"Yes," I said to the gray-whiskered man with the purplish nose that resembled a bulb of garlic, "I realize the price is written on the tag and that it's thirty five dollars, but I'm asking for a favor, I'm asking for you to take twenty eight. I'll be back on Friday with the rest, honest Injun."
"He looked down the capillary-webbed ruin of that great bulging nose at me with the very definition of skepticism written in those well-read eyes, magnified like old worn coins behind his thick-lensed spectacles, as if viewed through a numismatist's loupe.
"See here," he said. "I've yet to make the acquaintance of an honest Injun, nor do I have the slightest reason to regard you as a whit more honest than one. You do understand that this is a place of business." The question was spoken as if merely rhetorical, but those old magnified coins looked up at me as if awaiting a reply.
"Yes, indeed," I replied. "It's just that, well, the book is very important to me just now. You see, it's for a birthday gift, and well ... my paycheck doesn't come until Friday. If I could only, I mean, I would do almost anything and, well ... say, listen, you're a bookseller, isn't that right?"
The man behind the counter made a great show of looking to his left, at the tables and stalls displaying all the newest titles, to his right at a row of tightly packed carts revealing the multi-colored spines of his used stock, behind him at the book-laden shelves rising from floor to ceiling, and—with an especially slow and sardonic species of ostentatiousness—at the large cash register just to his left on the counter before him, before turning back to me and saying, simply: "There seems sufficient evidence to support that hypothesis."
Not one to be so easily deterred, I replied, "Then, being on such intimate terms with books and the written word, you must be a man who likes a good story. How's this: if I tell you a story, and at the end you feel it was well worth the telling, then you give me this book for twenty eight dollars today and seven more on Friday. But if, on the other hand, you find my story to be an insufferable bore which you expect to forget before I've even closed your shop door behind me, then through that door I shall go empty-handed and trouble you no more. If I win, you make a sale and hear a good story in the bargain. And if you win, I'm out the door, never to pester you further so long as we both shall live. What do you say, will you be a sport? Do we have a deal?"
A subtle curl at the corner of the bookseller's lip and a mildly amused twinkle in his eye suggested my pitch had found a fertile patch of credulity in an otherwise barren field of cynicism. We were alone in the shop and he did not seem especially busy at the moment. I suspected it was for these reasons alone that he appeared somewhat to consider humoring me and allowing whatever brief diversion I might provide, however inane and fruitless.
"I'm a dealer in books and books alone," he said. "But if this deal with you will hasten your departure and my return to the practice of gainful commerce with paying customers, then by all means, tell your story and make an end of it."
He tempered the sternness of his words with the somewhat softened expression he wore as he spoke them, which helped put me more at ease as I prepared to speak.
"There once was a young and very pretty woman," I began.
"There always is," came the bookseller's wry riposte.
"And this young and very pretty woman used to sit and look out her window every evening, plucking petals from the bright yellow daisies that filled her window box and tossing them to the pavement below. She was a dreamy and romantic sort of girl, and it seemed that she had taken a fancy to awaiting the appearance of a handsome young gentleman who walked by her house at the same time each evening."
“I daresay I’ve heard this one before,” the bookseller said, with a cavernous yawn that threatened to swallow all my hopes without further ado.
“I confess it may be one of many stories begun in a similar fashion. A young man and a young woman and what happens when fate brings them together. I’ll expedite my story and spare you details of the leisurely courtship of the handsome young gentleman and the girl with the yellow daisies. They coyly observed one another each evening, from window to pavement and from pavement to window, and before long their observations grew smiles, sprouted words, and blossomed into a lovely flower of intimacy and happy evenings spent dancing, laughing and planning a future together. Yes, they married. Yes, they had a baby girl, then another. Yes, the young man worked by day and hurried home each evening to be with the family he cherished, the three fair ladies who adored him just as much. And their life together was filled with gladness and joy until the day that she of the yellow daisies fell ill and the specter of tragic potential began haunting the rooms of their home. The doctor paid frequent visits and the poor young mother was confined to her bed with poor odds of recovery and a devastated husband who knelt tearfully at her side, night after night, his heart falling to pieces behind the cheerful façade he put on for his sweetheart’s sake.”
The bookseller’s face had turned somber and I cannot say he looked pleased with the turn my story had taken. Nevertheless, I continued.
“The couple’s two sweet daughters were quite distraught over their mother’s condition, but their father consoled them each night by gathering them together at their mother’s bedside, and as they snuggled with their father, one on either side of him, he read aloud from a book beloved of them all. The father was a skilled and expressive reader, having something of the thespian in him, and the little girls’ eyes would glisten moistly as he dramatized literary episodes which struck awfully close to home, as the characters they so identified with endured hard times, painful separations from loved ones, and yes, dire illnesses. The man’s darling daughters, and yes, his darling wife as well, were spellbound as he read, night after night, filling the small and somber room with all the varied vicissitudes of life as experienced by the family in the story— their hopes and dreams, their joys and sorrows, and the many changes and challenges that arose to test their strength and capacity to endure.”
“And speaking of the capacity to endure … ” the bookseller snidely interjected.
“Just a moment or two longer,” I assured him, “if you’ll only bear with me. The man’s family so loved to hear the story issuing from his lips, but I understand perfectly if you’re not quite as fond of hearing their own story from mine. After all, the story he read to them was a work of art, written by a gifted author, whereas my story lacks the eloquent and romantic polish of a fictional work. My story, sadly, is merely the relating of factual events, the crude and unvarnished details of real life, which are not as enjoyable to hear. The man’s wife died and those who survived her were heartbroken. The two little girls could scarcely imagine a life without their dear mother. But they were fortunate in that their devoted father remained, who wept with them, dried their tears, and consoled them as only a loving father could. As they together prepared to bid their loved one a final farewell, the youngest girl made a suggestion that brought a tear to her father’s eye. ‘Daddy,’ she said, ‘I think we should let Mommy take the book with her, so that when she gets to heaven she can read it again and again, and remember the nights we all sat reading it together, and maybe then she won’t be so sad that we’re not there with her.’ The little girl’s father clutched her in his arms and hugged her to his breast, and it may have been best that she could not see the tears flowing down his cheeks.”
I had to stop and catch my breath before continuing, and I could see the bookseller was looking off in another direction, pretending that he hadn’t been listening. But I could see the glassy shimmer of his eye in profile, gleaming there behind his thick spectacle lens.
“When the father laid his wife to rest, two sweet daughters by his side, the poor young woman had the company of a beloved book with her in the casket, tucked underneath an arm, to accompany her into Eternity. Her one hand rested upon the other and beneath them both lay a cluster of yellow daisies, tied together with a bright blue ribbon. With an arm around each of his daughters, the man led them out of the funereal setting and back to their home, where they could attempt to resume living happy lives. Memories of their mother, and their abiding love for her, would remain in their hearts forevermore, and they were more than a little comforted by knowing that the dear sweet woman had a good story to read in the Afterlife, and that it would always remind her of them.”
I paused then, and the bookseller turned his head, not yet facing me directly but with his head held at an angle, as though a book on a distant shelf required his attention just then.
“As you can see, the conclusion of my story leaves the man and his daughters in something of a quandary.”
“Well,” he replied, “bereft is the word I would use, or a state of mourning, but— ”
“No, you miss my meaning,” I said. “However comforting the company of that book may or may not have been to the dead woman, the unfortunate result I’m referring to is that the survivors themselves no longer possessed a copy. Perhaps now you can appreciate the keenness of my desire to take that book on the counter with me today without another moment’s delay. Perhaps now you can understand how much it would mean to those dear sweet little women.”
While speaking these last words, I glanced over at the shop’s large front window which faced onto Broadway. The bookseller’s glistening eyes followed my glance until they lighted upon the two impatient faces peering in from the sidewalk outside. He looked from those faces back to my own, back to them again, back to my own, and without saying a word picked the book off the counter and thrust it into my hands.
“I can pay you twenty eight today— ” I began, but he stopped me cold by holding up both his hands, palms forward, and with both eyes tightly shut, loudly commanded: “Take the book, take those girls, and go home and read.”
I couldn’t hold back the broad smile that broke upon my face. Book in hand, I headed for the door, but turned back one last time before leaving. The bookseller’s eyes were open and he was smiling.
“It was not an insufferable bore, young man,” he said. “But I daresay Miss Alcott makes a better job of it.”
D.E. Sievers
The man behind the counter made a great show of looking to his left, at the tables and stalls displaying all the newest titles, to his right at a row of tightly packed carts revealing the multi-colored spines of his used stock, behind him at the book-laden shelves rising from floor to ceiling, and—with an especially slow and sardonic species of ostentatiousness—at the large cash register just to his left on the counter before him, before turning back to me and saying, simply: "There seems sufficient evidence to support that hypothesis."
Not one to be so easily deterred, I replied, "Then, being on such intimate terms with books and the written word, you must be a man who likes a good story. How's this: if I tell you a story, and at the end you feel it was well worth the telling, then you give me this book for twenty eight dollars today and seven more on Friday. But if, on the other hand, you find my story to be an insufferable bore which you expect to forget before I've even closed your shop door behind me, then through that door I shall go empty-handed and trouble you no more. If I win, you make a sale and hear a good story in the bargain. And if you win, I'm out the door, never to pester you further so long as we both shall live. What do you say, will you be a sport? Do we have a deal?"
A subtle curl at the corner of the bookseller's lip and a mildly amused twinkle in his eye suggested my pitch had found a fertile patch of credulity in an otherwise barren field of cynicism. We were alone in the shop and he did not seem especially busy at the moment. I suspected it was for these reasons alone that he appeared somewhat to consider humoring me and allowing whatever brief diversion I might provide, however inane and fruitless.
"I'm a dealer in books and books alone," he said. "But if this deal with you will hasten your departure and my return to the practice of gainful commerce with paying customers, then by all means, tell your story and make an end of it."
He tempered the sternness of his words with the somewhat softened expression he wore as he spoke them, which helped put me more at ease as I prepared to speak.
"There once was a young and very pretty woman," I began.
"There always is," came the bookseller's wry riposte.
"And this young and very pretty woman used to sit and look out her window every evening, plucking petals from the bright yellow daisies that filled her window box and tossing them to the pavement below. She was a dreamy and romantic sort of girl, and it seemed that she had taken a fancy to awaiting the appearance of a handsome young gentleman who walked by her house at the same time each evening."
“I daresay I’ve heard this one before,” the bookseller said, with a cavernous yawn that threatened to swallow all my hopes without further ado.
“I confess it may be one of many stories begun in a similar fashion. A young man and a young woman and what happens when fate brings them together. I’ll expedite my story and spare you details of the leisurely courtship of the handsome young gentleman and the girl with the yellow daisies. They coyly observed one another each evening, from window to pavement and from pavement to window, and before long their observations grew smiles, sprouted words, and blossomed into a lovely flower of intimacy and happy evenings spent dancing, laughing and planning a future together. Yes, they married. Yes, they had a baby girl, then another. Yes, the young man worked by day and hurried home each evening to be with the family he cherished, the three fair ladies who adored him just as much. And their life together was filled with gladness and joy until the day that she of the yellow daisies fell ill and the specter of tragic potential began haunting the rooms of their home. The doctor paid frequent visits and the poor young mother was confined to her bed with poor odds of recovery and a devastated husband who knelt tearfully at her side, night after night, his heart falling to pieces behind the cheerful façade he put on for his sweetheart’s sake.”
The bookseller’s face had turned somber and I cannot say he looked pleased with the turn my story had taken. Nevertheless, I continued.
“The couple’s two sweet daughters were quite distraught over their mother’s condition, but their father consoled them each night by gathering them together at their mother’s bedside, and as they snuggled with their father, one on either side of him, he read aloud from a book beloved of them all. The father was a skilled and expressive reader, having something of the thespian in him, and the little girls’ eyes would glisten moistly as he dramatized literary episodes which struck awfully close to home, as the characters they so identified with endured hard times, painful separations from loved ones, and yes, dire illnesses. The man’s darling daughters, and yes, his darling wife as well, were spellbound as he read, night after night, filling the small and somber room with all the varied vicissitudes of life as experienced by the family in the story— their hopes and dreams, their joys and sorrows, and the many changes and challenges that arose to test their strength and capacity to endure.”
“And speaking of the capacity to endure … ” the bookseller snidely interjected.
“Just a moment or two longer,” I assured him, “if you’ll only bear with me. The man’s family so loved to hear the story issuing from his lips, but I understand perfectly if you’re not quite as fond of hearing their own story from mine. After all, the story he read to them was a work of art, written by a gifted author, whereas my story lacks the eloquent and romantic polish of a fictional work. My story, sadly, is merely the relating of factual events, the crude and unvarnished details of real life, which are not as enjoyable to hear. The man’s wife died and those who survived her were heartbroken. The two little girls could scarcely imagine a life without their dear mother. But they were fortunate in that their devoted father remained, who wept with them, dried their tears, and consoled them as only a loving father could. As they together prepared to bid their loved one a final farewell, the youngest girl made a suggestion that brought a tear to her father’s eye. ‘Daddy,’ she said, ‘I think we should let Mommy take the book with her, so that when she gets to heaven she can read it again and again, and remember the nights we all sat reading it together, and maybe then she won’t be so sad that we’re not there with her.’ The little girl’s father clutched her in his arms and hugged her to his breast, and it may have been best that she could not see the tears flowing down his cheeks.”
I had to stop and catch my breath before continuing, and I could see the bookseller was looking off in another direction, pretending that he hadn’t been listening. But I could see the glassy shimmer of his eye in profile, gleaming there behind his thick spectacle lens.
“When the father laid his wife to rest, two sweet daughters by his side, the poor young woman had the company of a beloved book with her in the casket, tucked underneath an arm, to accompany her into Eternity. Her one hand rested upon the other and beneath them both lay a cluster of yellow daisies, tied together with a bright blue ribbon. With an arm around each of his daughters, the man led them out of the funereal setting and back to their home, where they could attempt to resume living happy lives. Memories of their mother, and their abiding love for her, would remain in their hearts forevermore, and they were more than a little comforted by knowing that the dear sweet woman had a good story to read in the Afterlife, and that it would always remind her of them.”
I paused then, and the bookseller turned his head, not yet facing me directly but with his head held at an angle, as though a book on a distant shelf required his attention just then.
“As you can see, the conclusion of my story leaves the man and his daughters in something of a quandary.”
“Well,” he replied, “bereft is the word I would use, or a state of mourning, but— ”
“No, you miss my meaning,” I said. “However comforting the company of that book may or may not have been to the dead woman, the unfortunate result I’m referring to is that the survivors themselves no longer possessed a copy. Perhaps now you can appreciate the keenness of my desire to take that book on the counter with me today without another moment’s delay. Perhaps now you can understand how much it would mean to those dear sweet little women.”
While speaking these last words, I glanced over at the shop’s large front window which faced onto Broadway. The bookseller’s glistening eyes followed my glance until they lighted upon the two impatient faces peering in from the sidewalk outside. He looked from those faces back to my own, back to them again, back to my own, and without saying a word picked the book off the counter and thrust it into my hands.
“I can pay you twenty eight today— ” I began, but he stopped me cold by holding up both his hands, palms forward, and with both eyes tightly shut, loudly commanded: “Take the book, take those girls, and go home and read.”
I couldn’t hold back the broad smile that broke upon my face. Book in hand, I headed for the door, but turned back one last time before leaving. The bookseller’s eyes were open and he was smiling.
“It was not an insufferable bore, young man,” he said. “But I daresay Miss Alcott makes a better job of it.”
D.E. Sievers
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