Читать книгу The Secret of Lost Things - Sheridan Hay - Страница 11

George Pike had employed Robert Mitchell for forty years, but their long collaboration had done little to improve an essentially antagonistic relationship. That Mr. Mitchell worked four floors above Pike made their professional interaction possible. Pike himself limited their contact to frequent telephone exchanges, often petty squabbles over money and, in particular, the costs of repairing extremely old volumes and collections of papers, whose fragility found a devoted champion in Mr. Mitchell. The care he took over damaged volumes seemed an extension of the interest he took in the well-being of the motley staff, who gladly rode the cranky elevator up to his own small store-within-a-store. It was a task we bickered over. His presence filled the Rare Book Room with gentility, a trait I now associate with the enveloping reek of a pipe.

Accompanying customers up to the Rare Book Room on the store’s fifth floor was my favorite task, once I was actually floating. It was an opportunity for conversation with collectors about their particular tastes and obsessions, and I learned something from every encounter. A trip to the Rare Book Room meant I could visit with Mr. Mitchell and breathe in the vanilla scent of his pipe. I adored him.

The first time I escorted a client up to the Rare Book Room, struggling with the elevator cage, Mr. Mitchell was waiting. Pike had called ahead of our arrival to clear the customer I accompanied for credit approval.

“What a pleasure, young lady! You must be our antipodean newcomer. Rosemary for remembrance, if I’m not mistaken. I am Robert Mitchell,” he said with a courtly reach of his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

In his late sixties, with vertical peaks of snowy hair, he had the complexion of a man who didn’t manage his blood pressure. He was large and seemed professorial in a saggy, postathletic way. Tall, with an enormous belly that sloped from his breastbone and disappeared into his high-belted trousers; his face reminded me of an amiable bird’s. I was at once struck by the odd happenstance that he resembled a type of cockatoo I’d long wished to own (but which Mother had refused me on account of its noise, its mess). This bird too was large, pink and white, but native to Australia and coincidentally named after an historical personage, some early dignitary, a certain Major Mitchell.

“Oscar told me I would enjoy meeting you,” I told him, far more comfortable in the Rare Book Room than four floors below. The contrast with the belligerent paperback fellows, Jack and Bruno, couldn’t have been more stark.

“Oscar told me the same thing, my dear. And also that you are very far from home. Van Diemen’s Land, no less. A rare and beautiful place, I understand. A wild island. We must be sure to make you welcome,” he said, and repeated. “We must be sure to.”

The warmth in his voice spread through me like the melancholy I carefully, daily, kept at bay. And perhaps because Mr. Mitchell caught me on a particularly homesick day, or because my own lost father could not in my imagination have been more kindly disposed to me, or simply because unexpected kindness exactly locates one’s well of sadness, tears itched the corners of my eyes.

“Indeed, Rosemary, you are very far from home,” Mr. Mitchell said again, noticing my upset, “but you must feel welcome here. And safe.” He took my hand inside his and patted it affectionately. I had to turn away.

“Now, then, who has accompanied you to my aerie?” he asked in a businesslike way, leaving me to compose myself. “Who has come to see the infinite riches in my little room?” He knew perfectly well, of course.

The customer cleared his throat, impatient to be attended to.

“Ah, Mr. Gosford! Yes, the Beckett first edition, if I’m not mistaken? I’ve been waiting for you to pick it up.”

Mr. Mitchell and the collector, Gosford, moved from the elevator into the first of several rare rooms, crowded with volumes and folios.

“Where are we—Whoroscope?” he called, and reached toward a shelf to the right of his desk.

“Rosemary, are you interested in an opportunity for instruction?” Mr. Mitchell inquired, still trying to locate the book.

Oscar had prepared me. One of Mr. Mitchell’s favorite things to do was teach. (Oscar had said “lecture.”) He never waited for assent from the prospective student, but would go on, searching for the volume, chatting all the while.

“Let me see, Whoroscope, Whoroscope. You are very lucky, Mr. Gosford,” he said, finally finding the book. “Now, Rosemary, perhaps you are not aware that this,” he ran on excitedly, “that this, Beckett’s first published poem, was composed in a single night! He wanted to win a thousand francs in a competition which called for submissions of no more than one hundred lines. Yes, that’s right. A poem on the subject of Time.” He paused thoughtfully. “Time, you see? He won, evidently. Ah, there we are.”

He handed the book to Mr. Gosford like his own prize, a reward for his patience. The little book had brick-red wrappers and a white band, printed with a note from the publisher. It was incidental to me that it was a book by Beckett, with whom I was unfamiliar. What struck me was that it was a small, beautiful object, and that both men wanted it.

“One of a hundred signed by Beckett, Mr. Gosford. A bit dusty, slight fading at the top edge, no foxing, and otherwise a fine copy. A steal at ten thousand dollars. I’ve spoken to Pike and your credit is excellent. The bill will be forthcoming.”

He leaned away from Gosford, in a perfectly timed motion, as if to better appreciate the moment. He paused.

“Rosemary, no need for you to wait,” he took up after a minute. “Mr. Gosford is good for it, I assure you.”

I left him to secure the signature. It was the practice of the Rare Book Room that a customer who’d selected and wanted to purchase a book had to be accompanied down to the main floor of the Arcade and straight to Pearl at the register. The potential for theft was the obvious reason for this ritual; but in the case of extremely valuable items, approval was often granted in advance. Customers like Mr. Gosford were billed monthly, so frequent and so large were their acquisitions.

This first visit I rode the elevator down alone, but I was to welcome any opportunity to visit Mr. Mitchell and be warmed by his affection, his information; to be at once reminded of my loneliness and comforted by its acknowledgment.

The other role as escort was to descend to the basement. Walter Geist worked there beneath a single blinding globe of light suspended from a cord attached to the low ceiling, its bare bulb casting shadows along the creases of his face, the only darkness there the hollows of mouth and nostrils. I carried new books to Geist at least two or three times a day, accompanying book reviewers from the city’s major newspapers and periodicals. They cast anxious, furtive looks about, hoping not to cross paths with one of their colleagues. It was a shifty business, not exactly stealing but hardly legitimate, either.

Selling copies of books that had been mailed free of charge was considered one of the perks of reviewing. It was impractical for reviewers to keep stacks of books around after reviewing them (or not reviewing them) for a newspaper or magazine, and publishers knew the activity was part of the Arcade’s operation—knew that they too lined Pike’s pockets—although it wasn’t widely sanctioned. When customers requiring escort showed up, Pearl would bellow either “Review!” or “Rare Book Room!” and whoever was on the floor at the time had to scurry up front to meet the waiting customer. I didn’t mind, preferring the task of escort to shelving.

I often chatted with the more familiar sellers, asking them for recommendations or whether they’d given the books I carried to the basement a positive or negative review. In this way I came to be on speaking terms with several literary journalists and publishing types. My notebook from that time is peppered with recommendations of books I’m certain I never read. But I much preferred collectors to those disposing of books. Collectors were passionate, at least; opportunistic, but in a different way. Their attachment to books as things, I believed then, had more to do with love than with money. The fact is, collecting has an erotic appeal.

After Geist had tallied up the total of the books sold to him in the basement, he scribbled the amount on a small yellow square of paper and the seller returned upstairs to wait in line at the register. Pearl took the yellow square and dispensed the specified amount in cash. Certain journalists then retired to one of the nearby taverns and drank their unearned dividend, each glass an ironic toast to Pike’s financial health.

He didn’t return their deference. Pike referred to reviewers as “spivs” and directed Geist to handle the entire enterprise involving new books.

The basement was Walter Geist’s domain; Mr. Mitchell’s, the fifth floor. Heaven and hell, we used to joke. All of us on the main floor floating in a kind of limbo, Pike watching, raised omnipotently overhead.

Competing for my favorite task of a trip to the Rare Book Room was Bruno (who often had the distinct advantage of being near Pearl at the register, tending to the paperback tables) as well as his ragged-faced colleague, Jack. Pike had designated these two paperback people, and their proximity to Pearl’s bellowed calls meant they were more often than not in either the basement or with Mr. Mitchell upstairs.

Jack Conway, an immigrant like me, was a musician, a traditional fiddler, and Irish. He’d had the end of his nose bitten off in a pub brawl and it was now an abrupt silvery edge. The scarred skin was shiny and pale, giving the impression of a punctuation mark in the center of his face that quickened the rest of his ruddy features. Jack seemed not to care how he looked, and his abbreviated nose had little affect on his attractiveness to women. He had a French girlfriend, Rowena, a sullen poet who often stopped in, but several women visited him during the course of a day.

I saw him, more than once, enter the single public toilet with various women. While they both remained inside for a good twenty minutes, customers in need jostled desperately with the locked doorknob.

Jack’s hatchet look matched his manner. He was tough, and his thick accent often made him unintelligible to other staff members, including Geist (for all his facility with languages). I understood him perfectly, his Irish brogue not so thick to my Tasmanian ear. But I couldn’t translate the filthy fliratious remarks Jack directed at Pearl, who told me she found his inarticulate muttering exciting. Some I simply couldn’t comprehend, but it wasn’t a question of diction. It was a harmless attraction that upset Rowena, not because Jack was really interested in Pearl but because Pearl’s fleshy laughter made a kind of triangle that included me. As the go-between, I was the one Rowena disliked, suspecting, as I came to, that Jack’s mumbled obscenities were intended for my delight as much as for Pearl’s.

I stayed clear of him. Mother had been overprotective to the point of mania about sex. Of course, I had my bookish fantasies, my adolescent ardors. But by then, Sidney Carton had been happily traded for Oscar Jarno, for an infatuation I mistook to be other than fictional. I was nervous around men, around all the displaced desire that ran beneath the surface of the Arcade. It wasn’t that I ever thought they wanted me; simply that they wanted. I’d had no experience with men, and chose to deposit all ideas of romantic promise with the unattainable—with Oscar.

Every morning but Sunday, mail was delivered to the Arcade by a mailman named Mercer. A rather elegant Trinidadian, he’d lived in New York for many years, and despite his uniform he looked more like a diplomat than a representative of the postal service. Chaps would have cast him as Othello in a minute. Mercer and Peal were friends, and it was her custom to bellow to Pike across the huge store that the mail had arrived.

At the Arcade, mail was almost as coveted as books.

Letters brought requests for rare titles, offers from estate libraries, queries and contacts from all over the world. Mr. Mitchell would frequently appear right around the time Mercer showed up, and try to charm him into a quick glance through the day’s mail. It was a slightly silly exercise, unworthy of him. Mercer wouldn’t part with the letters until they were in George Pike’s hand, as if he were more courier than postman. And Pike actually ceased his pricing to greet Mercer at his platform and formally receive the clutch of epistles.

Mr. Mitchell would follow, calling Mercer his “man of letters” and hovering about until Pike told him to go away, that any letters for him would be dispatched upstairs once Pike looked them over. It was a pantomime that made Mr. Mitchell appear childish, as if he had been waiting for a letter to drop from Mercer’s hands so that he might snatch it up and read it before his magisterial employer.

Shoplifting was a regular pastime for some, and I became familiar with one of the Arcade’s more notorious thieves one morning after I answered Pearl’s call of “Review books!” a couple of months after I’d started. Tall, about twenty-five, the shoplifter had hair was as vivid as my own. He was waiting for me at the front register, leaning against the counter, his long legs crossed in jeans spattered with colored paint. Mr. Mitchell had christened this particular thief Red-burn, although I didn’t know that at the time.

“I was wondering when you’d accompany me to hell,” the man said flirtatiously.

“I don’t know you, do I?” I asked, taking several hardcover books from him, part of my job as escort.

“We haven’t met before, but it’s apparent what we have in common. They call me Redburn here because of it.”

“Lot’s of people have red hair,” I replied, ahead of him on the steep stairs. Pike’s capitals fairly shouted in my face as I descended: GEORGE PIKE WILL NOT TOLERATE THE THEFT OF MONEY OR BOOKS!

“Pike overdoes that warning, don’t you think?” he said, indicating the sign. “It’s very threatening.”

“Only if you’re thinking of stealing,” I returned.

We reached the bottom of the staircase.

“Some would say that buying review copies is stealing,” Red-burn developed. “New books may well have been shoplifted from a regular bookstore.”

He challenged me with auburn eyebrows raised, conventionally attractive and confident of the fact.

“Are these stolen?” I asked him, stopping in the maze of stacks that wove through the basement. The low ceiling met the tall shelves, creating an oppressive tunnel through to Geist’s lair in the rear.

“Why would you care?” he asked.

It was a question I didn’t exactly know how to answer, so I ignored it. I resolved then to generally ignore Redburn as well.

“My guess is you don’t approve of stealing, is that right?” he persisted, as we reached Geist’s counter, starkly vacant beneath the blinding bulb.

“I don’t approve of stealing, no,” I replied, stacking the books on the counter. Geist stood some feet away, examining a book held close to his face, his back to us.

“Then give me my heart back,” Redburn whispered, leaning toward me, his hands over his chest, feigning pain.

I couldn’t help laughing out loud. Geist turned around abruptly, and I wondered if he’d overheard the man’s request.

“Check the copyright, Rosemary, then read the list prices to me,” he said, coming forward, all business, his glasses firmly in place.

“I wouldn’t dream of cheating you, Geist,” Redburn said slyly. “Not today at least.”

I opened the covers of each book, confirming that they had been recently published, and read out the printed prices to Geist, who reduced them to quarters in his head, calculating what Redburn would receive. He scribbled the total on a yellow square of paper, sliding it across the counter.

“Want to tell me where you got these books?” Geist asked, his finger securing the note.

“Nope,” the shoplifter answered, snatching it up.

“I didn’t think so,” said Geist. “Rosemary, in future you’re not to escort this man anywhere in the Arcade. He is banned from the store.”

Redburn smiled at me mischievously and headed back upstairs to redeem his yellow slip with Pearl.

I had begun to understand that a significant part of the Arcade’s operation was based on deception; few questions were asked about the provenance of books. Whole libraries were bought in bulk sight unseen, and once priced individually by Pike, a few items often earned back what had been spent on the sum. It wasn’t cheating exactly, or stealing; it was the canny leveraging of desire. Manipulating the lust for things that retained or lost value depended in whose hands they were held.

“Mr. Geist,” I asked, before returning upstairs. “Did that man steal the books you just bought?”

“Most likely,” he said. “No concern of yours, of course. Just tell Jack or Bruno to throw him out if you see him in here again.”

Oscar told me later that Mr. Mitchell had coined Redburn’s name for him, and not only because his red hair was vivid enough to be ablaze. Wellingborough Redburn was the protagonist in a novel by Herman Meville, a first edition of which Mr. Mitchell had discovered beneath the thief’s tatty shirt, tucked into the waistband of his trousers.

The valuable copy of Redburn had been set aside for the Arcade’s most prodigious collector, a man who’d never set foot inside the store. Julian Peabody owned the largest private library in the country, and Mr. Mitchell was expecting his librarian, Samuel Metcalf, to pick up the volume from Pike’s stage. He had been awaiting that gentleman, along with Walter Geist, an old friend of Metcalf’s, when both were distracted by Pike, who chose that moment to argue for an increase in the book’s price. While they bickered, Red-burn audaciously pilfered it right off Pike’s desk. The volume was dislodged accidentally when Bruno slammed into the thief as he hurried from the store.

Peabody acquired the book, and added it to his large collection of nineteenth-century American authors, the most significant outside any private institution. Herman Melville was a Peabody favorite and, shortly after I knew of this incident, Melville would become my favorite as well.