Foucault's pendulum - Umberto Eco [267]
The interior was no more welcoming: a mass of books on the walls and on the floor, with a little table at the back, and a bookseller who seemed put there deliberately, so that a writer could write that the man was more decrepit than his books. This person, his nose in a big handwritten ledger, was taking no interest in his customers, of which at the moment there were only two, and they raised clouds of dust as they drew out old volumes, nearly all without bindings, from teetering shelves, and began reading them, giving no impression of wanting to buy.
The only space not cluttered with shelves was occupied by a poster. Garish colors, a series of oval portraits with double borders, as in the posters of the magician Houdini. “Le Petit Cirque de PIncroyable. Madame Olcott et ses liens avec 1’Invisible.” An olive-skinned, mannish face, two bands of black hair gathered in a knot at the nape. I had seen that face before, I thought. “Les Derviches Hurleurs et leur danse sacree. Les Freaks Mig-nons, ou Les Petits-fils de Fortunio Liceti.” An assortment of pathetic, abominable little monsters. “Alex et Denys, les Geants d’Avalon. Theo, Leo et Geo Fox, les Enlumineurs de 1’Ecto-plasme...”
The Librairie Sloane truly supplied everything from the cradle to the grave; it even advertised healthy entertainment, a suitable place to take the children before grinding them up in the mortar. I heard a phone ring. The shopkeeper pushed aside a pile of papers until he found the receiver. “Oui, monsieur,” he said, “c’est bien ca.” He listened for a few minutes, nodded, then assumed a puzzled look, or at least it was the pretense of puzzlement, on account of those present, as if everybody could hear what he was hearing and he didn’t want to assume responsibility for it. Then he took on that shocked expression of a Parisian shopkeeper when you ask for something he doesn’t have in his shop, or a hotel clerk when there are no rooms available. “Ah, non, monsieur. Ah, ca... Non, non, monsieur, c’est pas notre oulot. Ici, vous savez, on vend des livres, on peut bien vous conseiller sur des catalogues, mais ca... II s’agit de problemes tres personnels, et nous...Oh, alors, il y a—sais pas, moi— des cures, des... oui, si vous voulez, des exorcistes. D’accord, je le sais, on connait des confreres qui se pretent... Mais pas nous. Non, vraiment la description ne me suffit pas, et quand meme... Desole’, monsieur. Comment? Oui...si vous voulez. C’est un endroit bien connu, mais ne demandez pas mon avis. C’est bien ca, vous savez, dans ces cas, la confiance c’est tout. A votre service, monsieur.”
The other two customers left. I felt ill at ease but steeled myself and attracted the old man’s attention with a cough. I told him I was looking for an acquaintance, a friend who, I thought, often stopped by here: Monsieur Aglie. Again the man had the shocked look he had had while on the telephone. Perhaps, I said, he didn’t know him as Aglie, but as Rakosky or Soltikoff or... The bookseller looked at me again, narrowing his eyes, and remarked coldly that I had friends with curious names. I told him never mind, it was not important, I was merely inquiring. Wait, he said; my partner is arriving and he may know the person you are looking for. Have a seat, please; there’s a chair in the back, there. I’ll just make a call and check. He picked up the phone, dialed a number, and spoke in a low voice.
Casaubon, I said to myself, you’re even stupider than Belbo. What are you waiting for? For Them to come and say, Oh, what a fine coincidence, Jacopo Belbo’s friend as well; come, come along, yes, you too....
I stood up abruptly, said good-bye, and left. In a minute I was out of rue de la Manticore, in another alley, then at the Seine. Fool! I said to myself. What did you expect? To walk in, find Aglie,