Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [16]
5
JACK SPENT MOST OF SUNDAY AFTERNOON in a small, musty attic room in Balmain, all spider webs and dust and dejected cardboard boxes. The deceased estate: another feature of the second-hand dealer’s lot. Looking through dead people’s crap, driven by the slim possibility of finding something of value.
The final haul was meagre: a small box of literary pretension from the 1950s and 1960s. Man and His Symbols by Jung; John Barthes’ Giles Goat Boy and The Sotweed Factor; the trilogy Nexus, Sexus and Plexus by Henry Miller; Camus’ The Myth of Sisyphus and Simone de Beauvoir’s The Mandarins; The Unquiet Grave by Palinurus; and Meetings with Remarkable Men by G.I. Gurdjieff.
There was an elaborate bookplate with a striped coat of arms inside the front cover of each volume: From the Library of Harold J. Cummins. Obviously Harry had been all class. The books were in excellent condition. Jack wondered if he had ever actually read any of them.
Only one little volume really interested him. It was the last book he found, right at the bottom of a crumpled cardboard box, squashed under the weight of a small horde of old literary journals and magazines. Jack supposed it was not too much of a coincidence. Because trawling books was what he did, because at any given time, with any box full of books, the odds were there. That Jack had met the author’s brother two days ago had nothing to do with nothing.
The front cover was dark blue. The title and the author’s name were in grey typeface. Below, in the bottom third of the cover, was a reproduction of Hundertwasser’s Genesis — Pieces of Pineapple. The strong yellows and greens seemed a little colourful for Kass. Almost humorous. It was the first copy of Simply Even that Jack had come across.
Inside, it was inscribed: Dearest Harold, For all your help. With gratitude, Edward.
Jack directed the taxi straight over to Susko Books so that he could dump the box and not have to worry about lugging it there in the morning. The city was empty and spacious. A calm had settled along with the drizzle. It looked clean in the pearly afternoon light. This was how Jack liked it best. The city in winter. Red wine weather. He remembered there was a bottle of cheap Shiraz under the counter at the shop.
Apart from a few people waiting for buses, York Street was deserted. Jack got out of the taxi and took his box from the back seat. As he crossed the road he heard the flags on top of the Queen Victoria Building snapping in the wind, their cables ringing out against the poles like thin, erratic bells. He glanced at the Town Hall clock. Just after 4.00 p.m.
He opened the front door to Susko Books and stepped inside. The light was metallic, blue-grey, but soft too, regardless of the cold. Jack left the lights off. He put the box on the counter and switched on the heater by his desk. From a drawer he took out an aluminium ashtray and from under the counter the bottle of Shiraz.
He took the Edward Kass book from the box and pressed play on the stereo. Sketches of Spain drifted into the shop like a warm desert wind. It reminded Jack that he still had not read Don Quixote.
He sat down at his desk, poured wine into a glass and lit a cigarette. He opened Simply Even at random. Page 12.
GREEK TRAGEDY
Close me to your breast.
Soothe the broken rhythm
Of my heartbeat
That has reduced me to a wreck
Of ribs upon the rocks.
I can no longer grip
This oily chain
Of endless days.
My every sweetness
Is swirled away.
Jack brushed some ash from the page. He flipped through the book again. Page 36.
LINE THEORY
You slink away
adjusted
by a hammer blow.
A charred bud
marks your hand. Tomorrow
again
the wet day of your conception.
Remember, alive
you never leave
anything behind.
So much for the bright cover.
The phone rang. Jack put the book down, went to the counter and answered.
‘Susko Books.’
‘Jack?’
It was Annabelle Kasprowicz.
‘Speaking.’
‘Oh, it’s you.