An
imposingly tall, wide man with an austere face, long white hair and a black beret is
promenading outside the shop. His expression is one of critical
surveillance, cool, composed, impassive. I would guess he is some
sort of academic and so am especially curious, and slightly anxious,
to know what has caught his attention in our humble sale-book
suitcase. He glances up. I bet he thinks the selection is pitiful. He
looks into the case again. I bet he is judging me. Ah shit. He’s
coming inside. Now I’ll have to explain myself, account for the
copies of Beaches
and Single White Female disgracing
the noble halls of this hallowed arcade. Unless he’s seen Zola’s
Germinal.
Or the Ibsen collection. They’d redeem me. I bet he’s coming in
to get a better look at the Shakespeare anthology in the window. He’s
seen that the loftier books are inside and, thank god, doesn’t
think I’m such a trumped up bullshit peddler after all.
I
care so much about what snooty, elderly academic types think of me. I
still have flashbacks of the old professory-looking man who roared at
me for charging ten dollars for a dog-eared Genet. That
is a disgrace! How can you justify such a price? You ought to be
ashamed! Of course I was too overcome
with girlish horror to tell my ancient abuser that if he liked Genet
so much he should have just pocketed it.
The
tall man finishes looking in our suitcase. I can’t read his
expression. Is it satisfaction at the range of titles or grim
acceptance that society has finally deteriorated? He crosses the
thresh hold. I take a breath. He scans the shop, arms held behind his
back in that dramatic way pompous men attempt to appear open and
benign. Before I can ease into a gentle ‘hello’, he is straight
down to business.
“Ahh
theess ull uv thee books yoo hev?”
He
is eastern European. I could have guessed that too. Of course he’s
Russian or Ukrainian or Belorussian or of some other fierce and mighty
old oppression-enduring-and-crushing-and-enduring race.
“Yes,
they are,” I say quietly, with a smile, in the pleasantly
intelligent voice I have reserved for these occasions. It softens my
Strine into something more palatable for the foreign ear. He nods in
gruff, staccatoed understanding. That’s it. I’m finished. He is
disgusted by my predictable wares and my pathetic airs and he has had
enough. How on earth did I think he’d be impressed by a shitty,
newish Collected Works of Shakespeare? He probably smuggled a
gold-leafed pocket edition in his shoes in the Gulag. He probably
knew Bulgakov and debated with Nabakov and translated Gogol into Chinese. Jesus. I
feel like such a dumb shit.
His
blue eyes pierce my inferiority like a laser through the ice of his glasses,
magnificent mind a star burning purely in a perfect galaxy my polluted
solar system could never fathom.
“Ken
yoo tell mee then, “ he thunders, the history of human thought and
endeavour rumbling through the catacombs of his veins, “how motch
iss your copy off Misster Tickle?”
