There was always the smell of bread and print on Pliszek Street. Bread - because the bakery opposite baked challah at night in shapes that could be entered in an art competition. Print - because branch no. 7 of the Municipal Public Library held so much paper that many a print shop would feel ashamed. The neon sign above the door winked like a thoughtful eye: "Silent Joys" - and it really was an official sign. Someone had once misunderstood the library's slogan about silence, ordered a signboard and then didn't have the heart to change it. Basia had her first ever night duty today. Theoretically as part of the "Read before you fall asleep!" campaign. - practically because the rest of the crew unanimously said they already had plans. Maria was assembling the furniture, Zbyszek was "definitely not going to the pub" (which he said so confidently that Basia even started cheering for him) and the headmistress had signed up for yoga, if only yoga would allow her to lie motionless and scroll through grant offers. Basia was of those who don't make big resolutions. She wore her lemon jumper like armour and her thermal cup like a banner. Her hair had just the right amount of volume for customers to ask: "Do you have anything light for the weekend?" - and that they might have both a book and a hairstyle in mind. Officially, she was a librarian. Unofficially, she was the interpreter of forms on duty ("Ma'am, what does 'accession' mean and does it hurt?"), the keeper of pens ("If you take our pen home, it won't cause a revolution in your life, but it will in ours"), and the slayer of dried chive bookmarks. She also had an assistant: a cat called Mr Rhubarb. The cat was the colour of autumn copper and had a habit of laying down on alphabetical catalogues the way someone with a plan hidden under their fur lays down. - 'Mr Rabarbar,' said Basia, inserting her time card into the reader, which crunched like a carp on Christmas Eve, 'tonight is our night. Remember: when the students come, you don't sit on the laptops. When the haircuts come, you give the number to the barber. When the heated drama comes, we quench it with recycled tea. Mr Rabarbar responded with a mutter that wouldn't have been shamed by a bass player in a nineties alternative band. He sat down on the window sill and looked with clear appraisal at Pliszek Street. There was little traffic. The rain whispered on the cobblestones and the streetlights spun their golden commas along the pavement. At twenty-one, three high school students came in preparing for a competition on Europe. They spoke with such certainty about an era that Basia quietly checked the encyclopaedia to see if the chronology of the world had just changed. Later, Mr Fredek, a regular reader, came by, bringing an umbrella every time, even though the sky was bursting with sunshine or, as today, it was raining horizontally and the umbrella was of no help. He returned three detective books ("There were no recipes for cucumbers in them, so I was disappointed") and borrowed a mushroom atlas ("As a precaution, Mrs Basia"). Just after twenty-three, the library caught its breath. Silence squatted among the bookcases like a comfortable bird. Basia was brewing tea in a mug with the words: "Leave me alone, I'm reading", while Mr Rabarbar followed the complex movements of the kettle like an action movie. Then the bell at the returns chute rang. The bell by the returns chute should not ring. It was a proud instrument of silence: customers pushed books into the metal belly of the stall outside, and books landed softly in baskets covered with blankets. No ringing. No fireworks. And yet - ding. Then a second time - ding, on the note of a surprised crest. And a third - oh, already a little pusillanimous. - 'That's impossible,' said Basia loudly, because that's easier to negotiate with reality. - The chutes don't ring. They don't. She walked down the corridor to a small room where there were bins for returns, and next to them, a trolley for surprises: things left between the pages. From this trolley, the library had collected a pool of signs of the world over the years: tram tickets, photos of anonymous weddings, shopping lists full of philosophy ("Sugar, milk, courage") and even a letter to someone called "Dear Mr Nobody". Before she had time to lift the chute flap, she was turned away with a sigh by a parcel lying on the floor. Large, yellow, with as much tape as if someone really didn't want anything to come out of it. The address was written out neatly, in calligraphy from the days when calligraphy knew the word "supervision": "Ms Barbara, Branch No. 7, 3 Pliszek Street, right next to the bakery, door with neon sign". Instead of a date - a stamp: 30 February. Basia raised her eyebrows in a way that could win a raised eyebrows competition. - The thirtieth of February? - she asked the universe. The universe responded with the crunching of Mr Rabarbar, who had just found dry food in a bag of kibble (don't ask). Basia leaned over, touched the packet and - as soon as her fingers made contact with the cardboard - she heard something else: a barely perceptible, watermark-like trrrrrr. As if an old typewriter was working inside... or someone was trying to pin down a cloud with a paperclip. - 'I know it's not a film,' said Basia to Mr Rabarbar, 'but if a statistician pops out of this box in a moment and says "you signed here that you open parcels at night", I'm going to formally refuse. She carefully slid the parcel onto the desk, past the 'Lent to' stamp and the aspiration-coloured sticky notes. On top, just inside the seam, someone had stuck a small card. It was a note that made no attempt to be sympathetic. It said: "Do not open before midnight". Basia checked her watch. Eleven fifty-three. Seven minutes to the hour that people don't usually greet with cardboard in their hands. - A classic - she muttered. - Rule number one: if it says 'do not open', you open... sensibly. After midnight. Although... The Department of Branch Procedures (that is Basia from yesterday) claimed that nothing is opened without protocol. The Life Department (i.e. Basia from today) replied that the protocol sometimes has to have a sense of humour. The Cat Department (i.e. Mr Rhubarb) snapped his moustache like a sworn witness and squatted down so that he could see the package without moving his head unnecessarily. Time glided lazily along the wall. From outside came the knocking of rain against the bakery's signboard. Somewhere far away the last night bus had passed, leaving a ribbon of light in the air that didn't know whether it was already asleep or not yet. Basia pushed the scissors aside - there were no drastic cuts, at least for now - and stretched her fingers. - 'Okay,' she said at twelve zero zero, when the clock on the wall made a sound that sounded like 'difficult'. - If something strange is going to happen, at least let it happen on time. She tore off the first strip of tape. The smell of old papers and... something else gushed from the box. Something akin to the autumn air that remembered September in July. She bit the second strip of tape, but stopped immediately - even in moments like this, a person should have limits. The scissors went into action. Under the lid lay an envelope, and on the envelope - a letter. In handwriting. The handwriting was emphatic, with no hang-ups and no hesitation. "Basia, don't panic. This is an instruction. When you hear a knock three times, turn off the light and..." And nothing. Next was a blob. A big, shameless one. As if someone had buttered a sentence and eaten half of it. - 'Great,' said Basia to the letter. - The fact that I'm not panicking is a grace. Mr Rabarbar put his paw on the envelope like a notary. He knew the rules of narration better than anyone: if there is a three-knock in the text, then.... Knock. Basia froze. She looked around. A door? A window? The radiator that always rattled like a poet in a block of flats? Knock. Knock. It wasn't a radiator. It wasn't a window. It was - Basia felt the skin on her arms becoming sensitive to all the consonants in the world - from the direction of the return chute. The metal belly of the library stall responded with a sound, as if someone from inside was trying to summon a waiter. Knock. Knock. Knock. - 'Chutes don't knock,' whispered Basia, and at that exact moment the neon sign above the door blinked once, a second time, and then the lights went out throughout the library, leaving only one narrow strip of glow just inside the returns flap, as if someone had deliberately made a scene with a spotlight. Mr Rabarbar raised his tail in an exclamation. Basia lifted her hand to the switch... and then someone's whisper, very clear and, moreover, perfectly familiar, came from behind the grating of the flap: "Mrs Barbara, please don't do that. If you press it, everything will start faster."