It took a bottle of blended Italian wine to prepare me for this meeting, and still I'm awash with turmoil and acid reflux. The aroma of roasted Romano cheese on the wings of the wind was replaced with vintage book dust and burnt espresso as I shifted my weight to swing the unexpectedly heavy door. Dizzy from an effort like that of gazing at a hungry hummingbird, I carried a forlorn cloud into the bookstore.
She's in here somewhere, I thought. But, my search has not yet ended. I browsed the window display, more out of judgmental curiosity than consumer affinity. What has she deemed worthy of display? East of Eden (predictable), Augustine's Confessions (romantic), Milton's Paradise Lost (classic), yet another book by Kooy, and several first editions by Plath, Tolstoy, and Shakespeare. I heard the echo of her voice from the back, "Pulitzer Prize, my ass."
She continued on some rant about Cormac McCarthy. I'm greeted in Italian by an uncommonly beautiful youth who can't help but tuck her coffee black silken hair behind her ears. When I ask for the lady of the store, I'm met with a knowing smile. She arrives before beckoned, clairvoyant as ever. Perhaps she smelled my musty odor. We embrace before speaking. All is right. The only thing amiss has been my absence, too long, inexcusable.
Our Zen moment is interrupted by another staff member clutching a telephone, "But, they need to know how many copies we want."
Without having to think, she replies, "What is it with Portland? Oregon brews these freakishly, fantastical authors - fascinated with the off color beauty of the grotesque." Here, I warrant a wink. "Not to say that both Palahniuk and Dunn are not geniuses, but it's weird man. Weirdly coincidental."
We embrace again. She points. I hear milk steaming. I'm guided to the crevice of the corner of the darkest moment of the store. She finds a door hidden to strangers. A wall moves. We enter a room that feels like home, only no home you've ever known: artistic, consoling, warm, dimly lighted, amber, earthy, cushioned, expectant.
Above her desk (older than her grandmother's grandmother, but just as lovely) is an embroidered tapestry which reads, "The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, and all the sweet serenity of books, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow." Her plants are thriving, her candles depreciating, her carpet worn, her tea kettle ever at the ready. She's here to stay. As am I, at last. "At last," she insists. I've come here to die. She's been here, living. We're older than our mothers, perhaps even wiser. They'd intended for us to supersede them.
She unravels a vine tangled at the root as she inquires after my journey. "Long," I say. "Liquored," I explain. "Tired," I excuse. "He's unpacking our things, of course. I had to come right over, naturally. I've missed you, desperately. We'd always intended, too long, I'm sorry, but you understand, what really mattered, we needed to, let's get a drink." Beaming, as though nothing I say went awry, "I know just the place."
12 years ago
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