by Neil Jackson
He turned back to grab the book and a wave of vertigo slid through him like a greasy knife. The desk was bare. There was no book in sight. He glanced to the side, steadying himself against the solid wood frame, but there was nothing beside, or beneath the desk or chair. Nothing. Turning so quickly he teetered and almost lost his balance, Christopher bolted for the front door, slamming it open and diving into the night beyond.
Traffic had slowed, but he still nearly managed suicide by stupidity, staggering into the road without a glance to either side. Tires screeched, and he fought for breath, tripping up onto the sidewalk on the far side of the street and turning to fall heavily against the wall. He closed his eyes and concentrated.
He was just tired. It had all been confusing, and he was disappointed in not seeing Sylvia at the restaurant. That was all. He slowly regained his senses, and began to feel stupid. What must that old man in the store think of him? Lucky the guy hadn’t called the police to report the crazy man reading a blank desk and crashing out into the darkness without a backward glance.
He opened his eyes and stood up. He found that he’d come to rest against the wall of the Little Havana Bar and Grille. The aroma of hot food filled the air, and his mouth began to water. He hadn’t eaten, after all. Maybe that explained the apparent hallucinations of the past few minutes.
Christopher stepped to the door and pressed it open.
She sat alone in a far corner, one foot curled up under her skirt, the other toe-first to the floor in scuffed Doc Martens. Her hair dangled, as it seemed it always had, over the side of her face, hiding her features. On the table in front of her were a half-empty wine glass, and a book. Christopher’s heart thudded ominously, and he felt blood rushing too-quickly to his head. The hostess was saying something to him, asking questions, but he couldn’t really hear her. He was already walking across the room, more quickly than he should, his hips banging into tables and elbows and drawing curses as he passed.
He stopped beside the table and stared down at her, unable to speak. For a moment, she continued to read, though he was blocking the light and bathing her in shadow. Finally, with a quick flip of her head, she glanced up. Her eyes flashed dangerously, and her lips were set in a grim line.
“Hard time finding the place?” she asked.
The vertigo threatened to return, and more to save his failing balance than for any other reason, Christopher dropped into the seat across from her.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “I...I waited outside for over an hour.
She stared at him, and for a second Christopher thought she might reach out and slap him. He was trembling, and he ran his fingers suddenly back through his hair. He glanced down at the table, wanting to escape her gaze, somehow. The book she’d been reading was cradled in her hands. When she saw him glancing at it, she snapped it shut.
“I’ve been here since 7:30,” she said slowly. “I have read nearly two hundred pages of this book, finished most of a bottle of wine, had a salad by myself, and you were standing outside?”
His eyes grew wide with disbelief.
“Eight,” he said at last. “You said eight - I was waiting for you outside, wasn’t sure you’d remember what I look like.”
She was still staring at him, but the corner of her lip was twitching. As he watched in stunned silence, she suddenly lost control and dropped her face across her arm on the table, laughing uncontrollably. Her hair came dangerously close to dipping into her wine glass, and Christopher leaned forward to slide it further toward the center of the table.
A waitress had materialized beside them, and was staring down at Sylvia in confused silence. Christopher glanced up at her and shrugged, indicating that she should bring another wine glass. The girl turned and hurried away.
Sylvia sat up at last, wiping tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes.
Christopher wasn’t certain whether to laugh with her, be indignant, or scream. The events of the past couple of hours haunted his mind, and the more times he ran them all through his head, the more they blurred and folded in at the edges.
As the waitress returned, and Sylvia shakily poured wine into his glass for him, still trying to reign in her mirth, he leaned forward.
“I have to ask you something,” he said. “I have to ask you about the bookstore.”
“Bookstore?” she replied, one eyebrow arching. “What bookstore?”
He watched her eyes as he answered, not certain what he was hoping to see.
“The Home of the Tome,” he said. “Across the street. When I had waited long enough I was sure you weren’t coming, I went over there.”
It was her turn to watch him. When she didn’t reply, he continued.
“I didn’t really mean to go there, it just happened. I was in the stacks, in the back, and there was a book leaning out – almost like it was there for me to find. There was a paste-down illustration on the cover.”
“That doesn’t seem earth-shattering,” she said, sipping her wine.
“It was a picture of you,” he said softly.
Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, then she was smiling again. “You must be mistaken,” she said. “I have never posed for such a picture.”
“The book was over a hundred years old,” he said, ignoring her comment. “Dated 1897.”
She remained silent, but seemed a little more pale, her features wavering in the dim light of the restaurant.
“The inscription read, ‘For Sylvia.’”
She leaned back, draining her glass with a quick gulp. It was obvious to Christopher that she hadn’t exaggerated the amount of wine she’d had while waiting. Her movements were smooth and sensual, but they didn’t end when they should - continuing just beyond the careful control of nerve and muscle, and her expression was vague.
“Excuse me,” she said, rising unsteadily. “I have to visit the ladies room.”
“But...”
She was tottering off before he could question her further, and Christopher grabbed his glass, sloshing some of the sticky red wine over his hand. He gulped it down and refilled it about halfway, emptying the bottle. He stared at the shadowed curtain through which she’d disappeared as if after a missed ship.
He glanced down at the table and realized with a start that she’d left her book. It was turned away from him, and the lighting was dim, but he could make out a slick, illustrated dust jacket and the tassel of a bookmark flipped casually up and over the top.
He glanced away guiltily. She hadn’t wanted him to see the book, he was sure of that. Both times he’d seen her, in fact, she’d gone out of her way to conceal what she was reading. It seemed wrong, somehow, to break her trust, particularly since he’d apparently come within a crazy impulse of standing her up.
Christopher hesitated only a moment before leaning over and turning the book so he could read the cover. It was a beautiful illustration. The borders were done in Victorian arches and the font of the title gave it a shiny gold metallic glint. Christopher’s hand shook, and the wine sloshed again, but he ignored it.
Seated in a velvet-covered chair in the drawing room of some dark, brooding mansion, a woman quietly read her book. Sylvia read her book, emblazoned across the cover in near photo-quality realism. The title flashed like a neon strobe in Christopher’s mind. “New Leather & Old Cognac.”
He flipped the cover open, nearly tearing the page as he pawed his way quickly past the publisher’s page and blank end pages. Just past the title page he stopped. The dedication read “For Sylvia.”
Christopher reeled back from the table, cracking his head painfully on the booth behind him. The wine glass toppled from his fingers, splashing its contents across the table. He could hear the gasps and cries of those around him, but it didn’t seem real. It seemed they were all very far away, or that he was watching a movie where the room was whirling and slipping away into some special effects wonderland.
As his head caromed off the booth, Christopher toppled to the side, sliding to
ward the floor. When his head made its second impact, he slid away into peaceful darkness.
It had taken a ten dollar bribe and far too much talking to convince the restaurant manager to call neither the police, nor an ambulance. Christopher held an ice cube wrapped in a white towel to his forehead and leaned against the wall outside Little Havana, staring across the street.
When he’d come to, after his fall, there had been no sign of Sylvia. No book, no plates, no glass. The wine bottle had rested, empty, in the center of the table. There was one glass - Christopher’s glass, beside it, toppled to the side and cracked, laying in a pool of merlot. Christopher had momentarily considered finding some chalk and making an outline around it.
No, the waitress assured him, there had been no woman with him. No, again, to the book - to the fact he’d only just arrived.
Christopher’s head throbbed, and his thoughts tumbled over one another hopelessly. Of course they had to be lying. Of course, despite the massive headache and the impossibility of joining one thought to another coherently, he had not finished that entire bottle of wine. He wouldn’t have ordered merlot. He wouldn’t have finished it without remembering.
Pushing off the wall, he staggered toward the street, remembering vaguely his near-death experience crossing earlier and glancing both ways before crossing to the far side. The lights still glowed from the interior of “The Home of the Tome”, despite the late hour. Nothing had changed. There was very little traffic, and the street lights hummed overhead, illuminating the night in soft pools of radiance.
Feeling as if he were stepping from one strange, unknown world into another, Christopher pressed on the heavy wood door and swung it inward again. There was no one in sight except the old man behind the counter. As before, the man only glanced up mechanically, acknowledging Christopher’s presence, then returning his gaze to whatever fascinated him on his desk.
The store stretched out, huge and empty. No one moved among the desks and lamps. No one browsed the stacks in back. Nothing but the sound of the huge ceiling fans pulsing rhythmically, far above, broke the silence. Christopher could feel the breeze from those great blades chilling the cold sweat on his cheeks.
Christopher turned toward the counter, concentrating on each step so he wouldn’t stumble drunkenly and fighting with himself not to scream, because he should not - could not - be drunk. The clerk didn’t look up as he neared, only deigning to acknowledge the intrusion when Christopher bumped heavily into the counter, laying his hands flat for support.
“Yes?” the man asked, his voice distant and his expression preoccupied and annoyed.
“I’m looking for a book,” Christopher began, then shook his head. “No, I’m looking for a woman - a girl - and a book.”
The clerk stared at him, waiting, obviously assuming that Christopher would eventually ask something that made sense, or go away. It was maddening. Christopher knew he’d been in the store once already that evening, that he’d caused a scene as he exited. He knew that the clerk must have seen him. Face reddening, half from embarrassment, and half from anger, Christopher leaned closer, frowning as the man flinched from his breath.
“For Sylvia,” he said, enunciating carefully.
“The book,” the clerk asked, “or the woman.”
Christopher pulled back slightly. The answer was quick, to the point, and confused the hell out of him.
“Yes,” he said at last. “I mean, I’m looking for the woman, and I was looking at a book, earlier, that said ‘For Sylvia’ on the dedication page.”
“New Leather and Old Cognac,” the man nodded. “We have that in the back.”
Christopher gritted his teeth, closing his eyes and concentrating. He was beginning to believe he should have let the restaurant manager call for the ambulance. Maybe he’d hit his head harder than he’d thought.
“The woman,” he said at last. “Where can I find the woman?”
“I’m not sure who you mean, sir,” the clerk answered, sliding his chair back slowly. He reached under the counter in front of him, and Christopher got the distinct impression there was an alarm button down there. He staggered back.
“Did you want to see the book?” the clerk asked. His hand was still under the counter.
“I...” Christopher’s shoulder’s slumped. “Yes, if you have it, I’d like to buy it.”
The clerk rose without a word and slipped through the swinging wooden door that separated his workspace from the rest of the store. Christopher continued to lean heavily on the counter, watching as the man disappeared toward the long lines of bookshelves near the back of the store and the row up on row of endlessly similar books. Christopher wanted to follow, but his head was spinning, and he knew if he turned away from the counter too suddenly, he’d go sprawling across the floor and likely be there when the man returned.
It didn’t take long. Moments later the clerk returned, an old leather-bound book in his hand, and slipped back behind the counter. He placed the copy of New Leather and Old Cognac on the counter top and glanced up to meet Christopher’s eyes.
“Is this what you were looking for? I’m afraid there’s no indication of what edition it might be, but it’s certainly an attractive volume.”
Christopher stared. The book was old - but not as old as the first one he’d found. It was reinforced by brown leather at the corners of the board covers, and at the spine. The title was in deep jet on the spine, no author’s name. The front of the book had another paste-down, this time in a garden, grapes dangling from an arbor above and deep green and yellow back-lighting, as if a thunderstorm were imminent, fronted by the slender figure of a seated woman, reading, her long legs tucked up beneath her demurely, her hair dangling to cove rher features.
“I’ll take it,” he slurred, cursing inwardly at the sound of his own voice. He was starting to wonder now about the wine, and the restaurant. He was starting to believe he might have sat there, alone, waiting for Sylvia and drinking himself into a dark depression. Or - more accurately - he had been thinking these thought prior to the clerk’s return. Now thought wasn’t an option. He needed to read the book. Nothing else seemed likely to straighten out the mess that he called a mind.
The clerk eyed him over the top of wire- rimmed glasses, then drew the book back to himself.
“That will be twenty-five dollars,” the man said.
Christopher didn’t question the cost, nor did he wonder at how the price could be so exact with taxes figured in. He fished his wallet out of his back pocket and drew forth a twenty and a ten. Before the clerk could make change, Christopher snatched the book off the counter and headed for the door.
“Sir,” the man called after him, “your receipt...”
The door swung open and Christopher was out on the street, turning left and away, not taking another chance at coming within range of the restaurant. He stumbled down the sidewalk, clutching the book to his chest and bumping off the wall painfully as he struggled to keep his feet. The taste of the merlot was bitter and caustic, and he had the sudden urge to wash it away.
Above him, a green neon sign flashed.
“Pandemonium.”
It was a bar. From the dark doorway, the deep throb of drums and bass guitar rolled through his nerves. His head still pounded, but now that throbbing synched with the music, and he turned toward the source. He knew he hadn’t finished that bottle of wine, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t drink now. The sound engulfed him.
Three stairs led down into an ante-room, beyond which a curtained doorway beckoned. There was a huge man standing beside the curtain, glaring at him. The man might have been chiseled from marble, gargoyle guardian of some ancient secret. Christopher fumbled his wallet from his pocket and held out his driver’s license. The man took the small card, glancing from the gleaming plastic image to Christopher, and back again several times. Then, with a curt nod, he returned the card and turned to face the door to the street without a word.
Christopher slid his ID into
his pants pocket and, still clutching the book tightly to his chest, slipped though the curtained entrance and into the music. The bar ran along the rear wall, backed by mirrors that glittered with borrowed light from the dance floor and the flickers of color from the throng of bodies writhing and twisting to the music. Christopher stood very still, fighting nausea and battling against gravity. It was too much, after the dark, quiet street – after the restaurant and the bookstore. Everything was light and sound and motion.
Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he focused and walked in a straight line to the bar. A tall, thin man, balding on top with a drooping mustache and long, fine hair that fell over both shoulders was polishing a glass and watching his approach. No one sat at the bar, though there was a line of stools. Everyone danced. There were glasses lined up by most of the seats, and Christopher passed these by, not wanting a confrontation with a hot, sweaty, angry dancer. Not wanting a confrontation with anything.
The bartender stared at Christopher as he slid onto the last stool, nearest the back, and placed the book carefully on the counter.
“Brandy,” he said, “rocks.”
The bartender nodded, a half-grin catching the same odd humor in these words that Christopher had intentionally spun from them such a short eternity before. A quick flick of the man’s wrist and the glass he’d been polishing slid down the bar to stop directly against the side of the book. Moments later, the soft clink of ice was followed by the splash of brandy. Christopher slid the book away slightly, in case there was a splash. There was not.
He placed a ten dollar bill on the bar and grabbed the tumbler, tossing back a quick gulp and turning to the book. He flipped open the cover, but it was too dark. Shadows slid back and forth over dim lines of illegible text. The brandy hit hard, not sitting well on top of the wine, but Christopher was feeling masochistic. He tossed back half of what remained in the glass, sucking one of the ice cubes into his mouth and letting it melt slowly on his tongue. The brandy bit, but not too hard. Better than he’d expected, though not, he suddenly reflected, as good as free.
