August 2021. Read between the lines ~ GDH
We found the little shop when we were not looking for it, nestled in a far corner of the labyrinthine market; not actually a corner because the market has no corners, only endless snaking curves so subtle that you never realise you are being led, always, further and deeper inwards. The market has everything, or at least the impression of having everything. In all my years living outside it, giving myself over to it, gorging it on my attention, I never even came close to visiting each and every shop and stall personally. For all I know, all those unexplored inlets were only facades, their busy windows just two-dimensional dazzle camouflage, their glimpsed interiors merely tricks of depth perception. I often wondered how so many businesses could maintain themselves at once in what was, at least in theory, a finite space. The sheer number of them all running in concert, all demanding constant staffing, patronage, activity, time, energy. In all my excursions I never saw the market’s true end, tending to call it a day at the point where natural light had become a distant dream, and my youthful memory for direction had reached its natural limit. This area was known as the Horse’s Mouth, evidently having served as stables once upon a time for the royal family, and always identifiable to me by the large bronze statue of a rearing stallion which greeted your emergence from a long tunnel of street food stalls with a beastly abruptness. This was where the little shop appeared to us.
I was out for the day with my sisters and my mother, who were hoping to locate some modestly priced accoutrements for the neighbours’ garden party that afternoon (fearing they would be woefully under-accessorised after a chance encounter with the smug woman from 122). My family’s chronic financial deficiency accounted for my earliest visits to the market, but I soon began to embark on solo expeditions with pockets entirely empty, and continued to be drawn to it long after I made my millions. By the time of the garden party, I was already an avid attendee. For me, the market was never about buying anything, although as I would learn, everyone had something to buy, and certainly I was no exception. For me, that place was – is – the prototypical site of childhood fascination… a spiritual vineyard for the lost and lonely wanderer… a place of such bewildering beauty that I could never, ever say no, no, enough!… and to this day, the source and setting for all my dreams.
My mother, running low on time as well as patience for my sisters’ characteristic distractibility, hurried us through the maze of cafes and food courts to reach the Horse’s Mouth, a noted spot for bargain hunters in the clothing department. As we arrived at the great statue, my mother, churlishly unmoved by its considerable magnetism, instructed us to split up and meet back at the ‘big horse’ after the prescribed fifteen minutes of combing the area for suitable jewellery, bonnets, fascinators, and the like. My companions dissipated into the bustling crowds and I was left alone, gazing up below the hulking stallion’s frozen hoof.
My eyes did not linger long on that mighty horseshoe before drifting down and to the left to discover something in the background they had never noticed before, something even more captivating. Whether its prior absence from their attention owed to a simple oversight on their part or something else entirely is a question without an answer. Undoubtedly, as mentioned, the market must have housed many dozens of establishments that I was and even now am unfamiliar with. And I freely grant that it may well be nothing more than the simple influence of hindsight speaking when I say this… but I have always felt, somehow, that in their wandering, my eyes themselves conjured what they saw to life. Keener philosophers than me have argued that sometimes the act of looking can be an act of creation. Some events require – demand – an observer, a witness. And I confess, that feeling grows stronger with each passing year.
A little shop, having a dark blue wooden exterior, asymmetrical, with one large dirty window, and huddled between two venues I had seldom perused before; one a novelty t-shirt and underwear outlet, the other specialising in sunglasses and summer hats. But still I knew instantly that I had never seen it until now, that odd place, a fresh mystery. At first sight, it was very old and very unassuming. It seemed to project an almost overt inconspicuousness, with no indication of what was sold within, and lacking any sense of openness, welcoming, or invitation. In fact, the only thing remotely shop-like about it was the faded, looping calligraphy adorning the facade, and plainly stating:
Of course, I followed my wandering eyes and wandered over. The window was too grimy to truly be of any ocular use, but I could see that the lights were on inside. Thick grey cobwebs hung heavily in all corners and insect holes blemished the peeling wood. The door was dinky and somehow embedded, ingrown in the frame. It was obvious, somehow, that nobody had made any use of this entrance for weeks, perhaps months. Memory fails the details, but perhaps it was the layer of undisturbed dust in the doorway, or the ancient look of the knob. I stood there for some time, only knowing that I had found something, or that it had found me. It took the sudden appearance of my sister’s squealing voice to snap me out of my brief stupor.
“What’s that place?” I told her I didn’t know. “It looks scary,” she said, gawping. I said nothing.
Another sister arrived. “What are you two doing?”
“Binks has found somewhere.”
“Hmm, is it really? Let’s go in!” said sister two, ever eager to impinge on the accomplishments of others. And suddenly the little door, stiff and stuck with age but no match for three excited troublemakers, was being bulldozed open and we were piling inside.
The first thing to hit me was the smell. The sole point of comparison I had was my grandfather’s library, which he used to boastfully claim was home to books older than the United States Constitution. I always took that to simply mean Very Old Indeed. The smell of old books. It’s an almost rainy smell, earthy, musty, stale. But there is a richness to it, too, an organic hint, perhaps the residual aura of the primordial trees, their bark, their sweet sap forever infused within the delicate pages. I felt I had entered an entirely new habitat, and the triumph at my discovery was almost as strong as the clammy feeling of intrusion.
The shop was empty – that is to say, there was no one else inside – yet the shop was anything but empty. It was one of the least empty places you can imagine. Practically every inch of floor and wall space was covered in cluttered, utterly disorganised piles and precarious towers – not to mention shelves, boxes, and cabinets – containing practically every manner of trinket, gadget, gizmo, tool, instrument, artefact, and object you could name. Most were small enough to be picked up and handled, but some were bigger, queer, complex-looking devices upon whose history and purpose I could only speculate. To my child’s eyes, it was a grotesque perversion of the archetypal lair of treasure, the kind I imagined pirates might retire to in secrecy at journey’s end. It was hard to even move for the sheer amount of junk.
My sisters and I wordlessly navigated the space in gradual wonder, each gravitating to a different one of the loose genres which deeper analysis revealed within the menagerie: a box containing a dozen or so old, broken flashbulb cameras; a leather sack of golf clubs, tennis rackets, and cricket bats of various shapes and textures; a glass case of seashells, fossils, petrified starfish and mummified reptilian husks; innumerable stacks of magazines, newspapers, comics, and leaflets; faded, stained posters and advertisements from so many bygone eras; wind-up toys, knick-knacks, ornaments, sculpted models and figurines. And not a single price tag to be found. But more than anything, there were books. So many books. And so many kinds of books.
One in particular eventually stood out to me, sitting on a high shelf in one tall glass cabinet at the far end of the room, across from and opposite the front door. A large, blue, leather-bound slab – a tablet, really, the kind upon which commandments are carved. The same blue as the front of the shop, save for a small gold inscription on the front cover which I couldn’t make out, which glistened ever so slightly in the light. I stared at it for a long time without comprehending why, only knowing again that I had found something. I was about to start looking for a way to get myself up there for a closer look, maybe even a touch, when sister two made another unwelcome declaration.
“This place is boring,” she said. “Let’s go!”
As she turned to leave with sister one in obedient pursuit, I said nothing, still enraptured with my blue tablet.
She called me again. “Come on, Binks, there’s nothing for us to buy here.”
“Everyone has something to buy, child,” came a proud voice strong enough to strike even my sisters into an instant, brutal silence. “Who are you to say any different?”
Like a spider unfolding from a crevice, the old man protruded from the door to the back room that none of us had noticed until now. He took an awkward step closer, then, stretching, straightened his back, and seemed to grow by two feet. He was tall, very tall, with rail-thin limbs, wispy hair, and a pinched, hooked nose, and I thought firstly of witches and breadcrumb trails. Then his back curved again, his belly assumed a round paunch, he pushed his little spectacles up the bridge of his nose, and his face brightened with a rosy smile. He was a sweet old man, really.
“Now,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
For some reason, my sisters could only stare, dumbstruck. I, possessing the finer sense of decorum even at my early age, endeavoured instead to reply to the kindly stranger.
“I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” I said. “My sisters and I are here with our mother looking for… well, I can’t actually remember what it is we were looking for. But we – I – noticed your shop and wanted to have a look inside. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen it before now,” I said, although truthfully I was now quite sure that I hadn’t.
The old man grinned again. “Oh, I can assure you, this shop has always been here. We were here when the horses still used to come by. Terrible racket, all that clip-clopping. But good for business, very good.”
I frowned.
The old man continued. “You may not know what you were looking for, child, but the important question is whether or not you know what it is that you’ve found?”
Happy to have understood this point more, I showed him the blue book on the high shelf of the cabinet beside me. The old man nodded.
“Ah, yes, a fascinating item, and one that has been with us for an awfully long time. I mention this not with sentimental intent, you know, but purely financial. The oldest items are often the rarest, and the rarest items often carry a considerable cost. Do you understand?”
He lowered his spectacles and looked down at me. I nodded.
“Good,” he said, and ambled through the junkyard viscera, knocking over many pots and pans in the process but taking no notice. He fished around behind the counter for a while, mumbling to himself. “Now, let me see, where is it…” Finally he produced a small, folded step-ladder. As he drew nearer to me, I properly took in the tremendous size of the man, and became dimly aware that my sisters had seemingly disappeared. He unfolded the ladder and set it up next to the cabinet, casting aside a box of broken lamps, and then, wheezing quietly, began to climb it. At the top, he retrieved a set of keys from his breast pocket and fumbled with them; there appeared to be dozens. I realised then that he effused the exact aroma that had struck me earlier, that smell of old books, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that it was really him I had been smelling all along.
The old man unlocked the cabinet, opened it carefully, and withdrew the blue book, carrying it under his arm on his descent of the step-ladder. I instinctively reached out to take the book, whereupon he drew back sharply. His face was grave as he slowly extended a long, thick finger and wagged it in my direction.
“You must not put the cart before the horse. I spoke of a high cost, and I am loath to bequeath such a prized item to the insolvent and beggarly.”
I frowned again. Seeming to pick up on my confusion, he elaborated more simply: “I require payment.”
I made a show of searching my pockets, but knew full well that, while we were sent ahead to sniff out good deals, my mother always kept the money on her. I looked up at the old man apologetically.
“I’m sorry…” I said. And suddenly, like snapping awake from an unplanned nap, the memory of what we were doing there, of my family, of the garden party, of our constraints both temporal and economic, returned to me, and the present situation seemed at once absurd and frightening.
“I… need to get back to my mother,” I said, and as if summoned by her reference she instantly appeared in the doorway with my sisters in tow, an air of fluster and frustration about them all.
“What are you doing? We don’t have time to be messing around like this! Come on!” she said, and before I could open my mouth to utter my protests she was pulling me away, away from the market, away from the shop, away from the old man, away from the book.
Later, as a reluctant guest of the garden party, my dissatisfaction was all-encompassing. I was entirely preoccupied with the fresh memory of my bizarre encounter, and thought only of returning, this time equipped with the proper payment. What that might have actually meant, I did not know, and did not consider. Yet as I blankly watched my family mingle with the neighbours in their pastiche of upper-class primness, it occurred to me that in her haste to rob me of my agency, my unthinking mother had inadvertently provided the perfect opportunity to procure some money; I was surrounded by the most well-off and tipsy rubes our little cul-de-sac had to offer.
Striving to appear as sweet and agreeable as possible, I made the rounds, delighting the guests with the kinds of little songs and inane questions they expected from a juvenile, and ensuring to end every meeting with a gentle enquiry about any odd jobs, lawn-mowing, dog-walking, babysitting, and the like that might need doing. By the time my mother’s energies were fully depleted, and my sisters had pilfered far beyond their share of free lemon cake, I had amassed no less than fifteen work commitments over the coming weeks. What’s more, I knew that word of mouth was everything in these situations, and that one job well done would very likely lead to more offers, and still more after that. I left the party with my head held high and my thoughts aimed squarely at the market.
This newfound purpose served to ground me as the following weeks flew by. Despite entering the world of part-time work solely as a means to an end, I found myself enjoying it a great deal more than expected, taking equal pleasure from the business side of things – the haggling, the calculations, the need for efficiency, the freedom of self-governance – as from the virility and logic of manual labour. I even discovered in myself a knack for mechanics, having been particularly enamoured of Mr. Kensington’s mobile lawnmower, which after my second visit I was permitted to operate unsupervised, ultimately proving such a natural that by my fourth visit I was even able to lead a successful attempt at fixing its faulty motor by the straightforward application of reverse engineering. I also enjoyed walking Mrs. Auchincloss’s seven poodles.
Still, however engrossed I became in my various contracts, my mind’s eye never strayed from that curious byplace hiding deep within the market. The little shop, so seductive in its unreality, an oasis of desire in a desert of excess, and that gold-blue tablet whose implicit value I still did not think to question. Often, before starting a job I would leave some time for a brief diversion to the market to make the trek to the Horse’s Mouth and just linger there a while under the statue’s feet, observing the shop, reminding it that I was still here, still willing. Occasionally I felt a perverse craving that I would arrive just in time to see someone else exiting happily, hugging the book in their arms, at once breaking my heart and ridding me of my obsession. But not once did I ever see anyone go in or out. Before long, my earnings well exceeded the volume of my piggy bank, and the shop could finally gain a new customer.
This time, as my long journey through that tangled warren culminated again at the ragged blue door, my mind and body awhirl with anxious anticipation, there was one vital difference: the shop was not empty. The old giant was there, slumped behind the counter, nose buried in a small brown notebook, a chewed pencil stashed behind his ear. He did not acknowledge my arrival even as I proudly pushed past the scattered junk (which since my last visit did not seem at all changed in quantity or layout), knocking over only a single silver goblet which I promptly replaced, and planted myself expectantly before the counter. I cleared my throat and was met with one old eye peering down at me over the edge of the notebook.
“Yes?” he said.
“I’m here for the big blue book. I’ve got the money this time,” I announced, producing the full piggy bank from my jacket pocket and setting it on the countertop for emphasis with a jangly thunk.
The old man raised a brow. “The big blue book?” he said. His eyes rolled casually over to the glass cabinet and then back down to me. I nodded heartily. “Yes, yes, well… I’m afraid that won’t do,” he said, faintly gesturing with one hand to the piggy bank. “The fact is that that particular item is really one of a kind… it possesses a value beyond the monetary – quite beyond normal interpretations of the concept, if truth be told… and I suspect, quite beyond the grasp of a child. I’m afraid you will need to come back here with the appropriate payment if the transaction is to go ahead. However, I do not think it is very likely that you will.”
His eyes retreated once more behind the pages of the notebook, and he instantly appeared exactly as he had when I entered, as still and disengaged as a statue, as if I had already left the room, the planet. I was struck with the same speechlessness that had earlier beset my sisters in his presence. I could not understand. At one time in my life, not long before, I might have begun to cry then, or to reach up and smack the notebook out of the old man’s hands, furiously demanding his deference. I might have felt an unbearable sinking humiliation and self-hatred for my own cursed, stifling youth. But instead, I calmly picked up the piggy bank, returned it to my pocket, and left the shop in silent rumination. Perhaps it was the further evolution of something in me that had begun to germinate at the garden party; a developing maturity in my attitude to things that compelled me more and more often to view the world, to view life, as no more than an indefinite, stretching series of transactions, pitches, and sales. Some were to be lost, some were to be won, but common to them all were the constant laws of desire, demand, and supply. Fairness and justice did not enter into it; I wanted the book, but it was not for me to have. Not yet.
I abandoned the Horse’s Mouth in a kind of daze, proceeded through the food stall tunnel out into the greater market, and did not stop walking until I had reached a small kiosk specializing in spare parts and repairs for electronic goods.
“Hello,” I said. “I want a job.”
Weeks transmogrified into months which collapsed into years which cascaded like a juggernaut of torrential downpour into great churning waterfalls of time until, at length, several decades had passed. My first official job in the electronics stall had soon led to my managing and eventually purchasing it, quickly opening a second, larger store occupying a prime location in the city centre, and ultimately cultivating an international franchise which allowed me to ensure that my mother and sisters would never have to shop at that market, or anywhere for that matter, ever again. Now rich wildly beyond my needs, I spent my middle years travelling the globe, extending my explorer’s eye far and wide for the little hidden places, the dark crevices, the uncanny valleys, seeing much and coming to understand and love the world in all its mystery more than I ever knew one could – and truthfully, long since laying the allures of the market and the little shop to rest. Life had swept me away, and the dust was left to settle upon all the humble fixations and romances of my childhood, and I, all the better for it.
It was not until I was almost seventy, sitting idly in a tea room in the city of my birth in a year I never thought I’d see, being interviewed about my life story by a gentle-faced ingenue for some publication or another, that the shop, the old man, and the book came to resurface in my mind. The young woman opposite me had smiled at my latest quip, sipped her tea, and looked at me curiously.
“So, your birthday is next week, isn’t it? The big seven-oh.” she said. “But tell me – the readers want to know: what do you buy for the man who has everything?”
“Everyone has something to buy,” I replied, the words stealing from my mouth before I even had a chance to consider my answer. And hearing them leave me, lingering vibrantly in my ailing ears like a call to prayer, they seemed to have been spoken by someone else, someone lost to the world, a ghost summoned across oceans of time and unmemorialised experience. Suddenly I was trembling helplessly. Tears stroked my soft, sagging cheeks, the cheeks of an old man. My interviewer was gone; my view had opened up, transcending the here and now, and no matter how I blinked, how I shook, all my eyes could see were the bustling crowds, the blue door, the faded sign, the dirty window. From a distance, a panicking voice asked me what the matter was. I emitted a strangled choking sound and promptly fell backwards in my seat.
The tea room was only a few streets over from the market. I hadn’t even realised. Coming to the front gates and proceeding dutifully through, as if numbed on an operating table, I watched the exterior details all swiftly fall away. I understood then that the shop was all there had ever been. The market surrounding it was only an illusion, so much noise and gnashing of teeth to distract its prey like the blinding psychedelic colours distinguishing the most venomous of predatory beasts. The food stall tunnel was nothing but an empty, foggy impression. The horse statue was gone. The little shop stood alone in the hazy ether, solid, stalwart, uncompromising, untouched by time and outside the laws of nature. I came at last to that fateful, battered door, and watched my oversized, wrinkled hands extending forwards on their own to cast it open.
The shop, precisely the same as it had always been. As it always was. And the old man, standing expectantly behind the counter.
“Well, better late than never,” he grinned. And that confirmed it. There was no longer any room for doubt. The old man was me, and I was him. Before him on the counter, facing us, sat the great blue book with its gold-embossed adornment. He drummed his fingers nonchalantly on its weathered surface. “Time, time, time. Time has been kind to you, it seems. But I’m afraid that now it is time for us to discuss the unfortunate topic of payment.”
I could only swallow meekly.
The old man continued. “You know, this book is very old. This book is older than the paper it is written on. Between you and me, it is not written on paper at all. Before they wrote books on paper, they used whatever they could find. They used people; their minds, and their bodies. Now.” His glistening eyes locked tightly onto mine. “The payment?”
I stared at him, and slowly came my whispered response: “I… I have lived a life.”
“Ah yes,” the old man replied. “That will do nicely.”
I left the shop for the final time with the book in my hands. The silence of that empty void was deafening; the weight of the book in my hands, unbearable; my long journey home, a blur. And it is here that I sit now, in my office, in my favourite chair, in the house that fortune built for me, while all around me photographs and paintings and letters from my loved ones, from a life of great adventure, grace the room. The dreadful book bears sullenly upon me from the shelf. I have not been able to open it. I am not sure that I ever will be. And yet my hands are moving on their own, creeping towards it, taking it off the shelf, running their fingers over its harsh face, down its cracked spine. Opening it up.
Oh.
I see.
