Enigmatic Pilot_ A Tall Tale Too True - Kris Saknussemm [43]
The man who confronted him now was but a smidgen over five feet tall, with tufts of wild hair and bushy eyebrows giving way to a domed forehead. His hands were soft and effeminate-looking, yet there was about his frame a contrasting hint of martial energy and force of character, which was undermined by a noticeable hump on his back. The man’s attire consisted of a neat but worn dark twill suit with a faint powdering of dust, an expensive-looking white shirt and a silver pocket watch suspended from his waistcoat by an oily chain. On the thick hooked nose above a bristle of gray mustache propped a pair of round wire spectacles, and when he opened his mouth to speak Lloyd spotted a calcium stain on his front tooth.
“This is not a lending library, young man. These books are for sale. Get along.”
He pivoted to leave, but Lloyd piped up.
“But it looks like there are a lot of books that no one wants to buy! Wouldn’t it be better if some were read?”
“You know nothing,” the man croaked. “I do a brisk trade with bibliophiles from all over the country and indeed the world. From here to Boston, London, and Antwerp. There is a buyer for every book under this roof. You do not look like a buyer to me. Please go.”
“Couldn’t I just sit in one of the rooms and read?” Lloyd begged. “I won’t disturb any of the … buyers.”
This plea grated on the humpy man’s nerves, for he slapped his hands together and stuttered, “H-how … how did you come to find me?”
Lloyd fidgeted again, not wanting to recount how he had learned of the shop and certainly not what he had hoped to find.
“I … I was just … walking past,” he muttered.
The man slapped his hands together again and said, “Then you may kindly just walk out. Books such as these are not for children.”
“Don’t you think that education is a good thing?” Lloyd asked stubbornly.
“Allein die Dosis macht dass ein Ding kein Gift ist,” the bookman said, sighing. “Good day.”
“I know what you said,” Lloyd replied.
“Yes, but you are not leaving as I asked. Will I have to call a constable?”
“No, I mean what you said in German.”
“Bully for you. And now I am addressing you in Latin. “Nemo me impune lacessit.”
“Why would I want to harm you?” Lloyd puzzled.
“What?” the dainty humped man started. “You know Latin, too?”
“Yes,” Lloyd answered. “Of course.”
The proprietor gave a sniff of disbelief and strode over to the nearest shelf and whisked out a volume of Catullus’s poetry. “All right,” he said, handing the open book to Lloyd and pointing. “Tell me what this says.”
Lloyd glanced down at the selected page and read, “Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris. Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior. It means ‘I hate and love. You may ask why I do so. I do not know, but I feel it and am in torment.’ ”
“Hmm.” The man smiled, showing his calcium stain. “And what did I say before in German?”
“ ‘Only the dose insures the thing will not be a poison.’ ”
“Correct!” snapped the bookseller. “And in reference to education you may already have had too much—at least of a certain kind.”
“I hardly ever go to school,” Lloyd corrected. “But I am quick.”
“Perhaps,” the man said, flexing his hump. “But you are slow to leave. I believe you were sent by one of the local dilettantes to goad and annoy me.”
“I wasn’t sent by anyone!” Lloyd insisted. “I’m here on my own.”
There was something about the emphatic way the boy uttered this last remark, combined with his unexpected erudition, that made the bookseller change his attitude, for he brushed some of the dust from his suit and said, “All right, my learned young friend. Since you are so committed, you may remain here and read. I close at four, and you are not to wander outside this room. Understood?”
“Thank you!” Lloyd beamed. “Thank you. But … is there any key to how the books are organized?