The Thirteenth Tale-第3章

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who；　having　wan…ted　off　the　beaten　track；　is　prompted　by　curiosity　to　step　out　of　the　sunshine　and　into　the　shop；　where　he　pauses　for　an　instant；　blinking　as　his　eyes　adjust。　depending　on　how　weary　he　is　of　eating　ice　cream　and　watching　the　punts　on　the　river；　he　might　stay　for　a　bit　of　shade　and　tranquility　or　he　might　not。　more　monly　visitors　to　the　shop　are　people　who；　having　heard　about　us　from　a　friend　of　a　friend；　and　finding　themselves　near　cambridge；　have　made　a　special　detour。　they　have　anticipation　on　their　faces　as　they　step　into　the　shop；　and　not　infrequently　apologize　for　disturbing　us。　they　are　nice　people；　as　quiet　and　as　amiable　as　the　books　themselves。　but　mostly　it　is　just　father；　me　and　the　books。

how　do　they　make　ends　meet？　you　might　think；　if　you　saw　how　few　customers　e　and　go。　but　you　see；　the　shop　is；　in　financial　terms；　just　a　sideline。　the　proper　business　takes　place　elsewhere。　we　make　our　living　on　the　basis　of　perhaps　half　a　dozen　transactions　a　year。　this　is　how　it　works：　father　knows　all　the　world’s　great　collectors；　and　he　knows　the　world’s　great　collections。　if　you　were　to　watch　him　at　the　auctions　or　book　fairs　that　he　attends　frequently；　you　would　notice　how　often　he　is　approached　by　quietly　spoken；　quietly　dressed　individuals；　who　draw　him　aside　for　a　quiet　word。　their　eyes　are　anything　but　quiet。　does　he　know　of…　they　ask　him；　and　has　he　ever　heard　whether…　a　book　will　be　mentioned。　father　answers　vaguely。　it　doesn’t　do　to　build　up　hope。　these　things　usually　lead　nowhere。　but　on　the　other　hand；　if　he　were　to　hear　anything…　and　if　he　doesn’t　already　have　it；　he　makes　a　note　of　the　person’s　address　in　a　little　green　notebook。　then　nothing　happens　for　quite　some　time。　but　later—a　few　months　or　many　months；　there　is　no　knowing—at　another　auction　or　book　fair；　seeing　a　certain　other　person；　he　will　inquire；　very　tentatively；　whether…　and　again　the　book　is　mentioned。　more　often　than　not；　it　ends　there。　but　sometimes；　following　the　conversations；　there　may　be　an　exchange　of　letters。　father　spends　a　great　deal　of　time　posing　letters。　in　french；　german；　italian；　even　occasionally　latin。　nine　times　out　of　ten　the　answer　is　a　courteous　two…line　refusal。　but　sometimes—half　a　dozen　times　a　year—the　reply　is　the　prelude　to　a　journey。　a　journey　in　which　father　collects　a　book　here；　and　delivers　it　there。　he　is　rarely　gone　for　more　than　forty…eight　hours。　six　times　a　year。　this　is　our　livelihood。

the　shop　itself　makes　next　to　no　money。　it　is　a　place　to　write　and　receive　letters。　a　place　to　while　away　the　hours　waiting　for　the　next　international　bookfair。　in　the　opinion　of　our　bank　manager；　it　is　an　indulgence；　one　that　my　father’s　success　entitles　him　to。　yet　in　reality—　my　father’s　reality　and　mine；　i　don’t　pretend　reality　is　the　same　for　everyone—the　shop　is　the　very　heart　of　the　affair。　it　is　a　repository　of　books；　a　place　of　safety　for　all　the　volumes；　once　so　lovingly　written；　that　at　present　no　one　seems　to　want。　and　it　is　a　place　to　read。

a　is　for　austen；　b　is　for　bronte；　c　is　for　charles　and　d　is　for　dickens。　i　learned　my　alphabet　in　this　shop。　my　father　walking　along　the　shelves；　me　in　his　arms；　explaining　alphabetization　at　the　same　time　as　he　taught　me　to　spell。　i　learned　to　write　there；　too：　copying　out　names　and　titles　onto　index　cards　that　are　still　there　in　our　filing　box；　thirty　years　later。　the　shop　was　both　my　home　and　my　job。　it　was　a　better　school　for　me　than　school　ever　was；　and　afterward　it　was　my　own　private　university。　it　was　my　life。

my　father　never　put　a　book　into　my　hands　and　never　forbade　a　look。　instead；　he　let　me　roam　and　graze；　making　my　own　more　and　less　appropriate　selections。　i　read　gory　tales　of　historic　heroism　that　nineteenth…century　parents　thought　were　suitable　for　children；　and　gothic　host　stories　that　were　surely　not；　i　read　accounts　of　arduous　travel　through　treacherous　lands　undertaken　by　spinsters　in　crinolines；　and　i　；ad　handbooks　on　decorum　and　etiquette　intended　for　young　ladies　of　good　family；　i　read　books　with　pictures　and　books　without；　books　in　english；　books　in　french；　books　in　languages　i　didn’t　understand；　here　i　could　make　up　stories　in　my　head　on　the　basis　of　a　handful　of　guessed…at　words。　books。　books。　and　books。

at　school　i　kept　all　this　shop　reading　to　myself。　the　bits　of　archaic　french　i　knew　from　old　grammars　found　their　way　into　my　essays；　but　my　teachers　took　them　for　spelling　mistakes；　though　they　were　never　able　to　eradicate　them。　sometimes　a　history　lesson　would　touch　upon　me　of　the　deep　but　random　seams　of　knowledge　i　had　accumulated　by　my　haphazard　reading　in　the　shop。　charlemagne？　i　would　think。　what；　my　charlemagne？　from　the　shop？　at　these　times　i　stayed　mum；　dumbstruck　by　the　momentary　collision　of　two　worlds　that　were　otherwise　so　entirely　apart。

in　between　reading；　i　helped　my　father　in　his　work。　at　nine　i　was　allowed　to　wrap　books　in　brown　paper　and　address　them　to　our　more　distant　clients。　at　ten　i　was　permitted　to　walk　these　parcels　to　the　post　office。　at　eleven　i　relieved　my　mother　of　her　only　job　in　the　shop：　the　cleaning。　armored　in　a　headscarf　and　housecoat　against　the　grime；　germs　and　general　malignity　inherent　in　“old　books；”　she　used　to　walk　the　shelves　with　her　fastidious　feather　duster；　her　lips　pressed　tight　and　trying　not　to　inhale。　from　time　to　time　the　feathers　would　stir　up　a　cloud　of　imaginary　dust；　and　she　recoiled；　coughing。　inevitably　she　snagged　her　stockings　on　the　crate　that；　with　the　predictable　malevolence　of　books；　would　just　happen　to　be　positioned　behind　her。　i　offered　to　do　the　dusting。　it　was　a　job　she　was　glad　to　be　rid　of；　she　didn’t　need　to　e　out　to　the　bookshop　after　that。

when　i　was　twelve；　father　set　me　looking　for　lost　books。　we　designated　items　lost　when　they　were　in　stock　according　to　the　records　but　missing　from　their　rightful　position　on　the　shelves。　they　might　have　been　stolen　but；　more　likely；　they　had　been　left　in　the　wrong　place　by　an　absentminded　browser。　there　were　seven　rooms　in　the　shop；　lined　floor　to　ceiling　with　books；　thousands　of　volumes。

‘and　while　you’re　at　it；　check　the　alphabetization；“　father　said。

it　was　a　job　that　would　take　forever；　i　wonder　now　whether　he　was　entirely　serious　in　entrusting　it　to　me。　to　tell　the　truth　it　hardly　mattered；　for　in　undertaking　it；　it　was　serious。

it　took　me　a　whole　summer　of　mornings；　but　at　the　beginning　of　september；　when　school　started；　every　lost　book　had　been　found；　every　misplaced　volume　returned　to　its　home。　not　only　that；　but—and　in　retrospect；　this　is　the　thing　that　seems　important…—my　fingers　had　made　contact；　albeit　briefly；　with　every　book　in　the　shop。

by　the　time　i　was　in　my　teens；　i　was　giving　my　father　so　much　assistance　that　on　quiet　afternoons　we　had　little　real　work　to　do。　once　the　morning’s　work　was　done；　the　new　stock　shelved；　the　letters　written；　once　we　had　eaten　our　sandwiches　by　the　river　and　fed　the　ducks；　it　was　back　to　the　shop　to　read。

gradually　my　reading　grew　less　random。　more　and　more　often　i　found　myself　meandering　on　the　second　floor。　nineteenth…century　literature；　biography；　autobiography；　memoirs；　diaries　and　letters。

my　father　noticed　the　direction　of　my　reading。　he　came　home　from　fairs　and　sales　with　books　he　thought　might　be　interesting　for　me。　shabby　little　books；　in　manuscript　mostly；　yellowed　pages　tied　with　ribbon　or　string；　sometimes　handbound。　the　ordinary　lives　of　ordinary　people。　i　did　not　simply　read　them。　i　devoured　them。　though　my　appetite　for　food　grew　frail；　my　hunger　for　books　was　constant。　it　was　the　beginning　of　my　vocation。

i　am　not　a　proper　biographer。　in　fact　i　am　hardly　a　biographer　at　all。　or　my　own　pleasure　mainly；　i　have　written　a　number　of　short　biographical　studies　of　insignificant　personages　from　literary　history。　my　invest　has　always　been　in　writing　biographies　of　the　also…rans：　people　who　lived　in　the　shadow　of　fame　in　their　own　lifetime　and　who；　since　their　death；　have　sunk　into　profound　obscurity。　i　like　to　disinter　lives　tat　have　been　buried　in　unopened　diaries　on　archive　shelves　for　a　hundred　years　or　more。　rekindling　breath　from　memoirs　that　have　been　out　of　print　for　decades　pleases　me　more　than　almost　anything　else。

from　time　to　time　one　of　my　subjects　is　just　significant　enough　to　rouse　the　interest　of　a　local　academic　publisher；　and　so　i　have　a　small　number　of　publications　to　my　name。　not　books。　nothing　so　grand。　just　says　really；　a　few　flimsy　pages　stapled　in　a　paper　cover。　one　of　my　essays—“the　fraternal　muse；”　a　piece　on　the　landier　brothers；　jules　and　edmond；　and　the　diary　that　they　wrote　in　tandem—caught　the　eye　of　a　story　editor　and　was　included　in　a　hardback　collection　of　essays　on　writing　and　the　family　in　the　nineteenth　century。　it　must　have　been　this　ay　that　captured　the　attention　of　vida　winter；　but　its　presence　in　the　lection　is　quite　misleading。　it　sits　surrounded　by　the　work　of　academics　and　professional　writers；　just　as　though　i　were　a　proper　biographer；　when　in　fact　i　am　only　a　dilettante；　a　talented　amateur。

lives—dead　ones—are　just　a　hobby　of　mine。　my　real　work　is　in　the　bookshop。　my　job　is　not　to　sell　the　books—my　father　does　that—but　to　look　after　them。　every　so　often　i　take　out　a