BY DAVID BECKER
Copyright is held by the author.
I DIDN’T intend to steal the book.
It was the odd little shop that initially intrigued me. It was so narrow, wedged between a fitness studio and an insurance company, that I could almost touch both sides if I stretched my arms out. Along the left wall as you entered the dim and dusty space, shelves from floor to ceiling held a jumble of books, old and more recent, but none new as far as I could tell. There were large and small ones, some lying flat, in precarious stacks, and others standing proud. There was no order. Novels stood among all manner of non-fiction, poetry, and heavy tomes containing images of paintings, sculpture, and photographs. There were even some volumes containing music scores.
The wall on the right consisted of thousands of vinyl record albums, all standing in stacked wooden cubes. Classical music was mixed with pop, folk, jazz, opera, rock, and heavy metal. At the far end, six or seven metres away, a man with a bushy white beard and a flat cap sat behind a table piled high with music and words. He looked up quickly when I entered, but then, without saying anything, returned to writing with his fountain pen.
One other person was browsing through the records. He looked like I imagined an aging rocker should look — a wide-brimmed hat over white hair that fell past his shoulders, a gaunt face and thin frame suggesting the ingestion of more pharmaceuticals than protein, tattoos on his arms, a black t-shirt, denim jeans, and sandals.
So, there we were, three old men in a largely forgotten shop — a purveyor of music and books that no longer seemed relevant, a musician who was no longer asked to play, and me, a retired history professor whose former students no longer remembered him.
The musician and I exchanged glances, acknowledging each other with quick nods, before I turned toward the books. After walking back and forth along the wall for several minutes, looking at the spines, one caught my eye. I still don’t know why. Other than obviously being old, there was nothing remarkable about it. It didn’t stand out from the other, equally drab volumes. The cover was the monotone colour of grimy sandstone and was made of some kind of rough fabric — maybe a finely-woven canvas — and it was a bit battered, fraying at the edges, but mostly intact. The title on the spine was almost illegible, having faded or been worn off through years of handling.
I carefully removed it from between its neighbours and opened it. On the inside of the front cover, which had yellowed with age, I was surprised to find a hand-written inscription.
To
Miss Jessie Johnstone
with best wishes for her
temporal and spiritual welfare.
Delaware
24 March 1860
I looked at the barely legible penmanship for almost a whole minute, wondering how long it had been since anyone else had seen it. But there was something odd about it. Her family name was close to mine—Johnson. And, after reading the inscription several times, it dawned on me that the person who had written it had not signed their own name.
I turned to the title page. Aquila’s Footsteps by Gotthardt Ziegler. I had never heard of the book nor the author. Based on the mention of spiritual welfare in the inscription, I assumed it might be some kind of motivational, perhaps religious, allegory — something one might give to a young woman entering her marriageable years, to encourage her to live a respectable and moral life. I leafed through the book pausing at the elaborate illustrations scattered among the text, each protected by a sheet of onion-skin paper. Other than the title page, however, I didn’t bother to read any of the text because, at that moment, the book intrigued me as an artifact, not as a literary work I might enjoy.
Perhaps because of the similarity of our names, I held onto it, but made no attempt to conceal it. I walked along the wall of books again, toward the front of the store, but none of the other books piqued my interest. Then, instead of going to the back of the shop and paying for the book, I tucked it inside my trench coat, glanced at the proprietor who was still bent over his writing, and walked out the door into the late October drizzle. It was the second time in my life I had stolen anything. The first time was when I was a child and didn’t know any better.
I placed it on the passenger seat of my old Saab and eased into the traffic.
Three days later, I could no longer stand the niggling sense of guilt, so I drove back to the store to either pay for the book or surreptitiously return it. When I got there, the store was closed—not just for the day, but permanently. A hand-printed sign on the door said simply “Out of Business. Thank you.” The inside was very dark, but I could still make out books and records by the little bit of light penetrating, as if reluctantly, through the grimy front windows.
I didn’t go back home right away. I knew it was irrational, but I couldn’t help feeling that by hanging around, I could somehow turn the clock back and reopen the decrepit little place. I stood in front of the shop, silently blaming all the other pedestrians for not doing their part to keep the store in business. I felt a little like I do when I leave a funeral and can’t quite understand why everyone else is going about their days as if nothing has happened. Perhaps I was looking for someone to share my disappointment.
Since it was a bright, sunny day, I wandered along the street. I walked by a pub, then after I’d walked about half a block farther, I turned around and went inside. When my eyes had adjusted to the dim light, I saw a familiar wide-brimmed hat covering long white hair. I approached the table. “I saw you in the little record shop the other day. May I join you?”
He looked up at me. His eyes were bright blue and clearer than I expected. “Suit yourself.”
“So, do you know what happened to the shop?” I asked when I was seated opposite him.
“Went broke.”
A bored-looking waiter approached and stood over us without saying anything.
“I’ll have whatever blond lager you have on tap,” I said.
As the waiter walked away, the musician said, “He just couldn’t make a go of it anymore. Not enough people want the old books, and vinyl isn’t as popular as some people make it out to be. Just a small number of enthusiasts. Everybody loves their damn little phones with all those music streaming services and back-lit books.”
“Do you know him well?” I asked, glad that I was carrying the stolen book in my briefcase, where he couldn’t see it.
“He’s my brother.” He took a sip of his beer. “He’s gonna join me here in a little while. Oh, and by the way, he knows you took that book.”
Oh Crap, I thought. Do l leave? No. I need to face this. “Actually, I came back to pay for it. I wanted to either pay for it or return it. When I discovered the store was closed, I didn’t know what to do, but now, maybe if I apologise and offer to pay…”
“Don’t sweat it too much. He knew the store was closing and it was one less thing he would have to get rid of. If you hadn’t taken it, it would probably have ended up in the trash somewhere.”
I reached into my briefcase at the same time as the pub door opened and the man with the bushy beard and flat cap came in. I put the book on the table as he sat in the third chair. He opened the cover to reveal the inscription. Then, looking directly at me, so intently that it was a little unnerving, he said, “Jessie was our great, great grandmother. She was sixteen when that was written.”
“I’m so sorry I took it. I don’t know what came over me. Obviously, you can have it back. That’s why I brought it. I was going to take it to the shop, but, under the circumstances, I’m glad I ran into you here. This must be an important book to you. I hope you’ll accept my apology.”
“None needed,” he said as he signalled to the waiter, who immediately pulled a pint of dark beer and brought it over. (He’d apparently forgotten about mine). “It’s old, long forgotten, unimportant history, and the book’s in poor condition, so it’s not worth anything.”
“Can I at least pay you for it?”
He said, “No. Just take good care of it, and it won’t fail you.”
I wondered what that remark meant, but didn’t pursue it as I put the book back in my briefcase and stood to leave. “Thank you,” I said, then went to the bar and paid for their drinks.
A week passed with the book sitting on a table in my living room, in full view every time I walked by. It was a constant reminder of what the old man had said about it not failing me. On the eighth day, I put it on a shelf among the other old books in my library so it would be less conspicuous, but the canvas spine was lighter in colour than the other, dark leather ones, so it still drew attention to itself. I thought of throwing it out, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that. It felt like committing a crime far more egregious than the original theft had been. Besides, I had made in implicit promise.
A week or so later, I picked the book off the shelf, sat in my favourite chair in my library, and opened it. I imagined the pen in the hand of the person who wrote the inscription. I pictured Jessie’s hands holding the book, while she read the script, perhaps by the light of an open window, or maybe a candle, her fingers long and slender. I didn’t visualise the rest of her. I didn’t see her face or her body—just the hands and the open book, as if I were looking through her eyes.
A sudden thump broke the spell. I went to the front of the house, but upon looking around the living room, I couldn’t see anything amiss. Nothing had fallen from a shelf. All the plants remained where I had placed them. No floor lamps had toppled over. As I stood, bewildered, there was another loud thump. From this vantage point, I could locate it more precisely as coming from the direction of the front door. I looked through the window and saw two fairly large boxes on the verandah and the back of a receding person with long white hair flowing from beneath an old fedora. He was heading toward a rusted old pickup truck that was stopped at the curb. I thought I saw another person in the cab, but I couldn’t be sure. Another small sound, like rustling paper behind me diverted my attention momentarily and when I turned back toward the street, the truck was gone.
I dragged the boxes into the house and lifted the top flap of one of them. It was full of vinyl record albums. I grabbed one at random and pulled it out. It was a Dave Brubeck album—one of my favourite musicians. I pulled out another. Joni Mitchel—another beloved performer from my past. I began extracting all the albums, and piled them on the floor. Every album was by a musician I loved. Some dated back to my early years in high school or university. Others were newer, but no less meaningful to me. They ran the gamut from classical to jazz, folk, and rock. Had I been pressed, I don’t think I could have identified a favourite. There must have been over a hundred of them but, as I continued to look, I realised that none of the albums were duplicates of ones I already had in my collection. The other box contained books—a great variety of them. There were novels, collections of short stories, non-fiction works on many different subjects, and beautiful large art, design, and photography books. As I pulled them out, I realised again that none of them duplicated anything on my shelves.
I reasoned that they must have come from the tiny store. The person I saw had to have been the owner’s brother. I had no idea how he knew where I lived and I couldn’t fathom how he had unfailingly chosen my favourite music and books. We had barely spoken, certainly not about my favourite music, nor about what I liked to read. I picked out a rare album featuring duets by a pair of French composers from the 1960s, put it on the turntable, and settled into my favourite chair. I dozed off to the dulcet tones.
The next morning, I drove to the shop. I found the fitness studio and the insurance company, but the shop was gone. It was not boarded up or simply empty. It was not there at all. There was no space between the fitness studio and the insurance company. They were adjacent neighbours, separated by a common wall. I thought I must have driven to the wrong location so I drove slowly around a couple of blocks in the area, but it became apparent that there was no sign of the bookshop. I pulled over and sat in my Saab across the street and stared at the spot where the shop should have been. Had I dreamt the whole thing? I don’t take drugs stronger than coffee or Aspirin, and I rarely drink, so it couldn’t have been that. If I’d imagined the whole episode, where had the albums and books come from? Would they still be there when I returned home?
I noticed the decrepit little truck I’d seen at my house, parked a short distance away, so I stepped out of the car and walked toward the pub where I’d encountered the brothers. I looked around, but there was no evidence of either of them. I asked the bartender about them and he said he had no idea who I was talking about.
When I arrived home, the albums and books were still on the living room floor where I’d left them the day before, but now the book I’d stolen was resting on top of one of the piles, open to the inside front cover, exposing the written inscription. I glanced at it and something about it caught my eye. It was different. In the same ancient-looking hand, on the same yellowing paper, it now read,
To
Mr. Paul Johnson
with best wishes for his
cerebral welfare and enlightenment,
Delaware
22 March 2022
I bent to pick up the book and it disintegrated to dust in my hand, except for the inscription page, which drifted slowly down and came to rest on the pile of records.
***
In addition to his two novels, Here’s to Joe, and Hollywood Parade, David has published a short story in an anthology Connections, and a non-fiction article in PhotoLife magazine. His writing has been influenced by having lived in Ontario, Manitoba, New Brunswick, and a short time in Ireland, as well as his travels throughout Canada, the United States, and Europe. He continues to write novels and short stories from his home in Arnprior, Ontario.
