She rose again, but this time her movements were even softer, cautious, not to scare the child. She approached the woman and said a few words in her language. The woman flinched in surprise and replied.
A short dialogue ensued. Lucia took the woman by the hand and led to another shelf in the farthest corner of the hall. There on the lower shelf were several thin books with unfamiliar letters on covers.
Lucia took one, handed it to the boy; he looked at her distrustfully. Then she squatted to be at his level and began reading aloud. Her voice changed, becoming melodic, full of amazing intonations.
She didn’t just read the text. She told a fairy tale. The boy, previously sullen and scared, opened his eyes wide.
He listened, holding his breath. His mom stood nearby and looked at Lucia as if seeing a miracle before her. Richard didn’t breathe.
He sat ten meters away, and snippets of this strange magical speech reached him. Fourth language. Fifth, counting English.
He felt a lump in his throat. He saw not a polyglot. He saw a person giving others a piece of their home, culture, childhood.
He, Richard Salazar, who built towers of glass and concrete, felt like a barbarian next to this girl building invisible bridges between souls. He didn’t notice when the same elderly librarian approached his table. «Can I help you?» «You’ve been sitting here for hours,» she asked quietly, looking curiously at his expensive suit.
Richard flinched and raised his eyes to her. «No, thank you, I’m just… waiting.» «Ah?» the woman nodded understandingly, following his gaze.
«You noticed our Lucia too? She’s like a good fairy to us, a real treasure.» «Is she… always like this?» Richard asked hoarsely. «Always,» the librarian smiled.
«As long as I’ve known her—she comes after cleaning and sits until closing, and always helps someone. Tourists already know if you’re lost or can’t understand something, go to the city library and look for the dark girl in the corner. She speaks all languages, I think I’ve heard French, Chinese, even Arabic.
Amazing, right? In our time, such a treasure. And no one notices.» The woman walked away, leaving Richard alone with her words.
No one notices. Those words hit him like a slap. He noticed.
But how did he notice? With contempt. With mockery. He, the great Richard Salazar, from the height of his glass tower, dared to throw this girl a humiliating handout of his judgments.
Shame. For the first time in many years, he felt it, hot, caustic shame flooding his cheeks with color. But the performance wasn’t over.
Closer to evening, a group of Asian students peeked into the library. They noisily discussed something, trying to find information in the computer catalog. One of them, seeing Lucia, approached her and politely bowed, asking a question in broken English.
Lucia raised her eyes to him and answered. But not in English. She answered in his native language.
Richard saw the student’s face stretch. He quickly said something to his friends, and in a second their whole group stood at Lucia’s table. They showered her with questions in their sharp tonal language.
She answered each patiently and with a smile. Sixth language. Then a middle-aged man looking for something in the Russian classics department.
He asked Lucia if the library had a rare edition of Dostoevsky. She didn’t just show him the shelf. She started a conversation with him about «The Brothers Karamazov,» quoting whole passages from memory.
In Russian. Seventh language. Richard was no longer in shock.
He was crushed. Each new word in a new language was a hammer smashing his world into small shards. Everything he believed in, the power of money, the superiority of his class, that people from the bottom are lazy and stupid.
All that turned out to be a lie. A grandiose ugly lie he invented himself. The last episode happened almost before closing.
An elegant man entered the hall, speaking English with a strong French accent. He was looking for a collection of Paul Verlaine’s poems. Lucia stood, approached the needed shelf, and a minute later handed him a thin book in a worn binding.
«Here you are,» she said in impeccable French. The man raised his eyebrows in surprise. «You speak French?» «A little,» she replied modestly.
«Incredible,» he murmured, opening the book, «what’s your favorite.» Lucia thought for a second, then in a quiet almost whisper voice read a few lines. Her French was so melodic and pure that Richard, who knew the language from business negotiations in Paris, was shaken to the core.
She didn’t just know words. She felt the music of the language. Eighth language.
Eight. She didn’t lie. When the librarian announced the library closes in five minutes, Lucia began gathering her books.
Richard stood, his legs cottony. He couldn’t leave. Not now.
He had to do something, say something. He waited until she left the hall and followed her. She descended the old steps and walked down the dimly lit street toward the poor neighborhoods.
He followed, keeping distance. He didn’t know what to say. He knew nothing at all.
His head was deafening emptiness, echoing with eight different voices from one little girl’s lips. She walked quickly without looking back. A fragile figure, alone in the night.
And he—the mighty Richard Salazar, owner of factories, newspapers, ships—trailed after her like a beaten dog, feeling the most insignificant and pathetic man in the world. His world collapsed, and on its ruins he first saw the real world, huge, complex, infinitely distant from the one he saw from his penthouse window. Wait! His voice broke, sounding pitiful and alien.
Lucia froze without turning. The street was almost empty. Only wind chased autumn leaves on the asphalt.
She stood under the dim light of the single lantern. Her small figure seemed even more fragile in the thickening twilight. Richard took several steps, closing the distance.
His heart pounded so hard it seemed to want to break through his chest. He, used to commanding, now couldn’t find the right words. «Please,» he repeated quieter, «don’t go.»
She slowly turned. In her eyes there was no fear, no surprise, only immense calm fatigue. She looked at him as one looks at something inevitable, like bad weather to be endured.
«What do you need, Mr. Salazar?» Her voice was even, without expression. «Want to laugh again? You didn’t succeed today, so you decided to try again.» Her words were not a jab, but a statement of fact.
And that made it worse. An accusation could be disputed, an insult—answered. But this calm rightness disarmed.
«No,» he squeezed out, «I want to apologize.» Lucia tilted her head slightly, as if hearing something odd. «You already apologized.
There, in the library. Your face said everything, that’s enough.» «No, not enough!» He took another step.
«Nothing is enough, I behaved like… like the last scum. I said terrible things. I was wrong.
I was blind.» He fell silent, breathing with difficulty. His whole life and achievements seemed dust compared to this girl’s dignity.
«People are often blind,» she answered quietly. Especially those who live very high. From there, it’s hard to see what’s happening below.
She turned to leave again. «Please!» Desperation sounded in his voice. «Five minutes! Just five minutes of your time! Allow me… allow me at least to treat you to a cup of coffee.
Right there, around the corner, there’s a small cafe. I just want to understand.» Lucia looked in the indicated direction and then at him again…
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