Turning Idolater by Edward C. Patterson

Author:Edward C. Patterson
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Publisher: Edward C. Patterson

2

Philip was mesmerized by the galaxy of fine reading that surrounded him like a mite in a snuffbox. His head slowly bobbed from left to right as he spied golden and tattered bindings heralding names he knew and more that he hadn’t — Tolstoy, DeMauppasant, Eliot, Trollope and Dickens. As he concluded this simple but grand peregrination through the stacks, he was suddenly overwhelmed by a thought. If he lived three lifetimes, he might be able to perhaps read the bottom shelf, and understand just a fraction of that. It left him with a deep sense of loss. How could he feel loss at something he didn’t possess? Still, the very magic of the stacks made him glad at the same time. It was the stuff of madness.

The center aisle opened into a wider area — a room with wall shelving, four more stalls and three large, overstuffed chairs that beckoned for an ass and a glass and an wide-opened tome. The windows were clear here and showcased an old tenement courtyard, the kind architects called the central ‘I.’ It was overgrown with sumac and ivy, but afforded a brighter light than in the front of the establishment.

The clerk shuffled to the corner of the room, where a closed door concluded a short flight of three wooden steps. As he placed his foot on the first step, the bell tinkled. He didn’t stop, so Philip reached forward and grasped his shoulder.

“What is it?” the clerk asked.

“The bell rang.”

“Did it now.” Philip now realized why the clerk hadn’t heard him enter. “Just now?”

“Just now.”

“Well, that must be the boy about the Bradstreet’s.” He finished the short flight, pushed open the door, and then switched on a light. “You just go up now. The proprietor is upstairs, and if he’s expecting you, it’ll just save me the effort. I spend too much time up there as it is.”

Philip slid past him into the dim light of the inner staircase. He heard the clerk shouting through the stacks, probably trying to accost the poor courier to stay.

The stairway was even more wretched than the bookstore. The stairs were broken and the banister shook under Philip’s grasp. He was glad it was only one flight. On the landing, there were three doors, but only one shone light over the transom, so he proceeded to that one. He knocked.

“Come,” came a voice. He knew the voice and did not hesitate.

“Uncle Dean?” he asked.

The room was squat, the ceiling beveled at one end and uneven on the other. It reminded him of an outsized pigeon coop. He was familiar with those, because pigeoning was a popular pastime in Brooklyn. In fact, the rat-with-wings was the official Borough bird.

“Over here, Philip,” said the old man. “And if you are to work here, I suggest you call me Mr. Cardoza — professional jealousies and all that. I do have other employees.”

“I know. I met one downstairs.”

“That would be Pons. He’s been with me forever. I do believe he is older than some of the books.

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