The Secret of Lost Things. Sheridan Hay
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at the top edge, no foxing, and otherwise a fine copy. A steal at ten thousand dollars. I’ve spoken to Pike and your credit is excellent. The bill will be forthcoming.”
He leaned away from Gosford, in a perfectly timed motion, as if to better appreciate the moment. He paused.
“Rosemary, no need for you to wait,” he took up after a minute. “Mr. Gosford is good for it, I assure you.”
I left him to secure the signature. It was the practice of the Rare Book Room that a customer who’d selected and wanted to purchase a book had to be accompanied down to the main floor of the Arcade and straight to Pearl at the register. The potential for theft was the obvious reason for this ritual; but in the case of extremely valuable items, approval was often granted in advance. Customers like Mr. Gosford were billed monthly, so frequent and so large were their acquisitions.
This first visit I rode the elevator down alone, but I was to welcome any opportunity to visit Mr. Mitchell and be warmed by his affection, his information; to be at once reminded of my loneliness and comforted by its acknowledgment.
The other role as escort was to descend to the basement. Walter Geist worked there beneath a single blinding globe of light suspended from a cord attached to the low ceiling, its bare bulb casting shadows along the creases of his face, the only darkness there the hollows of mouth and nostrils. I carried new books to Geist at least two or three times a day, accompanying book reviewers from the city’s major newspapers and periodicals. They cast anxious, furtive looks about, hoping not to cross paths with one of their colleagues. It was a shifty business, not exactly stealing but hardly legitimate, either.
Selling copies of books that had been mailed free of charge was considered one of the perks of reviewing. It was impractical for reviewers to keep stacks of books around after reviewing them (or not reviewing them) for a newspaper or magazine, and publishers knew the activity was part of the Arcade’s operation—knew that they too lined Pike’s pockets—although it wasn’t widely sanctioned. When customers requiring escort showed up, Pearl would bellow either “Review!” or “Rare Book Room!” and whoever was on the floor at the time had to scurry up front to meet the waiting customer. I didn’t mind, preferring the task of escort to shelving.
I often chatted with the more familiar sellers, asking them for recommendations or whether they’d given the books I carried to the basement a positive or negative review. In this way I came to be on speaking terms with several literary journalists and publishing types. My notebook from that time is peppered with recommendations of books I’m certain I never read. But I much preferred collectors to those disposing of books. Collectors were passionate, at least; opportunistic, but in a different way. Their attachment to books as things, I believed then, had more to do with love than with money. The fact is, collecting has an erotic appeal.
After Geist had tallied up the total of the books sold to him in the basement, he scribbled the amount on a small yellow square of paper and the seller returned upstairs to wait in line at the register. Pearl took the yellow square and dispensed the specified amount in cash. Certain journalists then retired to one of the nearby taverns and drank their unearned dividend, each glass an ironic toast to Pike’s financial health.
He didn’t return their deference. Pike referred to reviewers as “spivs” and directed Geist to handle the entire enterprise involving new books.
The basement was Walter Geist’s domain; Mr. Mitchell’s, the fifth floor. Heaven and hell, we used to joke. All of us on the main floor floating in a kind of limbo, Pike watching, raised omnipotently overhead.
Competing for my favorite task of a trip to the Rare Book Room was Bruno (who often had the distinct advantage of being near Pearl at the register, tending to the paperback tables) as well as his ragged-faced colleague, Jack. Pike had designated these two paperback people, and their proximity to Pearl’s bellowed calls meant they were more often than not in either the basement or with Mr. Mitchell upstairs.
Jack Conway, an immigrant like me, was a musician, a traditional fiddler, and Irish. He’d had the end of his nose bitten off in a pub brawl and it was now an abrupt silvery edge. The scarred skin was shiny and pale, giving the impression of a punctuation mark in the center of his face that quickened the rest of his ruddy features. Jack seemed not to care how he looked, and his abbreviated nose had little affect on his attractiveness to women. He had a French girlfriend, Rowena, a sullen poet who often stopped in, but several women visited him during the course of a day.
I saw him, more than once, enter the single public toilet with various women. While they both remained inside for a good twenty minutes, customers in need jostled desperately with the locked doorknob.
Jack’s hatchet look matched his manner. He was tough, and his thick accent often made him unintelligible to other staff members, including Geist (for all his facility with languages). I understood him perfectly, his Irish brogue not so thick to my Tasmanian ear. But I couldn’t translate the filthy fliratious remarks Jack directed at Pearl, who told me she found his inarticulate muttering exciting. Some I simply couldn’t comprehend, but it wasn’t a question of diction. It was a harmless attraction that upset Rowena, not because Jack was really interested in Pearl but because Pearl’s fleshy laughter made a kind of triangle that included me. As the go-between, I was the one Rowena disliked, suspecting, as I came to, that Jack’s mumbled obscenities were intended for my delight as much as for Pearl’s.
I stayed clear of him. Mother had been overprotective to the point of mania about sex. Of course, I had my bookish fantasies, my adolescent ardors. But by then, Sidney Carton had been happily traded for Oscar Jarno, for an infatuation I mistook to be other than fictional. I was nervous around men, around all the displaced desire that ran beneath the surface of the Arcade. It wasn’t that I ever thought they wanted me; simply that they wanted. I’d had no experience with men, and chose to deposit all ideas of romantic promise with the unattainable—with Oscar.
Every morning but Sunday, mail was delivered to the Arcade by a mailman named Mercer. A rather elegant Trinidadian, he’d lived in New York for many years, and despite his uniform he looked more like a diplomat than a representative of the postal service. Chaps would have cast him as Othello in a minute. Mercer and Peal were friends, and it was her custom to bellow to Pike across the huge store that the mail had arrived.
At the Arcade, mail was almost as coveted as books.
Letters brought requests for rare titles, offers from estate libraries, queries and contacts from all over the world. Mr. Mitchell would frequently appear right around the time Mercer showed up, and try to charm him into a quick glance through the day’s mail. It was a slightly silly exercise, unworthy of him. Mercer wouldn’t part with the letters until they were in George Pike’s hand, as if he were more courier than postman. And Pike actually ceased his pricing to greet Mercer at his platform and formally receive the clutch of epistles.
Mr. Mitchell would follow, calling Mercer his “man of letters” and hovering about until Pike told him to go away, that any letters for him would be dispatched upstairs once Pike looked them over. It was a pantomime that made Mr. Mitchell appear childish, as if he had been waiting for a letter to drop from Mercer’s hands so that he might snatch it up and read it before his magisterial employer.
Shoplifting was a regular pastime for some, and I became familiar with one of the Arcade’s more notorious thieves one morning after I answered Pearl’s call of “Review books!” a couple of months after I’d started. Tall, about twenty-five, the shoplifter had hair was as vivid as my own. He was waiting for me at the front register, leaning against the counter, his long legs crossed in jeans spattered with colored paint. Mr. Mitchell had christened this particular thief Red-burn, although I didn’t know that at the time.
“I was wondering when you’d accompany me to hell,” the man said flirtatiously.
“I don’t know you, do I?” I asked, taking several hardcover books from him, part of my job as escort.
“We haven’t met before, but it’s apparent what we have in common. They call me Redburn here because of it.”
“Lot’s of people have red