CHAPTER III. THE SHOP

Your hero gets down to business.

My mother is a Methodist. Her son still has a little fun. He also has a métier. We will now visit the location. You will find a refuge, and that more amusement lies in store. At least you should.

Let’s get down to business. But bargain for no chain, we take you to a better place. Classical music, renaissance painting, vintage wine, a scent of the past: The Last Refuge delivers the goods. You fill up my senses! Thank you, although we privilege the mind.

“I find in Philosophy.” Blind to any business, Ivan was thumbing through the find. “Saint Anselm”—you rang?—“Ze Proslogion!” The truant traced the timeless text. “A being greater than vich cannot be conceive.” The store’s alleged employee likes to read aloud. “Hah, this proof belong Shopping Network.” On occasion, his incursions into the thickets of the English tongue chance upon a clearing.

You might conjure up a vodka flask. I too am tempted, despite the haste of that generalization, my familiarity with his diction and faith that the plodding intonation betrays a poet’s soul. Ivan is resolutely sober, an abdication of his national responsibility. The autodidact had pressed a lull in customer traffic to advantage, stumbling across my namesake in the alcove, which unauthorized reading now lay on the counter. The scholar is jealous of speech, a train of interior monologue rolling at the expense of outward expression. “Boss, you think saint really believe proof?” A rare remark will mitigate his commercial apathy, erratic work habits, and antipathy towards the paying public. “Or play viz vords?”

Merrywood! . . . Really the best time, bucko? . . . Mocking the Russian . . . He mocks me, without mercy . . . Giving offense . . . The offended have a recourse, in the self-help section!

“A distinction without a difference. The word creates the thing.” I turned over the volume, Russell’s History of Western Philosophy, $38 used. Bertrand had been sitting on the shelf for years, but lowering his asking price would deliver a slap to a Nobel face. “Although faith does face the question—Why would God have any patience for those foolish enough to believe in him?”

“Good von, boss.” Withdrawing a notebook from his jacket pocket, the poet jotted his first entry in nearly fifteen minutes. My words of wisdom are preserved for posterity. If you could only read the record! “Heaven and hell, ze jealous God!”

“Insecure, more like. If I can create the whole damn world, would I really be so petty?”

“Mama!”

“I can’t take the credit for that one. The song of Sister Sonja, vile heathen that she is.”

“Sonja have soul like Russia. How is sister?”

The Terrible checks few boxes of regular humanity. An unkempt beard, balding pate, dime-store glasses, soiled suit, and tatty tie present a blend of indeterminate vintage. He has been working for me, in a charitable manner of speaking, since high school, when he arrived on these shores with his mother. The eccentric couple took up residence in the shop and soft-soaped the shopkeeper. I had the wisdom of Tolstoy, the depth of Pushkin, the soul of Chekhov. And I found the son in my employment. The inquiry into my sister’s well-being affected nonchalance, but his ribs had felt the tickle. Sonja once passed an interminable half hour browsing in a revealing bend before the house poet, his typically inscrutable features teetering between temptation and terror. The sloppy presentation belies a strict personal hygiene, and after Sonja’s departure, Ivan had to pay his visit to the bathroom. Boss, hot today, must splash vater on face.

Some women wear the pants. Others choose the trousers, mama’s boy betraying the initiative of a rock-hidden centipede. But though his grammar comes scrambled, the polyester-panted son pretends to regular conjugation. Sonja’s mischief recalibrating his nervous system, the store solipsist found his tongue, chatted merrily with the cash register, and on the following day sported a new tie of daring coloration. I had little heart for disenchantment. My sister has a program, her target seldom selected for bedroom design. I did reprimand her after the fact, protective of the victim. You don’t find him attractive, surely?—Annie, all men are attractive, in their own way. Such sad eyes. Her occupational lasciviousness has struck many a blow, redressing the imbalance of folklore. ­My brother, you have no vagina, you will never understand. An astute observation, but still, Ivan?!

 What have we here? The prescient ornithologist will have already made the identification. No bird of teeming species, I can readily introduce the remaining members of my flock. But don’t count your chickens, I might make a special friend while spinning out the tale! You will often find the birds at nest, the main thread of my story unwinding in the confines. All right, the design has won no accolades, but who needs the pretension? I have yet to set the scene. Put yourself then in the shoes of a customer. Refusing a dictatorship of letters, all books deserve a good home. But democracy has a downside; any simpleton can stray from the sidewalk, his opinion in tow. Funny smell in here! The dull color of vintage wine disguises a treasure; what do they know? Got a flashlight, buddy? When the charmed archaeologist uncovered the gold of Tutankhamun, did he complain about a little dust? I can recommend a good cleaning lady. I pay no mind to the mockery, trust me. Indeed, we curry their displeasure, motioning them back to the mall. And that Health and Safety citation is really nothing to worry about, our city bureaucrats as forgiving as Carrie Nation in the brewery. What about Emil’s?! His joint has never been inspected, though my store is spotless in comparison.

Let us take a tour. The street is named after a Spanish city, where stupid tourists run with the bulls. Forsaking the press of Pamplona, you push through a frosted-glass door, upon which The Last Refuge sets an expectation in gilt letters. You hear the tinkle of a bell but no chirp of greeting, will suffer no unsolicited intrusion on your pilgrimage. Picture an ancient market town, growing haphazardly over the centuries around a bustling square, with a maze of narrow lanes disappearing through a patchwork of overhanging dwellings. And that picture is not sketchy, old photographs attesting to the bustle. As the door gives a squeak of welcome, you discover a dark forest of ancient woodwork, through which a clearing leads to the clouded glass of the counter, command center of the operation. There you will find the scoundrel, a nameplate confirming the credentials in copper. Have no fear, I am taking refuge from the madding crowd, just as you are. Assorted wooden chairs, orphaned umbrellas, a serviceable couch, temperamental coffee machine, and beached bicycle line the thoroughfare from which aisles of bookish enticement vanish into the tall but motley shelving. In the dim light, indolent hush, and narrow corridors, you will find your felicity, might make merry with Monty. Our order might stray from the alphabetical, but the fortuitous discovery, the element of surprise! We might lack some modern amenities. Are you not a lover of books? You will feel at home.

 “Ahem. The lady needs some assistance, I believe.” My raised voice broke a religious hush. I had been lunching with a klatch of local retailers gathered at the behest of Emil, drug dealer and owner of the bistro. Beneficiary of an early release program, the man was fully gassed, and his establishment had lately received a suspiciously glowing review in the paper, making his prattle only more punishing. The restaurant critic was a regular, undertaking extracurricular activity with Emil in the men’s room. Our merchant association makes common cause against venal landlord and bothersome official, and the parolee had pushed his better to call another meeting. Some leaders are born, some are made, some are chosen. Anselm was conscripted; the gang knows my good name, refuses to convene in my absence, and I have an obligation. We had no new business, Emil issuing the call to juice his bottom line with a check of no compliments. The Alhambra business district fosters a corresponding Mediterranean work ethic, and my fellow shopkeepers were extending their conference into an afternoon of barhopping, Magnolia and Mel the driving force. The Last Refuge allows no such respite. Already irritable, I barged through the door to find a well-dressed woman waiting at the counter. His nose in the same book, Ivan was oblivious.

“I apologize, ma’am, my assistant is brushing up on his ontology.” I elbowed our budding philosopher aside. A veritable cornucopia, The Last Refuge is a preserve of medieval thought. Bibliophiles also marvel at our military history section, illustrated compendia of world trains, and collections of explorers’ journals. At least they should. Our comely booklover was flirting with world literature. “Le Grand Meaulnes! You read French?” I pay due respect.

She had come to the right place. The Last Refuge is also known for a spread of languages, a source of pride more than financial reward. If Ivan owned the shop, we would only stock the original. The monk considers translation a moral affront, will break his vow of silence to berate an offending purchase. I had been perusing The Brothers Karamazov in anticipation of my forthcoming feature on the radio dial, and The Terrible had picked up the copy I left by the till. We English readers are given to understand that Constance Garnett serviceably renders the spirit of the Russian; he begs to differ. Dostoevsky? No vay!

“Naturellement.” Madame gave a gracious smile. “Je suis française.” And was that a Gallic wink?

“Formidable.” A smooth operator rose to another challenge. The shop attracts foreign visitors, a choice selection with whom the multilingual owner engages in their native tongue. “Quel plaisir.” The entente was cordiale.

“Madame, bienvenue au pays de la liberté.” The wit has a way. “Wonderful little book, a treasure.” The wise know when to quit. “Shame he died so young . . . why doesn’t it get more attention? . . . I read it in French . . . I’ve written a novel . . . we carry it, if you want . . . though I find his achievement quite mysterious.” My extended eloquence owed nothing to her looks, needless to say. An ambassador has a diplomatic obligation.

“It’s for my husband. I haven’t read a book in years.”

 Ivan’s threads hang in unchanging exhibition. The refusenik respects some rules, the funereal suit making the man, like the black habit the nun. His function in our economy cannot be transparent to the casual observer, still less the diagnosis of his complaint, a condition verging on coma. You have yet to make the acquaintance, but my otherwise imperturbable wife suffered ongoing conniption on his account: Was he blissfully unaware of workplace expectations, subverting the only token of capitalism that afforded an opportunity, or taking advantage of my indulgence, the latter hypothesis a truism for an engineer of no nonsense? I thought better of compounding her outrage, telling of the bathroom trips coincident with her visits. In any case, she was wrong; I can stand up for myself, take charge when his shelving is shaky. Ivan is Ivan, an enigma of no profitable interpretation. Yes, I fantasize about a severance, but the deed is humanly impossible, and not for want of spine. Though I write his paycheck and wield considerable advantage in years, he has inveigled a compact whereby proprietor demand constitutes a breach of etiquette, threat of termination a joke of low comedy. The grave is long dug, my prerogative stymied for want of reason why present offense ranks more grievously than past permission. In any case, his dispatch would unbalance an established order, The Last Refuge’s ambience no more feasible without The Terrible than blue cheese with no rot. Ecosystem and bellwether species evolve as one, and my scientist spouse suspected a similar symbiosis between the alleged antiquarian disrepair of the store and dilapidation of the employee’s suit. She may have had a point, but I fail to see the problem. I admire the poet. I have dedicated my life to books, yet my business calling is reluctant. I wish I could sell the shop, retire to my own monastery of the mind. Ivan does not compromise; Ivan does not care. His challenge has no answer, my penance to a better god. And the silence of his company has some advantage.

“How about making yourself useful?” I maintain a pantomime, for private amusement. La tristesse du jour had bid au revoir.

“What you want I do, boss?”

“Check the back section. Maybe Emil needs some help.”

 The fellow has few redeeming features. When not exercising droit de seigneur on his unfortunate waitresses, Emil slouches into the shop, repairs to the back section only to wheedle for a discount. However, he still brings some money my way; I may later divulge the arrangement. And seeking to better himself, he respects my predilection for the nineteenth-century English novel. At least he should.

Please put down that phone! Your congressman has better things to worry about. My nationality might be dual, but I venerate Huck Finn, follow football, and act the jerk like a true American. But the apple pie does know other seasoning, my formative years suffering the blazer and cap of an all-boys primary school. And while I was declining Latin, playing cricket, and breakfasting on canned spaghetti on toast, the paterfamilias patented the device that secured a modest career and the optimal stream of subterranean sewer. Though her father in-law is yet to mark any museum, my normally unflappable wife fessed up to some flutter upon meeting George Merrywood, inventor of the same-named pump. He joined the company that allowed his family to cross the Atlantic and gain the citizenship, but like the flow of a drain, DuPont expects mobility of middle management. The family made stops in Jacksonville, Florida; Annapolis, Maryland; and Detroit, Michigan, my mother’s home state, an unsettled history that she blamed for her son’s alleged inability to throw strikes against the girls’ team. Anselm, a nice-looking fellow like you! It should be easy to find a wife. My friends at church have grandkids.—Don’t worry Mom, the mail-order bride says she wants children.—All your silly jokes! You think you’re so clever, but no one has a clue what you’re talking about.

I had one redeeming quality. A Harvard law degree hangs front and center on her living-room wall. So after passing on the profession, I introduced her to The Last Refuge with the relish of Vladimir Putin’s gay son bringing his boyfriend home for dinner. Mom, it is a little quiet in the shop today, but at least we get to talk.—Anselm Thomas, you had an impressive career, I grew up on a farm. She will come around, someday.

 Emil is a creature of habit. The reliability would little placate my mother, his habits descending from mere nuisance to the loathsome. The dog does not discuss his pedigree. If only the reticence in owning the accent extended to its employment; the septic tank overflows. The language is insulting, the jokes crude, the suggestions improper. I will spare you the proof.

We both have our stories. But there is really no comparison. I have so much to say, my shipment must be sparing; Emil plies the same package ad nauseum. A well-settled dual citizen, I can tell it like it is, my good name accentuating his ill repute. Whereas the ungrateful import subverts the American dream while sniping at my business, his trademark tale an embellishment of native folklore, larded with Dickensian pathos. But no matter how often he spins the story, the fabulist finds fresh amusement, his telling a narcotic wreck of memory lapse and verbal diarrhea. In case you are curious, I will shortly distill the spirit, providing a finer blend. But first—