Turning Idolater (18 page)

“Aren’t you coming?”

“No. You shall be fine. I have work, and if you are
amenable to the duties here, you shall have work too.”

Philip wasn’t keen on this; however, he realized
that Thomas’ role was to get him to this spot — a spot Philip would
not have found on his own. He was about to object, but decided to
step into this adventure alone. He nodded, and then closed the
door.

Despite the bell, no one appeared. The place seemed
deserted. Philip found himself in a small room flanked by a counter
and an old manual cash register. There were three short bookstalls
arrayed to his right, each with a defining sign —
Mysterious
Pleasures, Romance Specials
and
Touches of Class
respectively. Directly before him were three rows of library
shelving receding to some indiscernible point. These stacks were
packed tight with hardcover books — beautiful old books, with a
variety of rich bindings. They went to the ceiling, which was dark
brown and metal, with rosette patterning. The floorboard creaked as
he took a step toward the counter.

“Hello,” he said. His voice was sucked into the
bibliofibrous cushion that the place had become. Light was at a
premium also, two dim lamps set above the stalls and one brighter
sconce with a flickering bulb that Philip was sure that Thomas
Edison must have screwed in. Plastered behind the counter, and on
the counter, and at the top of each stack aisle were signs in
various letterforms, but all imparting the same clear message:

NO SMOKING ON THESE PREMISES AT ANY TIME. NO
EXCEPTIONS.

“No shit, Jose,” Philip muttered. “Hello.” Maybe
they took an early lunch. Philip moved close to the counter,
placing his hands square to another
No Smoking
sign.
Suddenly, a head popped up from behind the counter.

“Can I help you with something?”

Philip clasped his heart and jumped back almost to
the
Mysterious Pleasure
stall.

“How long have
you
been there?” Philip
gasped.

“Not long,” said the man. He was a wisp, about
sixty-five with a pointed nose, thick tortoise shell glasses and a
visor that said
Eat More Cheese
along the brim. “How long
have you been here?”

Philip opened his mouth and muttered a few
ahs
. Hadn’t the man heard the tinkling and the two
hellos?
“I just came in . . . I’m looking for . . .”

“Ah, you must the boy from Jersey Sterns, to pick up
that restored copy of Bradstreet’s. Nice object that and quite a
find, even in the deplorable condition obtained. I’ll just check .
. .”

“No. I’m not here for a book.”

“No?” said the man. “He slid his glasses down his
brittle nose. “Well, we don’t sell sweaters here, and if you’re
looking for back copies of Swedish Erotica, the Globe is down the
block.”

“No,” Philip said. “I’m here to see . . .” He almost
said
Uncle Dean
, but he didn’t think that would register him
much credibility. “I’m here about a job.”

“Oh. I didn’t know we were hiring. Did the
proprietor put something in the Times or on that thing . . . what’s
it called? Craig’s List.”

“No. I met him at a social gathering and . . .”

“Oh, I see.” He grinned from jug ear to jug ear.
Philip didn’t like it at all. It was too sly for comfort and made
him think that Uncle Dean had been down this road before. The man
bent and shuffled some books he was arranging under the counter,
and then shuffled toward the library stacks. He halted and turned.
“Are you coming or did you expect Mr. Dean to make a public
spectacle in the shop.”

Philip wondered what that meant. He was the only one
here and by the shape of things, he didn’t anticipate a steady flow
of customers any time soon, unless there was a sale on DVDs
somewhere in the stalls. He followed the clerk (he assumed he was
the clerk) over the creaking floorboards into the canyon.

Philip was mesmerized by the galaxy of fine reading
that surrounded him like a mite in a snuffbox. His head slowly
bobbed from left to right as he spied golden and tattered bindings
heralding names he knew and more that he hadn’t — Tolstoy,
DeMauppasant, Eliot, Trollope and Dickens. As he concluded this
simple but grand peregrination through the stacks, he was suddenly
overwhelmed by a thought. If he lived three lifetimes, he might be
able to perhaps read the bottom shelf, and understand just a
fraction of that. It left him with a deep sense of loss. How could
he feel loss at something he didn’t possess? Still, the very magic
of the stacks made him glad at the same time. It was the stuff of
madness.

The center aisle opened into a wider area — a room
with wall shelving, four more stalls and three large, overstuffed
chairs that beckoned for an ass and a glass and an wide-opened
tome. The windows were clear here and showcased an old tenement
courtyard, the kind architects called the central ‘I.’ It was
overgrown with sumac and ivy, but afforded a brighter light than in
the front of the establishment.

The clerk shuffled to the corner of the room, where
a closed door concluded a short flight of three wooden steps. As he
placed his foot on the first step, the bell tinkled. He didn’t
stop, so Philip reached forward and grasped his shoulder.

“What is it?” the clerk asked.

“The bell rang.”

“Did it now.” Philip now realized why the clerk
hadn’t heard him enter. “Just now?”

“Just now.”

“Well, that must be the boy about the
Bradstreet’s.
” He finished the short flight, pushed open the
door, and then switched on a light. “You just go up now. The
proprietor is upstairs, and if he’s expecting you, it’ll just save
me the effort. I spend too much time up there as it is.”

Philip slid past him into the dim light of the inner
staircase. He heard the clerk shouting through the stacks, probably
trying to accost the poor courier to stay.

The stairway was even more wretched than the
bookstore. The stairs were broken and the banister shook under
Philip’s grasp. He was glad it was only one flight. On the landing,
there were three doors, but only one shone light over the transom,
so he proceeded to that one. He knocked.

“Come,” came a voice. He knew the voice and did not
hesitate.

“Uncle Dean?” he asked.

The room was squat, the ceiling beveled at one end
and uneven on the other. It reminded him of an outsized pigeon
coop. He was familiar with those, because pigeoning was a popular
pastime in Brooklyn. In fact, the
rat-with-wings
was the
official Borough bird.

“Over here, Philip,” said the old man. “And if you
are to work here, I suggest you call me Mr. Cardoza — professional
jealousies and all that. I do have other employees.”

“I know. I met one downstairs.”

“That would be Pons. He’s been with me forever. I do
believe he is older than some of the books.”

Philip sniffed. There was an acrid aroma in the air
— not overpowering, but lingering. He also noticed stacks of
damaged books on tables and chairs. Dean Cardoza was working under
an intensity lamp, a loupe popped in his eye and a brush in his
hand.

“You repair books here?” Philip asked.

Dean laughed. “Repair is a lame term for it. We
preserve and conserve.”

Philip placed his hands on a stack of frayed book
innards. “Aren’t those the same thing?”

“Not a bit of it,” Dean said. He laid his loupe
aside and smiled. “Come around, my friend. You have seen the
wonders of the world of books through the eyes of a reader. And now
that you have latched upon such wonderment as an author, you’ve
become the wind in a writer’s sails.” He clasped his arm around
Philip’s shoulders. “Now behold the landfall — the pot of gold at
the rainbow’s end. These vessels make the words stay the tide and
hug the furrows. These are the boards that bind us to the wind so
the sacred world of wisdom, and knowledge, and Mother Goose, and
potboilers are never swallowed by ignorance entirely.”

Philip’s jaw hung wide. He was staring at a shit
load of old paper that was loosely held together by spit and snot
beside bent and drying cardboard that faded in this backwater room
above a decaying bookstore. He didn’t see ships of the line or even
dry-docks here. However, he did feel Dean Cardoza’s excitement.

“Book repair,” he said.

“Preservation and conservation,” Dean countered.
“Some clients want us to preserve these relics to the state they
were when bought on some fabled stall in London, or Dublin, or
Calcutta. Other customers want us to conserve a book so it keeps
its ancient flavor, but still can be consumed. Call it repair, if
you like, but I’m not a cobbler.”

Philip laughed. What he really wanted to know was
why Mr. Cardoza lied to him the night before about his Internet
surfing routines, but he was too fascinated with the man’s
hyperbole to broach such mundane inquiries. There was a tone in the
old man’s voice, much like Thomas’, but not as golden — copper
perhaps; fine-tapped copper, or hand-blown glass. That’s it.

“Will I be conserving or preserving?” Philip
asked.

“At first, neither. You will be . . . observing.” He
pointed to the pile of book innards. “You must learn the anatomy of
a book first — the twelve styles of binding — the different
stitches, glues, blends, techniques, because in order to
reconstruct a volume, you need to first deconstruct it.” He lifted
one of the innards. “This is a carefully disemboweled 1920 limited
edition of Emerson’s complete works. The pages are near pristine,
but the covers were depressing. So we separate the finery from the
foulery and, with solvent, glue and stitch, we doctor the patient,
healing the covers, and then rejoin it to its wondrous quarto.”

Philip smiled. He actually understood this. He would
need to tear apart the books first and then learn how to . . . do
stuff to it. Dean Cardoza waved Philip through the room, touching
volumes and tattered pieces. He explained the different schools of
bindery and the reason and evolution of each. He showed Philip
examples of innards that were not pristine and gave him a summary
chemistry lesson on the various papers and reparative bleaches. He
spoke of vellum and rag and rough edging and smooth. He recounted
the history of the word
page
from the Latin
pagina
—
to link, and explained the different sizes and their uses, from
large Folio sizes to Quarto and Trade. He explained the difference
between Hardback and Library editions and why they rarely saw a
Library edition in this shop. There was side stitch, and saddle
stitch, and signatures and secret Belgian binding, which
must
remain a secret.

Philip found it informative, but exhausting.
Finally, he insisted on trying his hand at something.

“Tomorrow I’ll show you how to unpinch a spiral
bound,” Dean said. “I have a practice set. Each day, I’ll instruct
you on some phase of deconstruction.” He suddenly stopped, and then
clasped Philip’s shoulders. “Two rules: Understand each step before
moving to the next. These treasures can die under an inattentive
hand. And, No Smoking anywhere on the premises.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Good. If ever you see someone enter the shop with a
lit flame, you are to tackle them and push them out into the
street. Understood?”

Philip shook his head. “And today?”

“Today you can do some filing. Mrs. Blair only works
two days a week. She’ll appreciate a little help. And then you can
relieve Pons at the register.”

This seemed very light work to Philip, considering
filing only required knowing his A, B, Cs and sales traffic in the
shop was as brisk as a tomb visit. “I can do that,” he said.

“Good. And as for salary, how’s $800 a week
sound?”

“$800,” Philip stammered. “For filing and till
jingling?”

“No. You are learning a skill — a marketable skill.
When I’m finished with you, you can parley your talents to a much
higher tune. You’ll be in demand . . . again.” He winked.

Uncle Dean deposited Philip into an office that was
across the creaky landing. Small. Cramped, but virtually bookless,
which Philip found refreshing for some reason. The office had an
old-fashioned roll top desk flush against the window (nice view of
the sumac) and a metal table holding a computer — nothing space
aged, but a Compaq of decent vintage. There were several stacks of
papers — invoices, no doubt, and a row of low cabinets. The
instruction was simple. Alphabetize the orders by pending or
complete. Separate the pending invoices by request date order. File
the completed orders in the appropriate cabinet after checking the
billing status on the computer. The old man didn’t explain the
billing system. He just indicated the icon on the computer’s
desktop and thought Philip would be bright enough to figure it out
himself. Upon seeing the various Windows folders, Philip almost
asked the burning question again, because he noticed a folder
labeled —
Internet Shortcuts
. However, he desisted.

Left alone, Philip secretly smiled. He was doing an
honest days work for an honest days pay.
If Mom could see me
now.
But that wasn’t going to happen. He shuffled through the
papers. It was boring, especially alone in this closet, but it was
just fill-in work until he could learn how to tear out book
innards. He grinned.

“Deconstruction.” He raised his arms above his head
and grunted. “Terminator,” he growled. “Yo! Yo! Yo!” Suddenly, he
looked about him. He expected Uncle Dean’s head through the door to
tell him he had hired him by mistake, or the pointed nose of Pons
poking in with a
You’re not smoking in here, are you?
Filing
was boring. He popped over to the computer and found the
Billing
System
icon. It was beside the
Internet Shortcut
folder.
He gazed about, especially out the window, which presented him with
nothing but a black brick wall covered in weeds. Satisfied that he
was alone, he double-clicked the
Internet Shortcut
folder.