The Pope's Bookbinder

by David Mason

  I vigorously pursued this with the woman (the replacement for my Edna O’Brien friend), who obfuscated and neither apologized nor even admitted she understood what I was talking about. Her attitude was very confusing because she had been present at many of my meetings with her boss, and she was fully aware of the way the program worked. Of course I knew by now that like all the others there she was a bureaucrat who knew nothing about books, and worse, that she probably didn’t care.

  I couldn’t understand why she would act this way, so I phoned her boss, expecting him to fix things up. Though I was confused, I was beginning to see that something I was unaware of was going on, so I took the precaution of recording the call, as I often have as a record when things start to get dangerously complicated. In this call, an hour and a half in length, this man very adroitly managed to say nothing that could pin him down.

  I have used this conversation countless times since as

  evidence of the bureaucrat at his worst. While I had spent all those years learning my trade, this man had spent thirty years learning never to say what he meant. Small businessmen get used to taking responsibility for their actions and even develop a certain pride in doing so, probably the main reason they come to despise the bureaucratic mind. While acting as though some confusion might exist which would easily be repaired, he never actually said that. Nor did he anywhere acknowledge as a given that a deal which had now been going on for seven or eight years, and which he had set up, and which had worked wonderfully, even existed. When I replayed the tape his obfuscation, worthy of a diplomat, just made it all even more confusing. Something was most definitely wrong, and I was not surprised when things escalated.

  This conversation was followed shortly after by a lawyer’s letter from the National Library containing thinly veiled but obvious threats, informing me that I should desist shipping them books without quoting, which told me that my deal was being arbitrarily rescinded. At first I believed that this was the basis of the whole fiasco. But, of course, this woman hadn’t realized that by telling me to desist from shipping and billing automatically, she was admitting, in print, that the deal must have existed. This would have been pretty interesting to follow up on in court.

  I could only surmise that she was taking over the whole department, didn’t like the nature of the agreement I had with the man who was still her boss, and that she was exercising her prerogative with no regard for the interests of either me, the

  project, or more crucially the mandate of the National Library of Canada. I was furious and began preparing myself for what I thought would be a major fight with what was, for a bookseller, the most important institution in the country. Even the lawyer’s letter didn’t dissuade me. I’ve spent most of my life cutting off my nose to spite my face, and I was so offended that I was willing to take things wherever they might go. This incidentally is another of the unseen benefits of being a bookseller. People who run their own businesses will often take a certain pride in telling people who have offended them to screw off, but booksellers have an added advantage here: having never had much to begin with, they have little to lose by making a principled stand.

  But while I never did figure out how Temple’s resentment and malice and that female bureaucrat’s inexplicable motives combined to ruin everything, I did find out what had motivated some of her reactions, and more importantly, why her boss betrayed me by not confirming that we had had an agreement, causing a worthy project to be destroyed when it had been so successful.

  Confused by his inexplicable behaviour and preparing myself for a legal clash, which if nothing else would surely mean the end of all my business dealings with the major library in my country, I called an old friend in Ottawa who had long had extensive connections in that library and was also a student of the motivations which fuel all government society in Ottawa.

  My friend knew the whole story, but when I recounted my confusion at the inexplicable response of the big boss who had made the deal my friend burst out laughing.

  “It couldn’t be simpler, Dave, you only know part of the story,” he laughed. “You seem to think that it has something to do with the boss backing up his underling as a professional move. But the gossip here, and pretty widespread gossip it is too, is that their relationship is not solely professional, it’s also personal.”

  Oh, Jesus Christ! Everything instantly fell into place, it all became clear—sickeningly clear.

  Whatever her personal motives in rescinding the agreement I had made with him, whether because she simply didn’t like me or wanted a clean slate in what was now her department, or even perhaps because Temple or another dealer had complained it was unfair (my own surmise), she was canceling everything. Of course, as a typical bureaucrat, neither knowing nor caring about books, she also seemed unaware or indifferent that her actions were ruining a system which had ensured that the National Library of Canada already held the greatest collection of Canadian editions in the world. This was, I guess, of no consequence to the kind of mind which gets its pleasure from power and its arbitrary use.

  Her boss, now higher up the bureaucratic mountain, chose his personal interests over the interests of his employer, Canada, and backed her up.

  I now found myself in a horrible ethical morass.

  It became quite clear that, based on the evidence which I could easily provide, I would triumph in my proposed legal reaction to their actions. I could prove everything, and to do so would probably guarantee my winning. But almost certainly this would result in both those people losing their jobs, for to fight back would certainly mean that their dirty little secret would come out. It made everything clear, all the confusion evaporated, and I now understood all their actions.

  But as I contemplated the implications if I reacted as I had intended, I knew that I wasn’t up for it. I was still enormously angry; I felt betrayed and I had been prepared to relinquish a large percentage of my income by refusing to be pushed around by people I now despised. But I realized I wasn’t about to stoop to that sort of petty reaction, no matter my rage. I despised them both as corrupt and demonstrably incompetent bureaucrats who put their personal interests before their professional mandate. But that was different from having them ruined for peccadilloes which were their moral problem and not mine. I wasn’t about to lower myself to their level.

  I withdrew from the fray completely. I dropped all of my legal preparations and withdrew from all professional contact with that library. I decided that their moral culpability was no reason for me to lose all the business that every Canadian bookseller does with our National Library. And more important to the country, it followed that their personal moral lapses were also not any reason for the Canadian National Library to lose my considerable talents in adding to our country’s historical record.

  I never spoke to either of those people again and have ever since refused all appraisal commissions from the library, though Debbie continues to deal with the National Library on our behalf.

  We even continue to quote and sell them Canadian editions, although their despicable betrayal of their moral commitments obviated my obligation to offer them first refusal on any items found. I have always done that with all clients but I no longer felt that I had to give them first refusal any longer.

  They lost my respect and they also lost the moral loyalty I have adopted towards all my clients. Now collectors and other libraries get first shot at the important rarities I scout out—the National Library comes last. Not that it matters much now, for what is now merged into one huge bureaucratic morass called Library and Archives Canada buys nothing. They are collectively denying the moral imperative all sovereign nations have to

  preserve the written and oral record of their history. They are dissembling in the manner of all shadowy bureaucrats everywhere, and they are apparently engaged in sinister plots to ignore their mandate.

  The current gossip informs us that they—they being our beloved govern
ment, in the form of these bureaucrats—are intent on breaking up the national repository of our history. Nobody seems to care, which tells me that they will probably be successful. When ten, twenty or fifty years down the road a scandal erupts and accusations of indifference and stupidity are leveled at the institution which should be acquiring and holding the artifacts of our history, you can be sure they will resort to the defensive mantras bureaucrats have always resorted to. “We were only doing what we were told to do. It’s not our fault.” If bureaucrats took their professional responsibilities as seriously as they take their perks we would have many fewer messes in the world.

  I did not confront Temple—his actions had negated any conceivable explanation and, in fact, I didn’t speak to him again for almost fifteen years.

  Debbie put it all in the proper perspective when she pointed out early on that, whatever his motives, he had done it all for twenty percent of whatever he got by selling those books—for twenty percent of maybe a couple of thousand dollars he had permanently tarnished his professional reputation—at least with those who cared enough to learn the facts. And, of course, he had destroyed a friendship. I long ago gave up trying to fathom his motives.

  So my Canadian editions project was ruined. Although I retain my complete record of what I supplied, there will now be many Canadian editions held there that aren’t on my list. And should I continue to work on that proposed checklist of the foreign literary influence on Canada it will need extensive work.

  And with Temple the ironies abound. Aside from the few thousand he made by his betrayal, he has cost himself many thousands of dollars since for I am famous for buying widely in the trade and since I started speaking to him again I have bought almost nothing from him—only books I needed to buy for my own collections or for important clients.

  I have also amused myself—admittedly in a petty and spiteful manner—by never letting him buy a good book at any auction I’ve attended and by steering libraries offered to me to other dealers, when at one time I would have sent them to him.

  But in spite of my abundant paybacks the continuing feelings of betrayal from that incident have caused me to remember the whole lengthy period of our friendship, both personal and professional, with a great sadness.

  Chapter 14

  Learning My Trade 2:

  Auctions

  Many people think that an auction, being conducted in public, is wholly transparent and that each lot will reach its appropriate price. I shall show you here how foolish such a view is. Auctions are the most exciting way of buying books and usually the most expensive. They are volatile and unpredictable, and they can also be extremely dangerous.

  Even after forty years attending them I still get nervous when a coveted item approaches sale. No matter your experience or determination, an anxiety occurs which must be similar to those stories one hears about actors, even famous and distinguished ones, who vomit before every live performance in the theatre. I have worked out elaborate personal rituals over the years both to minimize anxiety and to operate efficiently, for myself and in pursuing the interests of my clients. One often must make instant decisions and one must be prepared to revise estimates on the spot, so a careful dealer must never relax.

  In my early days, Waddington’s on Queen Street, an old established general auctioneer, had been purchased by Ron McLean, one of several auctioneers who had learned their trade at the old Ward-Price Gallery on College Street.

  Every Wednesday and Saturday morning Waddington’s had estate sales where anything could appear. Nobody cared then about books, and often one could buy a whole wall of books as a single lot and usually quite cheaply. It was perfect for a used bookseller, providing large lots of general books cheap. I went to every sale and often did quite well.

  One Saturday morning I had just bought two shelves of rather seedy-looking books when Richard Landon wandered into the rooms. Landon, not long then at the University of Toronto’s rare book department, was already a serious private collector, regularly frequenting all the used bookstores and socializing a lot with much of the book trade.

  That morning Landon looked at my two shelves of unappetizing-looking books and said with some disdain, “What did you have to pay for that pile of crap?”

  “$18.00,” I replied. “Why?”

  He said, “You’ll be lucky to get your money back from that junk. Why would you do that?”

  A bit nettled, I made my first grievous auction error. “Because of this,” I replied a bit testily, pulling off two thick quarto volumes lacking covers. They consisted of just the text blocks but they were in very nice condition otherwise, without the soiling generally to be found on books which have lacked their covers for many years.

  Landon searched past the preliminaries to the title page of the first volume. The coverless book was an eighteenth-century edition of Johnson’s Dictionary, dated 1775. It was some twenty years too late to be the first edition and besides, it had a Dublin imprint, which indicated it was probably a Dublin piracy, although I didn’t know anything about the Dublin piracies then, or even that books could and often had been pirated.

  “Oh,” said Landon in a subdued voice, comprehension sinking in. In those days his favourite author, whom he quoted incessantly, was Samuel Johnson, and so enamored was he of Johnson and his world that he had even named his cat Hodge, after Johnson’s pet. “Well, what do you expect to get for that?” he asked in an entirely different tone of voice, no doubt wishing he had got there ten minutes earlier.

  I was caught—one of my earliest bookselling lessons about keeping my mouth shut. (I’ve had ten thousand others since then, none of which has ever sunk in, it seems.)

  What could I do? It wasn’t just that he was a friend, he was a librarian—in the rare book department of the largest university in Canada, which then was the only institutional client I had.

  And it didn’t take a lot of insight to be aware that his ambitions as a librarian were considerable. He was going to rise and I needed to rise with him.

  I saw no way out. He knew what I had paid for the entire lot because of my big mouth and I didn’t think it would be in my interest to come back to him later with a price of ten or twenty times what he knew I had paid for them.

  I bit the bullet. “Okay, to you—right now—$36.00,” I said

  reluctantly, doubling my investment. (Maybe Richard, I thought, will think that booksellers always only double their purchase price.)

  “Okay,” said Landon. “I’ll pick it up when you get it back to the shop.”

  When he came to pick it up, he asked for an invoice, claiming lack of cash. Landon then took the book to Michael Wilcox, the great bookbinder who had recently quit his job gluing bird skeletons together at the Royal Ontario Museum to return to his first love. This was still some years before Wilcox began to do the design bindings for which he is now justly world-famous. The standard trade bindings Wilcox did then were lovely and technically perfect; I always buy them when I see them. And I’ve of course been beggaring myself for his design bindings ever since he started doing them at the behest of Roderick Brinckman of Monk Bretton Books, whose specialty was finely printed and bound books.

  It turned out that the Johnson was the first Dublin edition in quarto and that it preceded the London quarto edition of the same year, making it the first quarto edition and, as Landon constantly liked to boast, worth a fair bit, especially now that they are housed in lovely Wilcox bindings.

  However some two or three years later, sorting papers, I found Landon’s invoice with no markings to indicate it had ever been paid. I called him.

  “I just found the invoice for the Dublin Johnson. You never paid me.”

  Landon replied brusquely and firmly, “I always pay cash.”

  That has been his regular defense in the many instances when I have brought it up in the years since.

  And I have been bringing it up pe
riodically ever since—often at the Landon’s dinner table with foreign dignitaries from the book world present. I’ve had a lot of fun doing this but I finally stopped when someone told me privately that Marie Korey, Richard’s wife, had said she was so sick of hearing about it that she was going to pay me the $36.00 herself if I did it once more.

  I guess I should admit here that all the evidence points to Landon’s probable innocence. For $36.00 would have been a lot of money for me then, and it’s unlikely that I wouldn’t remember that it was owed. Once I suggested that we could rectify this unfortunate misunderstanding by Richard leaving the Dictionary to me in his will.

  He replied, “I always pay cash.”

  My first serious auction was also at Waddington’s, one of their rare early sales entirely devoted to books. They had acquired a very good library of Canadiana, which attracted all the collectors and dealers in eastern Canada.

  I was then still apprenticing with Joseph Patrick, who specialized in Canadiana. I knew nothing about Canadiana and, in truth, very little about books at all. However my ignorance didn’t matter because I didn’t have any money anyway so I was hardly in a position to be competition for anyone. But in spite of my complete lack of any qualifications or money, I already had the instincts of a player and I wanted badly to participate and was determined that I would. The excitement generated by visiting dealers in the shop and talk of great rarities caused me to want to be involved as well. Most of the major dealers in Canadiana in Canada were in town for the sale.

  I studied the books, not knowing which were the $10.00 books or which the $1,000.00 books. But I was hooked on the action, wondering how I could possibly compete.

  I had been studying modern literature and learning how to ascertain what was, or might be, a first edition. I realized that my only hope of buying anything was to focus on what the other dealers ignored.