The Book Stops Here: A Mobile Library Mystery

by Ian Sansom

  He left his mum and Ted scheming in the kitchen, as usual, drinking coffee, petting the dog. He wondered what his father would have thought: his mother and Ted, sitting there. He decided not to wonder.

  His mother had put up posters everywhere on lampposts in the surrounding streets, stuck them up with Sellotape and drawing pins. She'd got a clip art image of a mobile library; it looked more like an American school bus. 'Have you seen this vehicle?' the posters said. 'Reward £100.' Her mobile number. The posters were so weird—and so useless—they could have been an art installation.

  The High Street looked different. Not just the street. Everything looked different. The people. Especially the people: a woman wearing a miniskirt and thigh-length suede boots, a man with his hair cut like something out of a Picasso and another man with—was that?—eye makeup. You didn't see that every day in Tumdrum. Israel walked from home in his worn-out old brogues, and his duffle coat—which was too hot, for the summer, clearly, but he had no other jacket, because all his clothes were with Gloria, in the flat—and his eyes popped, and his mind boggled: the sight of men in T-shirts with huge, pointless muscles, men who had obviously recently and consistently been to the gym, and to a hairdressing salon, and to shops that sold new clothes; and women too, who had obviously invested heavily in shoes, and bags and accessories; and people who had had their teeth capped, or something, something shiny to do with their teeth; and people who had been sleeping rough; people who looked like they had been sleeping around; people indeed of every proverbial creed and colour and race and nation. Israel felt like he was in a novel by Zadie Smith.

  To steady himself he stepped for a moment inside Verdi's Stores, the Asian newsagent-cum-greengrocer's, and he was faced not only with shiny red apples, but also with watermelons, and ethnic vegetables, and sacks of peas and beans, and harissa paste, and big tubs of feta cheese, and cans of olive oil and the newspapers! Piles of newspapers in a dozen different languages. And the magazines! Every taste and impulse catered for. And cigarettes. And high-energy drinks. He stood staring around, in a daze, like an idiot. Mr Singh behind the counter, wearing his turban: the bright orange of the turban. And a man who came in, who was wearing a beret—an actual beret. And a woman, who looked Mexican or Spanish. And 'Shalom!' someone was saying. And 'Arrivederci!' And 'Adios!' And other stuff in languages he could not understand and did not even recognise—Hindi? Czech? Geordie? It was too much. He had to get some fresh air. He had to walk out.

  And out on the street, at a bus stop, a group of black teenage girls were talking together, the sheer uninhibited noise of them, rising up out of them, bold as brass and twice as shiny, the sound of the city. One of the women was doubling back, laughing a laugh that seemed to come from deep down inside her, almost from underground, and which made its way up through vast echoing chambers, a booming laugh, like organ pipes with all the stops pulled out; this was a laugh of a kind that simply did not exist in Tumdrum; it was a laugh that could not arise there; it would have to have stayed underground; it would have remained a distant rumble, or a polite tune on a backroom harmonium. And then a car going past with its radio on, playing some kind of music—bhangra? Bhangra! The sheer noise of the traffic. Impossible to distinguish between all the noises or to make sense of the sights. Past the hairdresser's—all that grooming!—and the nail bar next door, with false nails like miniature pelts or butterfly wings displayed in the window. And the bookshop—the bookshop where he had first gone to buy Just William books as a boy, and then the Bellows, and the Malamuds, and the Philip Roths, and he could see his reflection in the window of this shop, a shop packed full of shiny, new, good-looking books, books that you might actually want to spend money on—non-library books—and he could see his face in the window, his shop window, his wide, long nose, and somewhere behind his glasses, that was him.

  And he realised—or rather, half-realised, or he felt, he intuited—that it was as if he were observing all this for the first time, that he was enjoying it as someone who was not of it. He realised—half-realised—that he had exchanged his life in London for a life somewhere else, somewhere he did not belong, and so without meaning to, without even noticing it was happening, he had become doubly foreign: he had lost his place and failed to find another. He was a stranger even unto himself. The streets were no longer his home; they were for him now merely a tableau, something for him to observe, and to consume, and all these people, all these people with marvellous teeth, and extraordinary hairstyles, and the men in their berets and turbans, and the women in their fastidiously short dresses and skirts, they weren't real to him anymore. They were a show.

  And he felt insulted, as though the place had tricked him or let him down, had turned its back on him. And so he hurried on to meet his friends at the café.

  Which was no longer there.

  Grodzinki's, which had been a fixture on the street for goodness only knows how long, had disappeared completely, and in its place was the inevitable brand-spanking-new Starbucks. The jumbly, intricate interior of the old Grodzinki's had been completely gutted and stripped and made over into the soft-edged comfy veneers of corporate creams and browns. There were none of the old posters, no nooks and no crannies, no mirrors; Grodzinski's had been full of mirrors. You could sit over your coffee in Grodzinski's and watch yourself sit over your coffee in Grodzinski's, watching yourself sit over your coffee in Grodzinski's, ad infinitum. It was a flaneurs' paradise. Israel had grown up there.

  But now—what was it now? What was it supposed to be? What did it mean? In Grodzinki's you could have imagined Carson McCullers and Karl Kraus and Frank O'Hara sitting down and enjoying some strudel together, and espresso in pure white espresso cups, but here, now, in Starbucks, the best you could imagine was Elton John getting together with the man with ginger hair out of Simply Red for a sunrise muffin and a skimmed milk latte in a stupid fat mug with a logo.

  The smell of Grodzinski's—the smell of long-seated men and women of all ages, people with strong opinions and good humour—had been replaced by the smell of young people, of deodorant and of frothed milk. When you entered Grodzinski's, Mr Grodzinski would catch your eye—Mr Grodzinski, the son of the original Mr Grodzinski—and indicate to you with a nod of his brilliantined head where he expected you to sit, which table, or which booth, and then someone in a white shirt and black trousers, male or female—and often it was difficult to tell the difference, because Mr Jacobs employed a lot of little, hunched, elderly, wrinkled Lithuanians: 'So many little Litvaks!' Israel's mother would complain—would bustle over to take your order. Now you could sit anywhere, and serve yourself, but why would you bother? The place was absolutely sickening; the place was a joke. He was never going to taste Grodzinski's coffee again, coffee so strong and so sweet and so thick it was like Turkish coffee, only better, because it was Grodzinski's.

  The boys were already there, drinking coffee from the big heavy mugs with the logos on them, foam clinging to their lips, Scylla and Charybdis.

  * * *

  'Israel Armstrong!' said Ben.

  'The wanderer returns!' said Danny.

  'Hi!' said Israel. 'Danny. Ben. How are things?' Danny attempted to engage Israel in an embarrassing high five, fist-knocking kind of a thing, and Ben shook his hand.

  'Good.'

  'You're looking well, gentlemen,' said Israel.

  'You too,' said Ben.

  'So, that's the pleasantries over,' said Danny. 'Now, are you buying me a coffee or what?'

  Israel bought a grande—grande!?—cappuccino for Danny and a double espresso for himself and by the time he returned to the table the boys were deep in typical conversation.

  'You can't rank writers like that, it's ridiculous,' Ben was saying. 'Tell him, it's ridiculous.'

  'What?'

  'Of course you can,' said Danny. 'Who says you can't? Firsts to the Renaissance; 2:1s to the nineteenth century; and then that leaves the eighteenth with the 2:2s and the Thirds to everything pre-Shakespeare.'


  'Beowulf and Chaucer?' said Ben.

  'They're exceptions.'

  'Post-1945?' said Ben.

  'Borderline Thirds.'

  'What do you think, Israel?' asked Ben. 'He's got this idea you can mark authors like he marks his students.'

  'Ha. Right. Very good,' said Israel. 'Very funny.'

  'Did you read the new Pynchon?' asked Danny, his face deep in muggy cappuccino.

  'No, I must get round to that,' said Israel.

  'A 2:2,' said Danny, face full of froth.

  'Oh.'

  'So, what have you been reading lately?' asked Ben.

  'Erm.' Israel had mostly been reading large-print true-crime books. 'This and that.'

  'You should really check out the Pynchon though,' said Danny. 'I mean, a 2:2's respectable these days.'

  Israel pondered for a moment the chances of the new 2:2 Thomas Pynchon making it into the acquisitions list for the mobile library in Tumdrum.

  'Or that new Cormac McCarthy,' said Ben. 'Devastating.'

  'Devastating,' agreed Danny, '2:1.'

  'Right.'

  'I've just been rereading Cien años de soledad.' Danny never read books; he only ever reread them.

  'One Hundred Years of Solitude,' glossed Ben.

  'Really?' said Israel. Danny did not read Spanish, as far as Israel was aware, but with Danny it was absolutely de rigueur to refer to titles in their original, so it was always A la Recherche du temps perdu, please, and Der Zauberberg.

  'It's for a course I'm teaching.'

  'Oh yeah? How's that going then?' He knew Danny through Gloria: they were old friends; their families were friends. Danny taught English at University College London, which was like teaching at Oxford or Cambridge, except much hipper. According to Danny.

  'It's okay,' said Danny. 'What can I say? It's teaching. Every day's kind of the same, you know.'

  'Groundhog Day!' said Ben.

  'Yeah.'

  'That is a great film,' said Israel.

  'Punxsutawney Phil,' said Ben.

  'Bill Murray,' said Israel. 'I love Bill Murray in that film.'

  'Yeah.'

  'And in Lost in Translation.'

  'Yeah.'

  'Basically, I love Bill Murray!' said Israel.

  'Excuse me, ladies,' said Danny. 'Did your mother not teach you it was rude to interrupt when you'd asked someone a question?'

  'Sorry,' said Israel.

  'So, as I was saying, when you asked me. The teaching is fine, thank you very much.'

  'Good.'

  'It's kind of like working in a factory, only in a factory you get longer lunch breaks and get to knock off at five, and the stuff on the production line doesn't talk back.'

  Danny talked like he was in a successful HBO returning series; he talked like he was on all the time, and as he heard him spiel Israel realised that in Tumdrum he had effectively switched himself off, possibly forever. Danny was transmitting on a channel that Israel no longer received.

  'Huh,' said Israel. 'You're enjoying it then?'

  'It's fine.'

  'How about you, Ben?' asked Israel. 'How's work?'

  Ben was smart, really smart—smarter than Danny. He was just quieter, and like Israel he'd drifted, had never quite found his niche; he was nicheless. Which was maybe why Israel got on with him so well; they were similar; they were on the same wavelength. Ben did something in the Civil Service which did not require a suit. And he was on flexi-time.

  'Work's the usual,' he said. 'You know what it's like. Sometimes you feel like you can't go on—'

  'But you go on,' said Danny. 'Samuel Beckett.'

  'He went to school at Portora,' said Israel. 'Did you know that?'

  'What?'

  'Portora? It's a school in Enniskillen.'

  'Weird!' said Danny.

  Israel was about to ask them what they thought he should do about the mobile library.

  'So, anyway, I was going to ask—' he began.

  'How is life in bonny Scotland?' said Danny.

  'Ireland,' said Israel.

  'Oh, right, sorry. I thought it was Scotland.'

  'Me too,' said Ben.

  'They're all the same, though, eh? Celtic fringe.'

  'Where are you based, then, Dublin?' said Ben.

  'No, it's in Northern Ireland.'

  'So what's it like with all the bogtrotters then?' said Danny.

  'They're not bogtrotters,' said Israel.

  'Top of the morning, to ye!' said Danny. 'Begorrah, begorrah, begorrah.'

  'It's Northern Ireland,' said Israel.

  'Hoots, man!'

  'That's Scotland,' said Israel.

  'Ulster Says No!'

  'Well, you got there in the end.'

  'They're all sorted over there now, aren't they?' said Danny.

  'You could call it sorted,' said Israel.

  'Why's it called Ulster?' said Ben. 'I always thought that was a funny name.'

  'Ulster is actually one of the four ancient provinces of the whole of Ireland,' said Israel. 'Three of the counties of the historic Ulster are a part of the Republic and—'

  'Oooh,' said Danny. 'Who's been boning up on his Irish history then?'

  'It's actually part of British history.'

  'He's gone over,' said Danny. 'He's one of them now.'

  'I have not gone over. I'm just—'

  'He has. Are you voting for Sinn Féin?'

  'No, I am not voting for Sinn Féin.'

  'Well, you bloody well should be,' said Danny. 'They're much better than the other lot, aren't they?'

  'The Scottish National Party?' said Ben.

  'It's Northern Ireland,' said Israel.

  'Plenty of crack then?' said Danny. 'The old ceilidhs and—'

  'Oh yes, plenty of crack,' said Israel, irritably. 'Loads of it. The whole place is coming down with crack.'

  'All right,' said Danny. 'I was only asking. It was a joke.'

  'Right.'

  'When are you moving back then?' asked Danny.

  'I don't know at the moment,' said Israel. 'Soon. But I just wanted to ask—'

  Israel couldn't understand why they weren't exactly following what he was saying, and why they were talking to him like he wasn't actually there, but then he noticed: Danny had his right hand under the table; he was texting. And Ben was texting too. They weren't listening. And they weren't talking. They were neither here nor there. They were double-tasking.

  'Sorry,' said Ben, looking up.

  'When are you going to tell him your news then?' said Danny.

  'My news?' said Ben.

  'The news.'

  'Oh, the news. Yeah. I'm getting married.'

  'No!'

  'Yes.'

  'Congratulations. Let me shake your hand.' They shook hands. 'To Louise?'

  'No,' said Danny. 'He dumped her, and he's marrying a call girl he met in a bar.'

  'Yes,' said Ben wearily, 'to Lou. That was her on the—'

  'That's great, mate; when's the big day?'

  'October. You and Gloria will be invited, of course.'

  'Super. Great.'

  'And how is the fragrant Gloria?' asked Danny.

  'She's fine,' said Israel.

  'You're still…'

  'Oh, yeah. Yeah.'

  'You sure?' said Danny with a smirk.

  'Difficult being apart?' said Ben.

  'It's fucking impossible if you're apart!' said Danny.

  'Ignore him,' said Ben.

  'Yeah, it's—' began Israel.

  'When the cat's away the mice will play, eh?' said Danny.

  'Erm…'

  'Only to be expected,' said Danny.

  'He's just jealous,' said Ben.

  'Ooh!' said Danny, checking his phone again. 'You'll perhaps excuse me if I leave you ladies to discuss your scintillating love lives while I get more coffee.'

  'He's published his book, you know,' said Ben, when Danny was out of earshot. Danny had been talking about his book for years. Ta
lking about it had in fact been all he'd done until now.

  'Oh.' Danny was insufferable before—but now! Oh God. 'What's it like?' said Israel.

  'Postmodern Allegories?' said Ben.

  'Is that what's it's called?'

  'Yeah. With a question mark.'

  'Oh God.'

  'He gave me a copy,' said Ben.

  'He didn't send me a copy,' said Israel.

  'You're lucky.'

  'Why? What's it like?'

  'It got great reviews,' said Ben. 'In the TLS someone called him a genius.'

  'Oh no,' said Israel, finishing off his espresso.

  'I wouldn't say it was a book for the general reader.'

  'Really?' Israel felt himself to be no longer the general but rather the common reader.

  'Suffice it to say that the acknowledgements run to two pages, the first chapter is called the "H—brackets—Owl of Minerva" and it's all about Facebook and MySpace, and virtual worlds, and Philip K. Dick, and contemporary American fiction, and he constructs this sort of argument based on Lacan, and Slavoj 017Di017Eek, and he uses the word "meta-epistemic".'

  'Wow.'

  'In his first paragraph.'

  'Wow.'

  'Twice.'

  'Shit,' said Israel.

  'Precisely,' said Ben. 'But don't tell him I said so.'

  And then, as quickly as he had emerged into conversation, Ben disappeared back into the privacy of texting. And Israel twiddled his thumbs. He had no one to text: Gloria was not replying.

  Danny's book. Ben getting married…

  'Anyway,' said Danny, returning. 'Here we all are again. We're like the fucking Inklings, aren't we, eh?'

  Israel couldn't quite remember who the Inklings were: were they a cappella, or was that the Ink Spots?

  'So what are you planning while you're over?'

  'Well,' began Israel, 'I was…' He hesitated, fatally, for a moment, trying to decide how to explain his predicament, and Danny stepped straight into the breach, cappuccino pint aloft.

  'You want to know what I'm planning? I'll tell you. I'm planning to get laid.'

  'Well,' said Israel, 'that is a very noble ambition.'

  'Thank you,' said Danny.