A Very Special Year (6 page)

The card from Portugal remained the only sign of life from the old woman. Days, weeks and months passed, but the postwoman never arrived again with anything similar. Instead Valerie felt herself being dragged more deeply into an existence that was quite alien to her. She wasn't a bookseller, she wasn't the old lady from Ringelnatz & Co. She wasn't even a big reader, not at all. And yet these days she kept catching herself, as if by coincidence, with books in her hands, immersed in stories and poems. She sorted, analysed, did the accounts, she drank the elderly bookseller's tea, sat in her armchair, pored over her business documents. And she chatted to rats. While Aunt Charlotte was drifting heaven knew where, Valerie was gradually taking her place. And she was alarmed to note that she felt increasingly comfortable doing so.

SEVEN

A
nybody who imagines there are no surprises to be had in a bookshop is quite mistaken. It is true that bookselling might be regarded as predictable and even a little boring from an entrepreneurial perspective. But not everything is foreseeable. No, however rare it is, the unexpected inevitably comes into play: the customer.

When the bell rang, which had hung over the door from the time the shop was founded, Valerie's initial reaction was to look at her mobile. Not that her ringtone sounded remotely similar. But if anything happened these days, it usually happened via a digital link to the outside world. She'd just been staring at a list which her aunt had entitled, surprisingly, ‘Outstanding Items', but
which contained nothing of the sort that a business graduate might consider to be ‘outstanding items' – much more a sort of incoherent to-do list, which also included a few details of books still in storage, though Valerie hadn't looked at it that closely yet.

The young man stood quite unexpectedly in the doorway, favourably lit by the mild glow of an early summer evening. ‘Are you still open?' he asked diffidently.

‘Are we still open?' Valerie repeated, slightly confused. In fact she'd arranged to meet a couple of friends at the cinema and ought to have left long ago. ‘Actually we're not,' she said hesitantly. The film was starting in half an hour, and these friends had already been teasing her for never being around any more.

‘Oh, I'm very sorry to have disturbed you then,' the young man mumbled, turning to go.

On the other hand, the shop's sums were not so great that she could afford not to give them a boost using every means at her disposal.

‘But we'll happily make an exception for you,' exclaimed Valerie, who really couldn't justify losing a potential sale. She rushed around the desk and down the steps to the shop floor. Why do I keep saying ‘we', she wondered? Is there anybody else here responsible for this shop? Thousands of books stared at her and
Valerie looked at the floor, inwardly ashamed. Outwardly, she smiled at the customer, who was wearing an elegant, if somewhat old-fashioned between-seasons coat, from the pocket of which the headlines of the
Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung
poked out nosily; a rather creased shirt, with spectacles in the breast pocket; and Italian shoes, which may no longer have been brand new, but were well looked after. ‘What are you looking for?'

‘Do you mind if I have a quick look around?'

Valerie was not sure, but she thought she heard a faint accent in his voice, a tone which sounded foreign and charming. ‘Of course,' she said. ‘Please feel at home.'

‘That's an invitation I don't have to be offered twice in a bookshop, especially not in one arranged so marvellously as this!' The young man had the eye of a connoisseur, which ploughed along the rows of shelves, glinting each time it stopped at a particular volume. From time to time his gaze slipped and brushed the young bookseller as if by chance. Valerie pretended unsuccessfully to look as if she had urgent things to do behind his back. There was something about him, something you rarely saw – he radiated a distinguished sophistication. Sven could have taken a leaf out of his book.

Where are you from? Valerie wondered, with a furtive smile at the strange contradiction of his completely untamed hair and carefully picked elegant wardrobe. His shoes gleamed, his snow-white cuffs protruded exactly a finger's width from his sleeves, as if he were applying to be a concierge at a grand hotel or accepted in an English club, and yet with his shock of hair, beard and melancholy eyes he looked like a communist revolutionary. Valerie couldn't help finding him exceedingly interesting. Maybe even more than interesting… To still be standing after the looks she'd been firing at him he must be made of wood or stone.

It had been the elderly lady's great talent, which she'd honed and perfected over all the years she'd spent as a bookseller, that she'd possessed an almost magical sense for finding and stocking the right books. The ‘right books' always meant those that the customers entering her shop really wanted to read. Although it wasn't always the case that these customers knew this beforehand. On the contrary, they'd often come in just ‘to have a look around'. But then they'd go away with one or several books that would often change their lives.

Anybody entering Ringelnatz & Co. was subjected to a rigorous examination by the elderly bookseller's dependable eye. Sometimes a short conversation
helped, sometimes watching how potential customers went along the shelves showed her what would be suited to them. Often a customer would pick the wrong book, upon which the elderly lady would find ways and words to dissuade them, for nothing is more dangerous for people's reading pleasure and thus for booksellers than the wrong book at the wrong time. With a sure hand she would take out another tome, open it as if at random, appear to read a short passage or two, then look up in astonishment and say, ‘You really ought to see this.' Or she would assume her legendary mischievous smile and raise a finger, as if urgently needing to disclose a secret, before saying, ‘An excellent choice. But I'm sure you don't know this book yet!' And as if by magic she'd whip out a volume tailor-made for the customer, and which would bring them inspiration, insight or simply a great deal of pleasure.

Valerie, of course, possessed no such bookselling magic. She wouldn't have known what advice to give – negative or positive – if a customer had asked her. But the young man didn't ask. Rather he kept browsing the stock in a knowledgeable yet modest way, regularly plucking a book from the shelves, opening it, stroking the pages with his slender fingers
(instinctively Valerie checked to see whether he wore a ring, which he didn't), while a delicate smile appeared on his lips. At one point Valerie glimpsed a critical frown on his brow.

‘Have you been here before?' she heard herself ask.

‘In your bookshop you mean? No, I'm afraid not. But I could spend my life here.'

With an embarrassed smile Valerie withdrew. ‘If there's anything I can do for you…' she muttered, before sitting back at the desk in the office, not without continuing to watch the strange visitor through the door. Spend my life here, she thought, and realized that she could very well imagine that. But after a while she got back down to her tasks, leafing through the publishing catalogues that had arrived in the post, and trying to ignore the peculiar disturbance that the young man's arrival had caused.

When she turned her attention to him again it was dark outside. Valerie looked at her watch. She cleared her throat. ‘I don't wish to sound impolite…' she said, going down the two steps to the shop floor with the keys in her hand.

‘Oh, I must apologize, it's me who's been impolite,' the young man hurried to say. ‘I've detained you. You were meant to close ages ago, weren't you? I'm terribly sorry; I completely forgot the time.'

‘Didn't you find anything?' Valerie asked. She felt that after hours of reading for free in her bookshop he really could buy something.

‘Too much!' the man replied, brushing away a strand of his thick hair from his forehead. ‘I'd love to take the whole lot.'

‘Perhaps you ought to start with just one or two,' Valerie suggested.

‘You're right. Absolutely right.' Slowly he turned 360 degrees, as if waiting for one of the books to jump out at him to buy. Then he took a few steps to the rear of the shop and laid his hands on a second-hand volume. It wasn't anything special; Valerie hadn't noticed the book before. On the slightly yellowed jacket was a detail from a painting, perhaps from the art nouveau era: A.S. Byatt,
Possession
.

‘Do you know it?' the young man asked. His eyes blazed at hers.

‘Ermm… no. To be honest, it's the first time I've seen it.'

‘Oh. You should read it.' He passed it to her. ‘Choose any page.'

Any page. Valerie opened it. Page 186–87. ‘So?' she said. ‘What now?'

‘May I?' He took the book back and his voice became very soft when he said, ‘It's a light novel. But
it's told in the way stories ought to be told.'

‘And how's that?' Valerie asked, half out of amusement, half out of curiosity.

‘With joy in the magic of words.' And he read out loud: ‘Silky snow, pomegranates, drugget, yellowish, breastplate, gas-mantels, metal covers… Or here, later on: shuttle, Peephole, patient, generous, Noah's ravens, Swammerdam, sense, grosser… and then: spilt milk, Melusine myth, Vestal Lights… Isn't that wonderful? This cornucopia of possibilities of giving expression to a story?'

Valerie couldn't suppress a smile. ‘Yes, you're right,' she said. ‘It is a particular type of magic.'

‘You said it.' He offered her a smile, which took her breath away momentarily. ‘I'd love to take it.'

‘Of course,' she said, swallowing. She held out her hand and felt his fingers touch hers as he passed her the book. Her heart missed a beat… No, that would be one cliché too many. Even if that's exactly how it felt to Valerie. We can state here that she'd slightly fallen in love with this unknown, attractive and cultivated young man.

‘That's…' she turned the book over and looked in vain for a price label. ‘Well…' She examined the first page, then the last. ‘It's second-hand.'

‘And in excellent condition. Would you be happy
with, let's say, a hundred euros? I mean, it
is
signed by the author.'

‘That's true,' Valerie said. ‘But I reckon a hundred euros is rather too much than too little.'

‘Are you just helping out here?' the young man asked, taking out a worn, brown wallet, from which he plucked a brand-new note to give her. It was so immaculate it almost looked like a forgery.

‘Not really,' Valerie explained, hesitating only briefly to take the money. ‘The shop belongs to my aunt. She's disappeared and I'm trying to sort out the chaos she left behind.' She shrugged and climbed the two steps up to the till. ‘It's a complicated story.'

‘I like complicated stories,' the young man said, following her. When Valerie turned to him he was standing so close that the two of them almost bumped into each other.

‘Sorry,' he said.

‘No worries. Do you need a receipt?'

‘No.' In one perfectly elegant movement he thrust the book into the inside pocket of his coat and was about to leave with a small bow when he suddenly stopped and stared at the floor, no, not at the floor, but at the recycling bin. Or rather, inside the recycling bin.

‘You've got
A Very Special Year
?'

‘Pardon? Oh, well, hmmm, I'm afraid it's a… it was a defective copy.'

‘A defective copy?' As delicately as he could, the young man took the book from the pile of paper, opened it and said, ‘There had been no forewarning of the sudden change in weather.' Visibly moved, he looked up. ‘Will you sell it to me?'

‘Listen,' Valerie tried to explain, ‘this book is completely misprinted. The text breaks off after a few pages.' She shrugged apologetically.

‘Oh, I see,' the young man said, giving her a puzzled look. ‘You don't want to give it away?'

‘No, I do. Please, please take it,' Valerie said. ‘Have it as a present.'

‘A… present? I… I can't accept that. You don't know how long I've been looking for this book.'

‘And then all you find is a defective copy.' Valerie smiled with a mixture of sympathy and amusement. But the young man laughed as if he'd cracked a brilliant joke, before thanking her again with radiant eyes, pocketing this book too and vanishing into the darkness. Valerie remained at the door of the little bookshop for a short while, watching him go, although in the gloom of the ancient street lighting she wasn't sure she could see exactly where he was. Then she felt a gust of wind drive down the street, bringing with it
such an unexpected downpour that she had to take refuge inside. As she slammed the door behind her she repeated the words the stranger had muttered only a few minutes earlier: ‘There had been no forewarning of the sudden change in weather.'

EIGHT

A
nother of the elderly bookseller's whims had been to keep letters from customers who'd written after reading particular books. She'd filed them away in what was now an overflowing folder. It had been some time, a few years in fact, since Aunt Charlotte had received her last letter; at least, the last one she'd filed was dated the same year that Valerie had finished school. Sven had taken the folder and was browsing through it, while Valerie went through the inventory, recording every single book – she had just got to shelf thirteen. ‘Or this one!' he cried, citing another example: ‘
I really couldn't see anything coming in this novel! It's a masterpiece! You gave me a sleepless night! Thanks!
God, she's hysterical that one.
Can't write a sentence without shoving an exclamation mark at the end.
This book is a revelation! How come so few people know it?
'