🔥 Nine Days in Lisbon 🔥

An Exclusive Bonus Chapter from The Winter He Learned to Stay by Milo Hart

⚠️ Spoiler Warning: This bonus chapter takes place in April, after Chapter Twenty-Two and before the Epilogue of The Winter He Learned to Stay. It contains major spoilers and very explicit MM sexual content (18+), including rimming and photography during sex, and it runs hotter than the book. Read the novel first for the full experience.

One sign at arrivals, four flights of stone stairs, and shutters open on the whole of the Alfama. Explicit content — 18+.

Nine Days in Lisbon

JONAH

He was holding a sign.

I want that understood before anything else is said about Lisbon. I came through the doors from customs at twenty to eight in the morning, after fourteen hours, two aeroplanes and a sandwich I shall not describe, into a hall full of drivers holding up names on tablets and laminated card, and in the middle of them stood a lean man with a sunburnt nose and a sheet of library paper held up against his chest with both hands.

KIM, it said, in block capitals. BRIARWOOD COMMUNITY LIBRARY. And underneath, smaller: Ask at the desk.

I stopped walking. A woman with a luggage trolley went into the back of my knees and said something in Portuguese that needed no translation. I apologized to her. I didn’t take my eyes off him.

“You didn’t ask me,” Eli said, when I reached him. He was grinning, and trying not to, and failing at both. “That was rather the point. This isn’t on my way to anything. I came because I wanted to see you get off that plane.”

“You’ve been rehearsing.”

“Since Tuesday. I had it written on my hand.” He held up his palm. There was blue ink across it, half worn off. “Hi.”

“Hello.”

He folded the sign in thirds. Then he took my face in both hands, in the arrivals hall of Humberto Delgado Airport, in front of a great many professional drivers, and kissed me as though I had been gone a year instead of five days.

I had not, as it happens, been gone at all. He had. That was the arrangement: the shop, the nine days, Marisol’s dates in ink under the Kessler’s magnet a month and a half in advance. And then on the Sunday call, the first night, his voice down the line from a room I couldn’t picture: I’ll be done Thursday. The light here, Jonah. Come and see it. I’m asking. And Talia, when I mentioned it with what I believed to be great casualness, had taken my keys off the desk and put them in her cardigan pocket and said, “Book it while I’m watching you.”

So I had booked it. Four nights. Wednesday to Sunday. I had not been out of the country since a conference in Toronto in 2009, at which I gave a paper on the cataloguing of local history pamphlets and spoke to no one.

“Is that all you brought?” He was looking at my case.

“It’s four nights.”

“You packed for four nights in one carry-on.” He took it from me. He did not ask whether he might. “God. I love you.”

He said it walking away, toward the exit, wheeling my case. As though it were a fact about luggage. I stood there for a moment in the arrivals hall with my coat over my arm, and then I followed him out into a light I was not, in any sense, prepared for.

The room was at the top of a narrow yellow house in the Alfama, up four flights of stone stairs worn into bowls, at the end of a lane too steep and too crooked for anything but feet. The door had a brass hand for a knocker. The landlady’s cat was asleep on the third landing and declined to move.

“Watch the step,” Eli said, at every step.

Inside it was one long whitewashed room under the roof beams, tiled to the height of my waist all the way round in blue and white: ships, mostly, and birds, and a great many small people doing something to fish. There was a bed with an iron frame. A table with his laptop and a jar of pencils on it. A pair of tall shutters at the far end, half closed, with bars of white light coming through the slats and lying across the floor like something you might trip over.

His duffel was open on a chair. His shirts were on hangers on a nail in the wall. His kit was unrolled along the shelf over a little basin, razor and toothbrush and the bottle of something, and on the table beside the laptop stood a coffee cup with the morning still in it.

He had lived here nine days, and he had lived here.

“The shop’s at the bottom of the hill,” he said. He was watching me look. “Dona Amália. She’s seventy-nine. She paints one tile at a time, by hand, the way her grandmother did, and she wouldn’t let me lift the camera for four days. She made me grind pigment. Like Don Aurelio and his rake.” He pushed his hair off his forehead. “I got her on Tuesday. Her hands and a brush and one bird, half done. It’s the best thing I’ve shot since Arne.”

“You’ve finished.”

“I’ve finished.” He set my case down by the bed, very square, and turned round. “I filed it last night. Marisol cried. Blamed an allergy again. It’s three days, Jonah. I haven’t got a thing to do for three days but you.”

The light was coming through the shutters onto the side of his face. He had that look. I had seen it turned on a frosted window and a dish rack and an old man with a harmonica, and once, in my own front room, on me. The weighing look. The patient one.

He wasn’t holding a camera. He was looking at me with it anyway.

“I’ve been in these clothes since Pittsburgh,” I said.

“I know. You smell like an airport.”

“That’s unkind.”

“It’s accurate. There’s a shower down the hall. It’s the size of a phone box, and the water goes from cold to scalding with nothing in between, and I’m coming with you.”

“It’s the size of a phone box.”

“Then you’ll have to hold still,” Eli said, and began to unbutton my shirt.

He was right about the shower. I’ll say only that it was not built for two men of our dimensions, that I struck my elbow twice on the tiles, and that he got down on his knees in it anyway, in a space I would not have believed could hold a kneeling man, and took me into his mouth under a stream of water that went from cold to scalding with nothing in between.

I didn’t last. I had been five days without him and fourteen hours in transit and I had my palms flat on a wall of painted ships, and he had his hands on my hips and his eyes open, looking up at me through the water, and he hummed. That was all. He hummed around me, low, and I came with a sound that went up the stairwell and very probably woke the cat.

He stood up dripping. He was laughing.

“That was the airport,” he said. “That doesn’t count.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It doesn’t count. That was customs.” He reached past me and shut the water off. “Go and lie down. You’re going to sleep for two hours, because you’ve been awake since Tuesday, and I’m going to sit at the table and pretend to work and look at you. And then you’re mine.”

I wished to dispute it. I lay down on the iron bed in a towel to compose the dispute, and the next thing I knew the bars of light had moved halfway up the wall and there was a bell going somewhere below the window, a great many times, and a smell of grilled sardines coming up from the lane.

He was at the table with his chin on his fist. He had not been pretending to work.

“Hi,” he said.

“How long have you been watching me?”

“About two hours.”

“That’s a long exposure.”

“Best light in the city. Comes through those shutters around four.” He stood up. He crossed the room and stood at the foot of the bed, in a white T-shirt and his old jeans, barefoot on the tiles, and looked down at me. “You were asleep in it. On your stomach, with your hand under the pillow. Three bars of light across your back. One right across your ass.” He tilted his head. “I didn’t lift the camera.”

I lay there and considered him.

There is a thing I have been turning over since the winter. Since a front room in December, and a man setting his camera on my mantelpiece with the lens turned to the wall because, he said, he didn’t want anything between us. I have thought about that gift a good deal. It was a true gift, and an enormous one, and I have come to think that it was also the last of something: of a man who could only bear to be close to a thing if he either had a lens in front of it or none at all. Who had to choose.

“Where is it?” I said.

He went still. “Where’s what?”

“The camera.”

“In the bag.”

“Get it out.”

He didn’t move. “Jonah.”

“I’d like you to photograph me.” I turned onto my back. The towel had long since given up. I left it where it lay. “In that light. Like this. I’d like you to look at me through it the way you looked at Dona Amália’s hands, as though there were nothing in the world you’d rather see, and then I’d like you to put it down and fuck me while I’m still lying in it.” I folded my hands behind my head. “I am asking. In complete sentences. You’ll note I’ve hung nothing off the end.”

He made a sound I’d not heard from him before. Something between a laugh and a man being struck in the chest.

“You hate being photographed.”

“I hated being looked at. That’s been dealt with. I find I’d quite like to see what I look like to you.” I held his eyes. “And this time you’re to keep it. Not on a card in my palm. In the camera. Yours.”

He got the camera out.

I can tell you what it is to be photographed by a man who loves you, because I have now been photographed by one, in Lisbon, at four in the afternoon, lying naked on an iron bed with bars of white light across me like the rungs of a ladder.

It is not like being looked at. Being looked at is passive. It’s a thing done to you while you stand there in a cardigan and wait for it to be over. This was a conversation. He talked the whole time. He came around the bed, low, crouching, and talked to me the way he talks to a skittish thing he wants to keep, and every time the shutter went he told me why.

“Turn your face to the window. No. Back. There.” Click. “You’re doing the thing with your mouth. When you’re trying not to smile.” Click. “Don’t stop.”

“I can’t help it. You’re crouched on a tiled floor in your underwear.”

“I’m working.” Click. “Put your hand on your chest. Flat. Like you do on me.” Click. “God. Look at you. Do you know you’ve got a bar of light right across your cock? It’s like the whole city’s pointing.”

“That’s vulgar.”

“That’s composition.” He stood up on the end of the bed, one bare foot either side of my shins, and shot straight down. “Spread your legs.”

I spread my legs.

“Wider. Put your knees up.” Click. His voice had gone lower. “Touch yourself. Slow. The way I showed you in December. Root to tip, and turn your wrist at the top, and look at me. Not the lens. Me.”

I looked at him. I put my hand on myself, already hard, with the light lying hot across my thighs, and stroked as I’d been told, and did not look away, and I watched it go through him: the lift of his chest, the color climbing his throat, the way his jeans had become an inconvenience to him. Click. He didn’t lower the camera.

“Faster?” I said.

“No. Slower.” Click. “You’ve got this look on you. Like you’re asking for something and not saying what.”

“I’m not asking for anything.”

“Liar.” He lowered the camera an inch. “You promised me. If you say it doesn’t matter, I’m to assume you’re lying.”

“Then assume it.”

“I’m assuming.” He put the camera to his eye again. “Ask me anyway.”

I let go of myself. I let my hand fall open on the sheet beside my hip.

“I want your mouth,” I said. “Not on my cock. I want you to turn me over in this light and put your mouth on me where you’ve never put it, and I want you to take your time about it, and I want you to photograph what it does to my face first so that we’ll both know.” I swallowed. “There. I’ve said it in front of a camera. I hope you’re satisfied.”

He did not take the picture.

He set the camera down on the table, very carefully, beside the coffee cup, with the lens to the window. Not to the wall. To the light. Then he pulled his T-shirt off over his head, and pushed his jeans down, and climbed onto the bed, and turned me over with one hand flat between my shoulder blades, exactly as I have turned him a hundred times.

“I’m going to remember your face for that one,” he said into the back of my neck. “I don’t need the frame.”

No one had done it to me. I’ll set that down plainly. I am forty years old. I spent three years with a chemistry teacher. No one had ever put his mouth there, and I had never once in my life asked.

He took me apart with it.

He began at the nape of my neck and went down my spine one vertebra at a time, with his mouth open and his hands spread on my ribs, and when he reached the small of my back he stopped and bit me, hard, so that I jumped and swore into the pillow. Then he took my hips and drew them up, knees under me, and spread me open with both thumbs, and breathed on me. That was all, at first. He breathed, and I lay there with my face in a Portuguese pillow and my whole body clenched like a fist and the afternoon light lying hot across the backs of my thighs, and waited.

“Jonah.”

“What.“

“You’re holding your breath. Breathe out. You say that to me every time.”

I breathed out. He licked me.

One long flat stroke of his tongue, slow and wet and absolutely shameless, from the base of my balls to the top of the cleft, and I made a noise I didn’t know I owned. It came out of the back of my throat and went straight up to the roof beams. Below the window, someone in the lane laughed. I didn’t care. He did it again. He did it a third time, and then he pressed his mouth to me and stayed, and worked his tongue against that tight, sensitive place in slow wet circles until my thighs were shaking and I was pushing back against his face without the slightest dignity.

“Fuck,” I said. “Eli. Fuck.“

“Mm.” He didn’t lift his head. He pushed his tongue into me.

I lost my words. That’s not a figure of speech. I had none. I had a pillow in both fists and his tongue in me and his thumbs holding me open, and every thought I’ve ever had in a complete sentence went out of me at once and left only noise. He fucked me with it. Slow, then not slow. He got one hand under me and wrapped it around my cock and stroked me, loose and lazy and wet, while his mouth worked, and the twin sensations went up my spine like current.

“Please,” I heard myself say. “Please. I can’t. I’m going to—”

He let go of me. All of me at once. His mouth, his hand. I was left on my knees on the iron bed in the light, shaking, leaking onto the sheet, with nothing touching me anywhere.

“Not like that,” he said. His voice had gone completely wrecked. “That was the shower again. I want you to come with me in you. I’ve been thinking about it for nine days in this bed.”

“Then do it.”

“Ask me.”

“I’m asking! I’ve asked twice, I’ve asked in front of a camera, I flew four thousand miles to ask, I’d like you inside me in the next ten seconds or I shall go down those stairs and tell your landlady’s cat—”

He laughed so hard he had to put his forehead on my back. Then he reached over for the little bottle on the shelf, and I heard it click, and felt his fingers, two of them, slick and certain, sink into me where his mouth had made me soft and open and desperate.

“Oh, God,” I said. “Oh, yes.”

“You’re so open. Jonah. You’re so ready for me.” He crooked his fingers, and I saw a white light that had nothing to do with the shutters. “I could get my whole hand in you. I won’t. Not today. But I could.”

“Eli.“

“I know.” He drew his fingers out. He knelt up behind me. I felt the head of him, hot and slick, pressing, and I pushed back to meet it before he’d decided to, and he slid into me in one long slow stroke that didn’t stop until his hips were flush against me and I could feel him in the backs of my teeth.

Neither of us moved. We stayed like that, locked, in the striped light, breathing.

“There you are,” Eli said.

I have said that to him a dozen times. I had not known what it sounded like from this side. It sounds like being found.

Then he moved, and I stopped thinking about anything at all.

He fucked me slowly at first, long deep strokes that drew almost all the way out and sank all the way back, his hands on my hips, his thumbs pressing into the dimples above them. Then faster. Then hard. The iron bed began to complain, and then to knock against the tiled wall, a blue ship and a man with a net shuddering with every thrust, and below us in the lane a woman’s voice called something sharp up at the window, and Eli leaned down over my back, still driving into me, and put his mouth to my ear.

“She says to close the shutters.”

“Will you?”

“No.” He bit my shoulder. “This isn’t a library. Be as loud as you like.”

So I was.

I have never been loud in my life. Not as a boy, not in a bed, not anywhere. I have closed every Saturday for nine years and shushed four generations of Briarwood schoolchildren, and I have been quiet with every man I have ever had, as though there were always someone in the next room who mustn’t know. In a whitewashed room at the top of a yellow house in Lisbon, with the shutters open and the whole of the Alfama going about its afternoon beneath us, I was not quiet. I told him what he was doing to me. I told him how deep, and how good, and to do it harder, and when he did it harder I told him that, too. I swore at him. I called him a number of things. I said his name until it stopped being a name.

He got one arm around my chest and hauled me up off my hands, back against him, both of us kneeling, and kept fucking up into me with my spine against his chest and his mouth on my neck. The light from the shutters lay across both of us now. I could see us. There was a little mirror over the basin across the room, spotted and old, and in it there were two men on their knees on an iron bed, flushed and sweating and joined, one of them with his head thrown back on the other’s shoulder and his mouth open.

“Look,” Eli said. “Look at you. That’s what I’ve been looking at since November.”

I looked. I’d have looked away, once. I didn’t.

He took me in his fist. He stroked me in time with his hips, tight and slick and merciless, and talked in my ear the whole time, low and filthy and tender, the way I talk to him. I came with my eyes open, looking at myself in a Portuguese mirror, with a shout that I am told was heard at the tram stop. It went on and on. My whole body seized around him, and he swore, and drove in once more, deep, and held, and I felt him come inside me in long hot pulses, his arm locked across my chest and his forehead pressed between my shoulder blades and my name going into my skin.

We went down onto the bed in a heap. The springs said a great deal.

After a long time the woman in the lane said something else, at a lower volume.

“What did she say?”

He was laughing weakly into my back. “She said finally.“

We went out at nine, when the city does.

He walked me down the hill through lanes no wider than my outstretched arms, past doorways with old women in them on kitchen chairs, under washing hung across from balcony to balcony like bunting. He knew where every step was broken. He knew the man at the café on the corner, who called him o fotógrafo and put down two small glasses of something cherry-colored without being asked. He was greeted, on the way, by four people, a dog, and a child of perhaps six who demanded to know where his camera was.

“In the bag,” Eli told her, in dreadful Portuguese. “I’m on holiday.”

He took me past the shop. It was shuttered for the night, a narrow green door with a painted panel over it: a blue bird on a branch, done in the old way, faded where the sun reached it.

“She did that when she was nineteen,” he said. “Her first one on the street. She told me she had to repaint the left wing four times before her grandmother would let it go up.” He stood in front of it with his hands in his pockets. “I asked her if she ever thought about leaving. Doing it somewhere else. She looked at me like I’d asked whether she’d ever considered not having bones.”

“What did you say?”

“I told her about you.” He didn’t look at me. “I said I had a man at home who’d been in the same building for nineteen years, and I used to think that was a cage. And she said, a cage is a thing you can’t leave. A house is a thing you come back to. Which is it?” He scuffed a heel. “I told her it was a house. She made me grind pigment for another hour. I think she was pleased.”

We found a place with four tables and a woman singing fado at the back of it to nine people and a guitar. We didn’t talk much. She sang about the sea, Eli said, and about someone who hadn’t come back from it, and at the end of every verse the whole room went so quiet you could hear the guitarist breathe. He held my hand on the table, openly, the way I’d held his in Rinaldi’s in front of the Pruitts. No one looked at us at all.

Halfway through the third song he leaned over and put his mouth against my ear.

“I want to go back up,” he said. “I want you to fuck me with the shutters open while she’s still singing. You can hear her from the room. I checked.”

“You checked.”

“Nine nights. Alone. I lay up there and listened to this woman sing about the sea and thought about you on top of me.” His thumb moved over my knuckles. “I’m telling you first. That’s the rule.”

I paid for the wine. I believe I overpaid. We were up the four flights in a time I would not have thought possible for a man of my years, and the cat on the third landing removed itself from our path with an air of having seen this before.

He had the shutters open before I’d got the door shut. The whole night came in. The river, black, with a ferry going across it strung with lights. The rooftops dropping away below us in steps, terracotta gone violet in the dark. And from the bottom of the lane, faint and clear, the voice of a woman singing about the sea.

He undressed in front of the window. He didn’t hurry. He did it facing me, with the city behind him, and when he was naked he stood there and let me look.

He’s changed since the winter. His hands have healed; the boat ruined them and Lisbon has given them back, browner, with a new nick on the left thumb from a palette knife. There’s sun on his shoulders and the bridge of his nose. He has filled out a little, from my cooking and my mother’s scorched rice, so that he’s no longer quite all edges. He’s forty in two years. There’s gray at his temple, as promised, and I have been watching all of it arrive.

“Come here,” I said.

He came. He knelt up on the bed in front of me and put his hands on my shoulders and let me lay him down on his back, in the middle, his head toward the open window, the sound of the fado coming in over him.

I took my time.

I kissed every inch I could reach. His mouth. His throat, where my mark from Saturday had faded to a ghost and needed renewing, so I renewed it. His chest. The bruise from the boat that had long since healed and which I kissed anyway, out of policy. The scar below his navel. The hollow inside each hip. I took him in my mouth, slowly, and held him there on my tongue until his hands came down into my hair and his heels dug into the mattress, and then I took my mouth away and he swore at me in two languages, one of them badly.

“You learned that from Dona Amália.”

“I learned it from the pigment—God, Jonah, please—”

I opened him with my fingers while the woman downstairs sang. One, then two, then three, because there is a policy. He was already soft and loose from the afternoon, from having been wanted all day, and he pushed down onto my hand with his head thrown back and his eyes on the window, and every time I curled my fingers he made a low, broken, grateful sound that went out over the rooftops.

“Now,” he said. “Jonah. Now. I’m asking. I’m here, I’m not going anywhere, I’m asking—”

I knelt up between his thighs and hooked his knees over my arms and pushed into him.

He took me with a long low groan that I felt all the way down. I didn’t stop. I didn’t hurry. I sank into him by inches until I was buried to the root, and he was gripping me so tightly I could feel his heart, and then I lowered myself onto him, chest to chest, my arms under his shoulders and my hands in his hair, and lay there inside him and looked at his face in the light coming up from the city.

“Hi,” he said. His eyes were wet.

“Hello.”

Down the hill, the woman reached the end of a verse, and the whole of the Alfama seemed to hold its breath.

I moved.

Slow. As slow as that morning in December, and slower. Long deep strokes that drew almost out and sank all the way home, my hips rolling into him, his heels locking at the small of my back to keep me there. The iron bed barely murmured. The fado went on beneath us, rising and falling, and I found I was moving to it, without meaning to: deeper on the long notes, a held breath on the silences. He noticed. He laughed against my mouth, and then stopped laughing, because I’d pressed in on the high note and held, and he’d gone tight around me and dug his nails into my back.

“Tell me,” I said. “Talk to me. You’re quiet.”

“I’m not quiet. I’m—” He gasped as I moved. “I’m here. I’m so here. Jonah. You’re so deep. I can feel you everywhere. I’ve been lying in this bed nine nights touching myself and listening to her sing and it wasn’t—it was nothing like—”

“Did you?”

“Every night.” His eyes were open on mine. “Every night. With the shutters open. Saying your name so the whole street could hear. I wanted you to know, when you got here, that I’d done that. That I wasn’t quiet. That I didn’t go to the edge of the bed once.”

I had to stop moving. I had to put my forehead down on his and breathe.

“Don’t stop,” he said. “Don’t you dare stop. Fuck me. Hard, now. I want to feel it on the plane.”

So I gave him hard.

I got up on my knees and took him by the hips and drove into him, deep and fast and heavy, the bed slamming back against the tiled wall, a whole painted fleet of blue ships rattling in their mortar. He threw his arms over his head and grabbed the iron rail and held on, and arched up to meet me, and told me what he wanted at the top of his voice, out the open window, over the roofs of Lisbon. Harder. Deeper. Yes. There. Don’t stop. Mine. Mine. Down the hill the guitar was racing now, the woman’s voice climbing over it, and he came up off the mattress with both hands locked on the rail and his eyes on mine and came untouched, with a cry that drowned out the singer, his whole body clamping around me in great slow pulses, striping his own stomach, shaking.

I followed him almost at once. I couldn’t have stopped it with both hands. I drove deep and held and spent myself inside him with my face in his neck and his name going into his skin and the fado breaking over us both like the sea she’d been singing about.

Downstairs, the room applauded.

For her, I’m almost certain.

Afterward we lay across the bed sideways with our heads toward the window and our feet against the tiles, sticky and wrecked and cooling, in the warm night air. The ferry had reached the far bank. The singer had stopped. Somebody down the lane was washing glasses and singing her song again, badly.

“Jonah.”

“Mm.”

He reached down beside the bed. He came up with something wrapped in a square of brown paper and string, about the size of my palm, and laid it on my chest.

“From Dona Amália,” he said. “She did it Wednesday, while I was grinding. I didn’t know it was for us till she wrapped it.”

I untied the string. I folded back the paper.

It was a tile. Blue on white, the glaze still very slightly uneven, the way they are when a hand has made them. A small house, painted in a few quick strokes: a roof, a door, a chimney with a curl of smoke. And one window, lit. She had left the glaze bare there, so the white of the clay showed through, so it looked as though there were a lamp on inside.

I didn’t say anything for some time. I found I couldn’t.

“I told her about the brown lamp,” Eli said. “She said she wasn’t painting that.”

I laughed. It came out in a rather damp condition.

“Where will it go?” I said, when I could.

“Wherever we live.” He turned his head on the sheet and looked at me. “I don’t know where that is yet. Neither do you. I’m saying it out loud anyway. Wherever we live, it goes on the shelf, and I’m going to look at it every time I come home from somewhere, and know which house.”

I wrapped it up again. I tied the string. I held it on my chest with both hands, and he put his hand over mine, and we lay there.

“The camera,” I said, after a while.

“It’s on the table.”

“Did you get one? This afternoon. Before.”

“I got about forty.” He was quiet a moment. “I got one where you’re looking at me. Not the lens. Me. Right before you said in front of a camera, I hope you’re satisfied.” His mouth moved. “It’s the best portrait I’ve ever taken.”

“Better than the laughing one?”

“The laughing one’s a man having a life.” He laced our fingers together over the tile. “This one’s a man who flew four thousand miles to ask for something. I’m keeping it. You said I could.”

“I did.”

“Nobody sees it.”

“No,” I agreed. “Nobody sees it but you.”

He fell asleep before I did, in the middle of the bed, on his side, facing me, with one hand still over mine. I lay awake a long time in the night air and listened to Lisbon, and held a small painted house against my chest, and did not once think about what time it was in Briarwood.

On the Sunday I wrapped the tile in my good sweater and carried it home in my hand luggage. I would not let them put it in the hold. Eli told the woman at the gate that it was a library matter, and she let it go.

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