Francesca was never the right person to do this and when the rest of the girls had sent her – her, of all people – to find a proper gift for the little one, she nearly lost it. But she couldn’t very well scream her head off at them or refuse. What would her colleagues think of her then?
Besides, they hadn’t meant to upset her. It was just, she was the only one who could squeeze in the time. And she couldn’t quite tell you why she’d wandered into the old bookstore. It wasn’t a place for baby-presents, that’s for sure. But she’d noticed it from across the street, where she was having her third cup of coffee. Uncustomary, but there you have it, her search had proved fruitless so far and she was, frankly, at her wits’ end.
She might not find a gift for the party in there, but she could spare five minutes for a bookstore. When Francesca was little, she used to love bookstores. She would beg her papa to stop in whenever they found one and he always brought her books from his business trips. But lately, Francesca hadn’t found the time to visit such a place. She’d found herself a foreigner last time she’d been among books, and since then, had quit visiting. It seemed to Francesca that the books always took to yelling after her, of promising all the lives she might have lived and yet did not. And while that had been what had made them so charming in her childhood, now it was just a source of bitter disappointment.
It wasn’t that Francesca was unhappy with her life. Quite the contrary, actually. She was more or less pleased with the way things had turned out. She had a good job, which was tiring, but at the same time rewarding. She’d been happy many times in her life, even though at present, she was not. She had friends and people she loved dearly – among which the mother of this baby she was supposed to be shopping for. Her life was good. It just wasn’t the life she’d envisioned as a little girl.
And sometimes, Francesca felt as if she was living in someone else’s house, in someone else’s shoes. In someone else’s life.
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The bookstore was small, not the kind of bookstore you saw around nowadays at all. It looked like something from twenty years ago, perhaps more. It was dusty and small and filled to the brim with books. And boxes, which contained in turn, more books. Some of the boxes had clear labels on them and Francesca couldn’t hide a smile, for they were all written with a clear handwriting. It seemed nobody wrote by hand anymore. It was strange, and Francesca found herself remembering a place from long ago. Another bookstore, perhaps, with stories and lives and promises.
She was alone in the bookstore, the proprietor having disappeared in the backroom most probably, so she let the tips of her fingers glide across the book-covers, caressing the faded words, while her eyes marveled at the titles. Some, she remembered from her childhood, but many, she did not know. She realized this and felt ashamed and astounded, at the same time. How many new lives had been written in the time she’d been living her own. While she’d been stranded, marveling at what her life had turned out to be, other worlds had just moved forward, carrying on with their activities, their interesting lives.
And she could’ve been in those stories, except she was not.
She picked out a book, at random. She wasn’t even in the children’s section, but that was alright, she’d forgotten all about the little baby now, all about his present or the festivities to come. It was a book about angels, from what she could gather and she opened it and began reading, right there, standing still in the old bookstore, hoping the world would stand still with her.
Their eyes glided over all that was now lost, the empires sunken into the dusty earth, the lives dead at their feet. And all the people who could’ve ruled the world fallen into poverty just now. What had happened here? What had happened to their children, they wondered?
They’d lost interest, but it wasn’t–
Someone was watching her. Francesca became aware of the two eyes fixed on the back of her neck and for a second, she was afraid to turn, because she knew for certain that the one who was watching her belonged to her real life, and she did not feel like returning to that just yet.
But she closed her book and turned slowly, cautiously, trying to guess who was watching her without having to actually interact with them. The man was old, but with a straight back, eyes narrow, calm and intelligent. He stood in the doorway that led to the back and fixed Francesca with his eye. She had the vague feeling she’d seen him before somewhere, but she couldn’t place him.
‘It’s an excellent book, it used to be one of my favorites, when I was young.’
‘But not anymore?’
The old man shook his head and she thought she glimpsed sadness in his face. ‘What happened?’
‘I grew up.’
He didn’t look away, so she felt she should. ‘I haven’t seen you in here before.’
‘No, I’ve never been here before. I just,’ she turned, her finger to the door, but it all seemed faraway now. ‘I saw you, your store, I mean, from across the street and I just wanted to have a look.’
‘From the coffee shop,’ the old man nodded and Francesca was certain now, there was something weighing on his mind, something in the way he’d said coffee shop that sounded very sad.
‘Yes, I think I’ll buy this.’ She held up her book. She was aware she was blushing now, her cheeks burning a deep red, like her face was on fire. Although she wasn’t quite sure what she had to be embarrassed about.
‘But it’s not what you’re looking for,’ the old man shook his head and Francesca was struck again by how familiar he seemed. It felt as if she’d seen him when she was young, but as if he belonged to another life.
‘How could you know what I’m looking for?’
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He stepped around the books expertly and Francesca felt certain that if he were suddenly struck blind, he would have no trouble finding his way around them. He came to stand close to her, but again, she looked away. There was something mesmerizing about the old man, but also something dangerous.
‘It’s a talent I have, I’ve always had a knack for telling what people want.’
The man put his hand over hers, suddenly, and it surprised Francesca. She looked at him then, eyes startled and wide, searching his face, but she couldn’t find the danger anymore. She could only find regret.
‘I’m supposed to be buying a present for a friend,’ she murmured the words, but it was as if somebody else was speaking and not her. She felt like a zombie, like her mouth had been taking over and she was under some strange sort of hypnosis. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know what she would like? What her baby might like?’
The old man held her gaze for a few more seconds, then let go of her hand and shuffled into the back of the bookstore again. Francesca stood, waiting for him, watching the doorway until he came back with a small book, which felt very old in his hand. She saw, to her surprise, that the book had no name, no markings, neither on the side, nor the front or back.
He held out the book to her.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s not for you to find out,’ the old book-keeper replied, a soft smile on his thin lips. ‘He will carve out a different story and a different life. And this book might help him in that life. Or not. There is no telling what path one might take.’
Francesca payed for her books reluctantly. It was as if something inside the store beckoned to her, urging her to stay, to never leave. She was frightened, all of a sudden, that if she left the safe confines of the bookstore, she might not find her way again, that it might be harder to justify the life that had made her so happy until ten minutes ago.
And the old man just stood and looked at her, as if he knew what she was thinking. And there was nothing he could do about that.
‘Well, thank you, it was – I was having trouble finding this. You really saved my life,’ she held up the book, smiling in earnest, but the old man did not smile back.
‘No,’ he shook his head, very serious now, ‘I did not.’
Francesca turned her back to him, not knowing what else was left to say and wandered back through the towers of books that stood on either side. Once she reached the door, she turned again, whispering a goodbye, and looked at the bookseller. But by now, the old man had stepped away from behind the counter and was now standing by the large window that looked out at the coffee shop across the street. And Francesca shuddered, because for a second, she thought she saw a ghost, waiting for someone to come back.
