CHAPTER IV. THE CONFINES
We get down to business.
My mother is a Methodist. Her son is still a lot of fun. The man also has a métier. We will now visit the location. You will find a refuge, and that more amusement lies in store. So much more!
So let’s get down to business. But bargain for no chain, The Last Refuge is a special place, most interesting, as patrons like to put it. Classical music, renaissance painting, vintage wine, the redolence of a gentleman’s club, the touch of fine vellum, the confines offer a compendium. You fill up my senses? Annie’s song is all feeling, Anselm’s shop food for thought.
“I find in Philosophy.” Blind to any business, Ivan had dumped a pile of treasure, was thumbing through the find. “Saint Anselm”—you rang?—“Ze Proslogion!” He 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.
Merrywood! . . . Got a problem? . . . Mocking the Russian! . . . The Russian mocks me, without mercy.
You 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 monopolized 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?”
Giving offense! . . . The offended have a recourse . . . Your comments page? . . . Our self-help section!
“A distinction without a difference. The word creates the thing.” I turned over one 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! 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, talked up 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 terror and temptation. The sloppy presentation belies a strict personal hygiene, and after Sonja’s departure, Ivan had to pay his visit to the bathroom. Boss, need to wash hands.
Some women wear the pants. Others choose the trousers, mama’s boy boasting the bravado of a rock-hidden beetle. But though the prose is scrambled, the person 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. The woman has a device, her brother no deterrent. I did reprimand her after the fact, protective of the victim. You don’t find him attractive, surely?—Annie, all men are attractive. A generous sentiment? Just like pets! 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. A humble abode? Our booklovers imagine a mansion! But the welcome has a downside, any simpleton can stray in from the street. Got a flashlight, buddy? The dull color of vintage wine disguises a richness, what do they know? Funny smell! You could say the same for rare charcuterie. I can recommend a good cleaning lady. When the charmed archaeologist uncovered the gold of Tutankhamun, did he complain about a little dust? I pay no mind, trust me. Indeed, we curry their displeasure, motion 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 confines have never been inspected, though our conception is immaculate by comparison.
Let us take a tour. The street is named after a storied destination on the Iberian Peninsula, where brain-dead tourists insist on running 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, 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 crowded patchwork of overhanging dwellings. And that picture is not sketchy, sepia photos attesting to some stir. 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 conclave. 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. An uncommon 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 even make merry with Monty. Our order might stray from the alphabetical, but the fortuitous discovery, the element of surprise! We lack some modern amenities? What about the Palace of Versailles!
“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 a local rag, making the 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. I was shamelessly conscripted. Annie, you wouldn’t get any customers at all, if we didn’t send them your way. Oh please, booklovers make a beeline for the door! The Alhambra business district fosters a corresponding Mediterranean work ethic, and after settling Emil’s uncomplimentary check, the meeting voted to extend the proceedings into an afternoon of barhopping. 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 the aspiring metaphysician 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 comprehensive baseball almanacs. Our comely booklover was flirting with world literature. “Le Grand Meaulnes! Madame, you read French?” The owner was all business, needless to say.
Madame 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.” The entrepreneur rose to another challenge. The Last Refuge attracts a wealth of foreign visitors; the owner engages a choice selection 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 myself . . . I find his achievement quite mysterious . . . we carry it, if you’re interested.” 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 rule, 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. And she was wrong, as usual; 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. Fair enough, I write his paycheck and wield considerable advantage in years, but he has inveigled a compact whereby proprietor demand constitutes a breach of etiquette, threat of termination a joke of low comedy. In any case, his dispatch would unbalance an established order, The Last Refuge’s ambience no more feasible without The Terrible than blue cheese without the rot. Ecosystem and bellwether species evolve as one, and my scientist spouse supposed a similar symbiosis between the supposed disrepair of the store and notorious neglect of the employee’s suit. She may be correct; I fail to see the problem. The proprietor has dedicated his life to literature, but reluctantly keeps the books. Indeed, if I could sell the shop, I would 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.”
“Ze man beyond help!”
The poet has a point. Some men have few redeeming features, Emil has none. When not exercising droit de seigneur on his hapless waitresses, he slouches into the shop, repairs to the back section only to wheedle for an indecent discount. However, he still brings some money my way; I may later divulge the arrangement. And seeking to better himself, the villain respects my deference to Dickens, shares my love for English classics in general. Although he has only laid shoplifting hands on Emma and The Woman in White, to my certain knowledge.
I also favor English beer. And please put down the phone, your congressman has better things to worry about! The dual citizen venerates Huck Finn, loves his car, and acts 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 his career and the optimal stream of subterranean sewer. My normally unflappable wife fessed up to a little flutter upon meeting George Merrywood, inventor of the same-named pump. Papa joined the company that allowed his family to cross the Atlantic and acquire the voting rights, but like the flow of a drain, DuPont expects mobility of management. The family wagon 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! All my friends at church have grandkids.—Don’t worry Mom, the mail-order bride says she wants a family.—Always a silly joke! You don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
I had one saving grace. A Harvard law degree hangs front and center on her living-room wall. So after passing on the legal 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? Well, Dorothy did hear of a lullaby land, somewhere over the rainbow.
Emil is a creature of habit. The reliability would little placate the mother, the habits descending from mere nuisance to the loathsome. His English is also less than perfect. But though the dog will yap, he deigns to discuss his descent. If only the reticence in owning the accent extended to its employment! The language is insulting, the jokes crude, the suggestions improper. I will spare you the proof.
A way with words? Merrywood is the man, as you know. Emil also has a story, but there is no comparison. One citizen has so much to say, his shipment must be sparing; the other plies the same package ad nauseum. Though I concede that his liberties with native folklore are dispensed with a hint of Dickensian pathos. No matter how often he spins his story, the fabulist finds fresh amusement, and the telling certainly captures the attention . . . like a freeway pile-up of memory lapse, unhinged fantasy, and verbal diarrhea. A drop of Dickens? Well, I could distill the spirit, providing a finer blend. But first—