Scenes From "Loomis The Apophatic."

On Valentine’s Day of the following year, two men dressed as British colonial soldiers arrived at the hotel to deliver Loomis a large black velvet box wrapped in layer and layers of white ribbon, pink ribbon and one frail strand of gold rope, tied in a small bow at the top.

A table from the restaurant was cleared and brought quickly to the lobby, the box placed on top. At three o’clock in the afternoon, the guests of the hotel had finished eating, gone off to see Los Angeles, leaving the hired help with their hands free. A small crowd of chefs and waitresses, bus boys, bell hops and maids gathered around as Loomis began untying the ribbon. Someone called for him to use scissors, but Loomis looked horrified at the suggestion. Everything she gave him must be preserved perfectly.

For half an hour he unwound, then fitted the ends back through their knots, until finally the box lay bare. He lifted the lid and the congress of onlookers compressed around him, on the heights of their tip-toes, like ballerinas.

Loomis pulled out huge fists of basil leaves, heaping them on the floor for several minutes, and then he jangled his index finger at the concierge, who stepped forward. Together, they lifted out a massive leather bound book that smelled of the herb, but of mint, too. The volume, recently oiled for sheen, was twice as thick as the hotel guest book and broad enough to use as a shield.

“Oh, mon dieu,” yelled a chef, stepping back aghast.

“What?” said Loomis, setting the book down.

“I’ve seen that book before,” said the chef, removing his toque.

Loomis stepped back so that all could see. He bent over to look at the spine, his face very near the book.

“It’s a Gutenberg Bible,” said the chef, and the crowd began to mutter and chat to itself regarding this claim.

“It is worth more than this entire hotel.”

“Quiet!” called Loomis suddenly and the crowd complied.

The little troupe of workers stared at Loomis, their mouths shut. He leaned down and rested his ear on the cover of the book, in much the way a spy listens through a door. His eyes narrowed in concentration, then he announced, incredulous of his own words, “I hear wings.”

Standing aright, he grabbed hold of the cover and threw it open, then sprang forth from the book’s hollowed out guts a great gust of moths— broad winged Atlas moths larger than crows, and pale green Luna moths, Death’s-head Hawkmoths to terrify and Madagascan sunset moths to delight, White Witch moths, Emperor Gum moths, heavy Bogong moths that fled off immediately to restaurant candles and returned in the lobby moments later aflame yet flying, slowing burning into ashes and fluttering to the floor, elegant Polyphemus moths, Titan Sphinx moths and schools of Rosy Maple moths no bigger than your thumbnail that dashed around the room like tiny fish in the ocean.

via the great gibsby