A Very Special Year (11 page)

She turned around and fired an accusatory look at the books, which still stood stoically on their shelves, as if none of this had anything to do with them. They were all facing in a different direction. None seemed to give two figs about how human beings really felt. How she felt! Just a moment ago she'd still been a student. And now?

‘And now?'

She reached for her coat, took the key from the desk and only a few seconds later was out the door, where a soft mist was weaving golden arcs around the lantern. ‘And now? What am I now?' she whispered. The street was empty. The shop windows gave off a lonely glow. Mr Pronto Pizza. Nailzz. GoFit! Gülestan Market. Ringelnatz & Co. She could have laughed. Yes, it really was a joke. A bookshop in this location in this era, full of the best and most beautiful volumes, all the knowledge and imagination which the cultures of the world had produced over centuries and millennia. It was so laughable that she could do nothing but laugh as she stared at the old sign above the shop, whose gold leaf looked like a greeting from distant epochs. But then it struck her: this bookshop could only exist here and now. It was needed precisely here and now. Here and now she'd look after it, breathe new life into this old business. For here
and now she realized what she had become: ‘I'm a bookseller.'

There's a huge difference between tackling something with the intention of bringing it to a satisfactory conclusion and deciding to give it a new beginning. Till now Valerie had seen herself as the person who'd been given the thankless task of winding up Aunt Charlotte's affairs. But when, that previous evening, she'd stood outside in the twilight and surveyed the bleakness of the area, she suddenly realized that the carcass was still breathing. Weren't the corners of the mouth still twitching, as if the corpse was secretly making fun of the young woman?

Several things may have stifled Ringelnatz & Co.'s business: the changes in the area, the large bookshop one underground station away, internet shopping, e-books. All of these were developments that made it difficult for a business run in such an old-fashioned way to survive. But why, Valerie wondered, shouldn't I try to give this wonderful bookshop the kiss of life and wake it from its deep slumber?

And she began to see the shop through different eyes: the eyes of passers-by who might just glimpse Ringelnatz & Co. from the corner of their eyes, or who merely looked at the shop window on the way
to work as they might glance up at the clock on the church tower, even though they knew precisely that they'd left home at 7.50, so it must now be 7.53, as it was every day of the year that they went into the office. But what, Valerie speculated, would happen if one day the clock on the church tower said 9.20? Or if it suddenly had three hands? What if the things they expected to see weren't there, but something surprising caught their eye and thus their attention?

The first thing that Valerie did was take everything out of the display window and close the curtain.

Valerie worked from the inside out. To start with she changed the lighting to make it brighter, yet more romantic. She did this by covering the ceiling lights, which were permanently off because they were ghastly fluorescent tubes, with a red and an orange cloth. Switched on, they now made the shop appear friendly and inviting, as if it were Christmas every day. Then she repositioned the stool, covering it with a tablecloth and adorning it with individual books that she considered good reads as well as beautiful. She arranged more seating opportunities and revamped the shop window, creating a mysterious display by cutting large keyholes in book-size pieces of black cardboard and placing them on top of the books
displayed so that only a section of the cover – the most attractive – was visible. Above these she hung colourful pieces of paper with letters that spelled out:

 

I-f y-o-u w-a-n-t t-o f-i-n-d o-u-t

m-o-r-e…

And she repainted the sign above the entrance. Like an Irish pub, the golden letters now shone on a deep green background: Ringelnatz & Co.

And indeed over the coming days a few passers-by were caught in the web that Valerie had woven. Some of these even became customers, including a teacher (at Timmi's school?) who appeared delighted that in times like these such a young woman would dare take on a bookshop and fly the sacred banner of culture (she didn't use these exact words, of course, and Valerie omitted to reveal how she'd embarked on this adventure). On the second day the teacher returned and asked whether Valerie fancied helping her organize a reading night for her pupils, a night that the children would spend in the bookshop with the teacher (and the bookseller, of course) and where they'd be allowed to take turns reading. A wonderful idea that was unfortunately quashed by an objection from the school management (‘insurance-related reservations').

And yet Valerie summoned up hope, working her way through the area, forging contacts with the other local shops, inviting people to tea, visiting the church, the nearby old-people's home, moving heaven and earth to get her little shop noticed. Meanwhile she kept writing letters. Letters to customers who owed money, to readers who'd ordered or picked up books but hadn't paid. Some, indeed many of these unpaid bills went back years, a number of them even decades. But, undeterred, Valerie typed reminders on Aunt Charlotte's old typewriter. Occasionally she received replies, sometimes even money. A few mortified old customers transferred the money, others included cash with their letters. And after a few weeks the debt level had been reduced from 28,000 euros to just under 27,000.

‘Not much,' Valerie mumbled with a frown, examining the address list she'd drawn up. There were only a few of these customers owing money whose addresses she knew or had been able to find out from their correspondence. Taking away all of those with whom she had no idea how to get in contact, and assuming that all those she'd written to and still could write to would duly pay, ‘then we're looking at a total of three thousand euros. Just.'

With a sigh she put her head in her hands and her
elbows on the typewriter. And while with a ‘clack' she kept typing an ‘Ä' on the letter she'd just begun, the bell rang and the door opened.

‘Hello?'

‘I'm here,' Valerie called out, straightening herself, taking a deep breath and practising a professional composure. ‘Won't be a sec.'

She ripped out the piece of paper she'd inserted into the typewriter, tossed it into the waste-paper basket (by now she could have joined a district league basketball team at least), stood up and turned to face the visitor.

‘You?'

‘Have we met?' the visitor asked, letting his gaze roam the shop. ‘Where is the owner?'

‘I'm… Well, erm, I'm standing in for her.' Valerie cleared her throat. ‘During her absence.'

‘Oh, what a shame. I'd hoped to find her here.' The man scrutinized her inquisitively. A few biscuit crumbs were caught in his beard, his eyebrows arched theatrically above black flashing eyes, with which he virtually skewered Valerie, but not in an unfriendly way. ‘So you must be the woman who wrote me this letter?'

It struck Valerie that she ought to take a deep breath to forestall a medical incident. ‘Erm, yes, that was…me.'

He nodded and stared at her again. Then his face twisted into an ironic and mischievous smile, and he held out his hand. ‘Delighted to meet you. I'm…'

‘But of course,' Valerie said. ‘I know who you are. It's an honour that you've come to pay Ringelnatz & Co. a visit.'

‘And you are?'

‘Valerie. Call me Valerie.'

‘With pleasure.' He took another look around. ‘Nothing's changed,' he stated. ‘Everything is how I remember. Perhaps even a touch more beautiful. But in those days I didn't have eyes for the shop. Is Charlotte well?'

‘Thanks, erm…' Valerie stuttered. ‘I hope so. We haven't heard from her in a long time. She's…she's been away for quite a while.'

Another smile. ‘Yes,' he said, ‘that's Charlotte all right. She always had a mind of her own.'

He felt in his pocket and took out a rather tatty envelope. ‘First I'm going to give you this to finally settle my debts. I hope it's enough. I'm sure those books you listed weren't all the ones I, well, bought without paying for them. Money is unimportant to me, you know. If one has enough of it, one sometimes forgets just how important it is for other people.'

Valerie took the envelope from his hand. ‘I'm sure
it's enough,' she said. ‘May I offer you a cup of tea?'

‘That would be lovely.'

‘Perhaps you'd like to take a seat…' She pointed to the comfortable armchair by the window.

‘Thanks very much. How marvellous that this old furniture still exists.'

Then the great Noé from Vienna sat down and absentmindedly watched Valerie fill the teapot, looking so unbelievably like her old aunt – a miracle of memory.

The famous actor's visit turned out to be the best PR coup imaginable. It was probably pure coincidence that while he was there a middle-aged woman looked in the window and then a bit further into the shop! That she recognized the elderly thespian and her heart missed a beat in sheer ecstasy, before setting into a wild gallop. That she had a mobile on her and phoned her friend without delay, upon which two happy new customers of Ringelnatz & Co. turned up, who surpassed each other in cultural matters (which to Valerie's delight manifested itself in book purchases). That the friend in question clearly telephoned another friend or several friends and told them. And thus it wasn't long before a group of Viennese female fans had surrounded Noé and were hanging
breathlessly on his every word – a mixture of anecdotes from the life of a global star and book recommendations. Not everything was in stock (if we're being honest, Valerie knew neither Thoreau, the author, nor
Walden
, his most important work). But as several copies were urgently needed of almost all the books commended to the gathering of women, the young bookseller started taking orders as if she were offering gold at the price of silver in her shop.

The extraordinary revitalization of the shop did not go unnoticed that afternoon and led to a large number of other visitors, some of whom were unaware that they were breathing the same air as a celebrity as they looked around the shop in amazement and, if only out of embarrassment, bought a couple of cheaper books (although here we should note that it's often the slim and cheaper volumes that harbour the sweetest dreams).

When, as evening approached, the great Noé strained to lift himself from the chair, a collective sigh passed through the group of middle-aged women.

‘You know,' he said, ‘I could spend hours with you ladies; your company here today has been most enchanting. You are a source of pure joy.' With a consummately gallant bow he kissed the hands of some of his admirers. And if he hadn't given Valerie the odd,
barely perceptible wink from time to time she would have regarded the afternoon as a piece of absurd theatre come true. But this made her understand that someone had decided not only to settle an old bill, but to compensate for a longstanding debt.

Never before had Ringelnatz & Co. enjoyed such a rich turnover as in those five hours that the great Noé from Vienna spent in the shop.

FOURTEEN

I
n the sad month of November, when the days were getting murkier and the wind tore the leaves from the trees, one of the construction workers came over. Valerie had been watching him for a while from her place by the door. She'd wrapped herself in a thick woollen blanket and turned on the samovar, to which she kept returning to fill up her glass (several days earlier she'd gone to the Gülestan Market and discovered these gorgeous little tea glasses with a golden rim, out of which the tea, as she soon noticed, tasted quite different, more aromatic, much clearer), opened up a collection of short stories by Anton Chekhov and was spellbound by the story ‘Home' – until she noticed that on the scaffolding opposite a middle-aged
man, a builder with a sad face, was looking over at her. Was he gazing at her longingly? From this distance she couldn't see properly. Valerie went in to fetch another glass of tea and when she returned to her table, the man turned away and got back down to his work. She sat down, opened the book again and read from the very corner of her eyes, as a friendly autumn sun shone on her forehead.

‘Someone came from the Grigoryevs' to fetch a book, but I said you were not at home. The postman brought the newspaper and two letters. By the way, Yevgeny Petrovitch, I should like to ask you to speak to Seryozha. To-day, and the day before yesterday, I have noticed that he is smoking…

‘Sorry to bother you, Miss…'

Valerie got a fright. She'd not heard the man coming. It was the construction worker from over the road. He stood in front of her in his grey clothing, his head slightly bowed and his cap in both hands, like someone out of a Victor Hugo novel.

‘No, that's fine.' She put her book down and made to stand up.

‘I'm really sorry. I don't want to…'

‘Honestly, don't worry. How can I help you?'

‘It's just…' He was waging an internal battle. Was it excessive politeness, was it timidity? ‘I've seen you drinking tea.' He cleared his throat and Valerie noticed
his small hands. ‘And so I thought maybe I can get a glass from you. Obviously I'll pay.'

‘Well, this is actually a bookshop here. Tea…' She threw back the blanket and stood up. It really was cold. An earnest wind gusted down the street. It must be freezing up on the scaffolding. ‘Of course,' Valerie said. ‘A glass of tea. Very happy to get you one.' She pointed to her chair. ‘Take a seat,' she said, before biting her lip because she instantly regretted it – now he'd sit with his filthy work clothes on her favourite blanket and…

But he waved his hand dismissively. ‘No thanks, that's not necessary. Just a glass of tea. From up there I saw that you have a samovar. It reminds me of my country.'