tetap di mejanya dengan pena melayang, dan pria itu pergi tanpa menoleh, dan pada hari Kamis troli itu membawa catatan yang hanya berbunyi, "Cahaya kini kembali lebih awal."

By the end of spring her year was nearly over, and so, she suspected, was the thing she did not know how to name. Only on the fourth attempt did she arrive at a version she could bear. It was short: "I leave on Saturday. Thank you for correcting the sea." She borrowed the first novel again for the purpose, folded the note into the page where the storm began, and set the book on the trolley on Thursday morning.

Menjelang akhir musim semi tahunnya hampir habis, dan begitu pula, ia menduga, sesuatu yang tak tahu ia namai. Baru pada percobaan keempat ia sampai pada versi yang bisa ia tanggung. Singkat saja: "Saya berangkat hari Sabtu. Terima kasih sudah mengoreksi laut." Ia meminjam novel pertama itu lagi untuk keperluan ini, melipat catatan itu ke halaman tempat badai dimulai, dan menaruh buku itu di troli pada Kamis pagi.

She did not stay to see who came for it. At the door the librarian, who had said nothing all year, remarked that she would make sure it was shelved with care. It was not what Lydia had asked, and not, she thought, quite what the woman meant. Outside, the wind had turned to the north. Lydia stood for a moment on the steps, looking at the water beyond the harbour wall, and could not tell which way it was running.

Ia tidak tinggal untuk melihat siapa yang mengambilnya. Di pintu, sang pustakawan, yang sepanjang tahun tak mengatakan apa-apa, berkomentar bahwa ia akan memastikan buku itu dirapikan dengan hati-hati. Itu bukan yang Lydia minta, dan bukan, pikirnya, persis maksud wanita itu. Di luar, angin telah berbalik ke utara. Lydia berdiri sejenak di undakan, menatap air di balik tembok pelabuhan, dan tak bisa mengatakan ke arah mana air itu mengalir.