Read Online A Fugitive Truth by Dana Cameron - Free Book Online Page A

been for her diary.
    Mr. Whitlow frowned again but spoke pleasantly enough. “Look, I can see by your face that you come down on the ‘conservative side—’”
    I jumped in. “I would say ‘preservationist.’”
    “Okay, fine. But you don’t keep every little scrap of everything you come across in your daily existence do you?”
    “I’m not a repository. Shrewsbury is.”
    “Point taken.” Mr. Whitlow leaned back in his chair. “But then you have to agree that every collection needs a periodical reexamination, to decide where not only the strengths are, but where the weaknesses are too. Our goal is to improve the collections. How can you be against that?”
    “I’m not against improving the collections,” I said. I put aside the fruit cup I had been enjoying so much just a minute ago; my stomach felt a little upset. “I just think it is not a simple thing to deaccession materials from one of the best collections in the world. I’m just against recklessly applying what might be a sound idea in business to something as…organic as a library or a museum collection, without it suffering for it.”
    Evert Whitlow nodded and tented his fingers thoughtfully. I got the sense that this was just a theoretical argument to him, whereas it felt so much more like religion to me. “You know, I heard that there was a superb basilica where Pope Julius wanted to place the Sistine Chapel. If people like you had your way, we wouldn’t have the Sistine Chapel today.”
    “Well, when you think about it, the Sistine Chapel isn’t that great, architecturally speaking,” I responded. “Where the real interest is, why everyone waits in line to see it, is the Michelangelo frescoes. If you take away the name, just for the sake of argument, what they’re interested in is…the surface treatment. A Michelangelo, yes, but otherwise a surface treatment on a fairly ugly building. We have other, better Michelangelos; who’s to say what masterpieces we lost with the basilica?”
    The director slapped his leg, enjoying the debate. “You’re calling the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel a more surface treatment? Dr. Fielding, you’re something else!”
    “I am exaggerating a little,” I admitted. “My point is that newer is not always better, and that issues of preservation—whether they are for architecture, archaeology, or libraries—are never straightforward, as business truisms sometimes seem to be.”
    “Well, we’re not treating this issue as an uncomplicated one,” he tried to reassure me. “And the staff—the library staff, that is—is doing its best to keep us alerted to all the potential problems. Don’t worry, trust me. They’re on your side, so nothing drastic is going to happen.”
    “Well, let me know if I can lend you any of my expertise. I’d be delighted to advise you, in whatever capacity an interested professional could.” I couldn’t really face continuing this conversation any further with the knots in my stomach, so I changed the topic. “I understand that you know Ron Belcher.” As soon as I said it, I realized my tummy would have preferred a discussion of the weather.
    But rather than the instant recognition I’d expected based on the Dean’s remarks, Whitlow’s face was blank. He shook his head vaguely, not placing the name.
    “He said he went to prep school with you,” I added. “Now he’s one of the deans at Caldwell College. Where I teach.”
    Recognition finally filled Whitlow’s face. “Good lord—Ron Belcher? That little guy back in—? Well, it’s been some time. Yessir, that’s going back more years than I care to admit to. How is Ron?”
    “Very well, thanks.” There wasn’t a whole lot I could add to that, but Whitlow didn’t seem to be too interested anyway, his polite inquiry a mere formality, if he in fact truly remembered Belcher in the first place.
    “Well, it’s nice to hear from old friends,” he said simply, and that was that. So much for the much vaunted