Bipolar WINTER. Samuel David Steiner
Читать онлайн книгу.
has a way of changing your life,” the man said.
I don’t doubt that. Allison changed his life the moment they met. Even with the mess created by his thesis, she never wavered in her support – she was the only one who believed in his work as much as he did.
On an antique table behind the counter, Aldo noticed an old Remington typewriter, a half-typed page sticking up from the top. Following his gaze, the man smiled. “My memoirs.”
“I’d like to read that when you’re done.”
“It might be a while,” he chuckled again. “In the meantime, is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Actually, I’m researching the history of Buenos Aires,” Aldo said. “Do you have any books that date back to the mid 1940s?”
The man thought for a moment. “No, but there’s a used bookstore just up on Avenida 9 de Julio. Turn right on Lavalle and hang a left on San Martin. You might find what you’re looking for there.”
“Thanks. And good luck with your manuscript.”
Aldo followed the man’s directions, enjoying the two-mile trek and the opportunity to walk up the widest avenue in the world. He counted a total of sixteen lanes of traffic and shook his head, glad he’d opted to leave the rental car at the hotel.
Walking through the door of the bookstore, he felt as though he’d stepped back in time. The rusty black bell above the door that announced his presence barely roused the attention of the old man behind the counter. He grunted an acknowledgment without looking up from his pile of dusty books.
Aldo quickly found the section dedicated to history and browsed through the shelves. Most of the books on war contained typical historical accounts of battles, weaponry, and famous military heroes, but oddly nothing about the Nazis. He went back to the front and waited for the man behind the counter to look up.
I’m the only patron here, old man . After a few moments, he cleared his throat.
“¿Qué?” the old man grumbled.
“Uh, I’m looking for something on war, circa 1945,” Aldo said, hoping he wouldn’t have to embarrass himself by butchering the man’s native language. Spanish had similarities to Italian, both having evolved from Latin, a language he’d studied in university, but that did not help him here.
“The books on World War II are over there,” the man muttered in heavily accented English, waving toward the section Aldo had just come from.
“Right. Thanks,” Aldo said, “but I’m looking for something in particular…”
The man’s eyes flicked up. “And that would be?”
Why do I feel like he’s intentionally making this harder than it needs to be? With a sigh, Aldo asked, “Do you have anything about the Nazis who fled to Argentina after the war?”
The man gave Aldo a long, hard look, as though evaluating him. A bead of sweat trickled down his face despite the oscillating fan situated at the end of the counter. The old man glanced over Aldo’s shoulder, his eyes scanning up and down the street through the shop’s front window, and then asked in a low voice, “And why would you want to know that?”
“I’m, uh, a historian,” he said carefully.
“Where did you study?”
What does that have to do with anything? “I received my Ph.D. from the Pontifical Gregorian University,” Aldo said, holding the man's penetrating stare.
The man quirked an eyebrow. Finally, he said, “Come back in an hour. I may have something for you then.”
Huh? Did he misplace it or something? When the man continued to stare at him, Aldo decided not to push his luck. “Great! Thanks. Well, uh, see you in an hour,” he called over his shoulder as he headed out the door.
Now what? An hour wasn’t enough time to make the trek back to hotel, so Aldo decided to take a walk and stumbled upon a small park. Plopping down on a wooden bench, he watched a few birds peck at the grass and pondered how his life had changed so drastically. Never would he have imagined, even just days ago, that he would be on assignment for the pope. It was an opportunity many in his field could only dream of, even if misfortune had opened the door.
Bad luck comes in threes, right? Aldo sighed. Barely graduating and inadvertently telling the world about Septem Montes had to count as two. Still, some good things happened as well, and for all he knew this was part of God’s plan for him.
Several people strolled by, enjoying the early afternoon quiet. He chatted with one couple after their exuberant dog leapt into his lap, and then he pulled out the travel guides he’d purchased earlier. Reading through them, he made notes of places that might be worth visiting. When forty-five minutes passed, he stood and walked back toward the bookstore.
He expected a stack of books to be waiting on the counter, but the counter remained just as bare as it had been an hour earlier. He sighed inwardly and stepped over to where the shop owner still sat with his pile of books.
“Eager, are we?” The old man picked up a cane and slowly made his way around the counter. He glanced through the window to the street before beckoning for Aldo to follow him. Passing the section Aldo had searched earlier, the old man hobbled to the northern-most corner of the building. It was well hidden from the front of the shop, and Aldo hadn’t even noticed it.
Aldo’s eyebrows rose as he looked around. The bookshelves were filled with modern romance novels, the bright colors and lewd illustrations so out of place in this small antique shop. “Romance novels?”
“Patience, boy,” the owner bit out. He picked up a worn hardcover, entitled Carolina , placed it on its side and pushed it forward. The shelf moved a few inches then stopped. “Damn this door anyway!” he muttered, pushing the book again. The door opened another few feet, giving them both room to squeeze through and descend several steps. At the bottom, the old man raised a shaky hand and yanked on a thin cord, turning on an overhead light to reveal a small, windowless room. Four bookshelves and an overstuffed corduroy chair that looked tan in the dim light occupied most of the space. “I’ll come get you at closing time.”
“What? You mean I can’t get out on my own?” Aldo asked, panic creeping into his voice. He’d never been good with enclosed spaces since being trapped in a cellar when he was a child.
“Can’t risk you opening the door when there’s a customer out front now, can I?” The shop owner looked around the room. “I don’t let just anyone in here.”
Then why did you let me in? Aldo slowly nodded. “I understand. Thank you.”
The owner grunted again then pulled the shelf closed behind him.
Sighing, Aldo looked around. To his relief, the room was well maintained, lacking the dampness, cobwebs and dust of typical brick basements. He could also feel a cool breeze coming from somewhere in the ceiling. He tried to reassure himself. Just don’t think about it and you’ll be fine.
Aldo glanced at his watch. Figuring hehad only about four hours until the old man returned, Aldo pulled out his reading glasses and walked over to the nearest bookcase. Scanning the shelves, he noticed that many of the spines were unmarked. Pulling the books off one by one and flipping through them, he discovered most were diaries from locals, some even written in English. Most were bound informally, the pages coming loose with age, while others were memoirs printed by large publishing houses. Without the usual index or table of contents, it was hard to tell if any of it was relevant without reading them. The ones that seemed most likely to be useful he placed in a stack to read through later.
He paged through the diary of a private tutor from the 1950s. It was fascinating, but nothing related to his research. Next, he found a book written by a young woman who had moved from Germany just after the war. She wrote mostly of a romance with an Argentine rebel. Part of him wanted to get lost in the stories, but time