The entire surface area of my skin is damp with sweat, collecting on my upper lip and lethargically dripping down from the nape of my neck. In a singular motion I wipe it away with the back of my hand and return my attention to the wooden drawer filled with index cards before me. I’ve been rifling through the catalogue at the National Library for over forty-five minutes without any titles or leads to show for it. I shouldn’t be too surprised—Pentecostalism in Cuba is a small field of study, but is one source really too much to ask for?
The cards are each individually printed by typewriter, though many have short, hand written notes scribbled on them, like reservado (reserved) or perdido (lost). It’s always the books that are lost that are the ones you need. I sigh and scratch off the item on my long list of key terms before replacing the drawer in its cabinet. Thwarted but not defeated, I pick up my things—noticing the puddle of sweat in the shape of my forearm on the table—and move to the reference section.
This was not my first library visit, and I doubt it’s my last. No my first library visit consisted of me staring at the card catalogue in awe and intimidation and, eventually, clumsily attempting to request a book from the circulation desk. While not all of the librarians are overly enthusiastic to help a foreign college student request an obscure book, my enthusiasm and blatant obliviousness to the ways of their library always seems to disarm even the most morose of them.
There’s a separate catalogue in the reference section, but when I move towards its cabinet a middle-aged man, who reminds me of my endearing high school librarian with his khaki pants, collared shirt, and spectacles, informs me that only librarians are permitted to search the reference catalogue.
I sit at a nearby table and wait for him to return. He does, and to my surprise he holds a single index card in his hand. Handwritten in clear lettering it records the existence of an official note regarding vague events that transpired at the Evangelical Pentecostal Church. But, of course, the card lacks a call number. It does, however, contain the church’s address.
I write the address and accept it as the only product of my morning in the library.
He glances down at the card and asks again what I am researching. I explain it again, and he sits down and says “mira” (look) before launching into it: he’s Pentecostal—and so is another librarian, but they’re a different denomination—anyways, there’s a magazine in the library’s holdings published by this church in the late 1990s; I should go fill out the request slip at the circulation desk. I nod but before I go I ask him about his religious beliefs, his opinions on the current state of Pentecostal churches in Cuba, how he sees the relationship between religion and the government, etc. The interview is only twenty minutes, but it’s rich in material.
When we finish I thank him for his help and his time. At the circulation desk I fill out the request slip and wait excitedly for the attendant to appear. They do, but they’re empty handed.
“Mira,” they tell me, “we found the magazine but it’s big and a wheel on the cart is broken, so you can’t use it.”
“Well, when will the wheel be fixed?”
They shrug and return to their perch behind the circulation desk.