Little Doors (34 page)

“That’s a quote. Shakespeare. Am I right?”

Emily sighed. “Yes, you’re right.”

“Stuff rubs off on you in this business, Emily. You’ll see.”

“I wish you hadn’t promised me that.”

The door to the dusky, book-redolent room housing the Hemphill Collection opened to Emily Lerner’s key. Mamoulian and the librarian stepped inside, and Emily switched on an overhead light Mamoulian had not noticed yesterday. The heightened clarity of the miraculous vision staggered him again almost as deeply as the original encounter. Regarding the rows of rare firsts was like looking at his own name in lights fifty feet high. Get ahold of yourself, man, Mamoulian advised himself. Remember your professionalism.

“Have you eaten yet, Mister Mamoulian?”

“No, not since last night. But I couldn’t stomach anything right now. I’ve got to get to work. I’m going to be making extensive notes on titles and conditions. Should take me about three long days if I really push. When I get back home, I’ll type up a catalogue that we can use as bait to snag a big-name auction house. The books themselves can stay with you until we have a solid agreement with someone. They’ve been safe here for a couple of centuries, so I guess a few more months won’t put them at risk. Unless, that is, you intend to blab to everyone about what we’ve got here. Then I can’t guarantee anything.”

Today Emily wore a white blouse, plaid skirt and penny loafers, almost as if she were in schoolgirl uniform. This woman could do with a makeover for sure. “No, I won’t say a word to anyone.” She walked slowly to the shelves and ran her fingertips lightly along a few feet of spines, producing a skritching noise that made Mamoulian wince.

“I know the children will miss these old books,” Emily said wistfully. “I wish you could see their faces the first time they earn entry here. The reading experience isn’t just words, you know. It’s feel and smell and typefaces and bindings. Everything will be different with new editions.”

Mamoulian almost yelled at her not to treat his books so cavalierly, but bit his tongue. Instead, he pulled on his soiled curator’s gloves ostentatiously. Emily paid no mind to his silent rebuke, but instead lifted out a book from near the end of the collection.

Her voice was thick with dreams. “Raymond Carver. He was one of my firsts.”

Mamoulian took the book away. “
What We Talk About When We Talk About Love
. Knopf, 1981, fine in dustjacket. Two hundred and fifty bucks, minimum.” The dealer shook his head in wonderment. “Damn! How did you know back then?”

“I can’t say. I just followed my heart.”

“I wish my goddamn heart had that kind of savvy. I’d rent it out to Wall Street.”

Emily turned away, but not before Mamoulian saw a tear crawling down her cheek. “If you want anything, I’ll be in my office. School starts soon, and there’s plenty for me to do there.”

“Yeah, great, we’ll both keep busy.”

Mamoulian had intended to approach the Hemphill Collection systematically, but his eye kept getting snagged by random titles. For the first couple of hours he couldn’t resist taking down anything that intrigued him, and just marveling at its rarity.

Trollope’s
Can You Forgive Her?
, Chapman and Hall, 1864: $850.

Kerouac’s
On the Road
, Viking, 1957: $3,700.

Mailer’s
The Naked and the Dead
, Rinehart, 1955: $1,000.

Longfellow’s
Evangeline
, in a special presentation edition limited to fifty copies, 1848: $4,500.

Collins’s
The Moonstone
, Harper and Brothers, 1868: $300.

Thoreau’s
Walden
, Ticknor and Fields, 1854: $7,500.

Burroughs’s
Naked Lunch
, Olympia, 1959: $1,000. (First Mailer, then Kerouac, now Burroughs. That Castelli woman who had balked at
Gone with the Wind
must’ve gotten more radical in her old age.)

Banks’s
The Wasp Factory
, Macmillan, 1984: $125. (Another surprise. Mamoulian wouldn’t have pegged Emily as a Banks reader. Those depths he had sensed in her yesterday must conceal some strange currents.…)

Mamoulian spotted a book whose unique spine instantly and improbably evoked a childhood memory: Barrie’s
Peter Pan
. He took the book in hand. It was the first U.S. edition, Scribner’s, 1906, worth over nine hundred dollars. But save for its superior condition, it was identical to the beat-up copy Mamoulian had read and reread as a child. His mother had inherited it from her mother, and Mamoulian had discovered it by himself on the family shelves. Until this very moment, Mamoulian hadn’t realized he had been handling the first edition as a kid—

He had been a bright ten-year-old, a voracious reader, eager to explore the world through books. The Disney
Peter Pan
had just been released, and Mamoulian had gotten “hooked” on the Edwardian fantasy. Falling into the novel had proved an even more rewarding experience, offering a crisp and thrilling mental movie Disney could never bring to the screen.

Jesus, where had that retarded bookish kid disappeared to? Swamped somewhere in Mamoulian’s ponderous flesh, he supposed. When was the last time he had actually
read
a book?

Mamoulian shook his head as if to dislodge invisible cobwebs. The motion, combined with his lack of sleep and food, made him dizzy. Oddly, the echo of Emily’s fingertips straying across the bindings and a whiff of her lavender scent seemed suddenly to fill the room. On a whim, his heart racing unaccountably, Mamoulian opened the novel to its first page and began to read:

All children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs. Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, “Oh, why can’t you remain like this forever!” That was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end.

And that was the last Mamoulian knew of the common world until he came to himself hours later behind the wheel of his van, barrelling down the highway at ten miles over the speed limit, a sign informing him that he was already halfway home.

* * *

The pile of unopened orders on Mamoulian’s desk reared higher each day since his return, but he let them sit untended. The blank screen of his new computer monitor was filmed with dust. The shelves of his shop needed dusting as well, but he couldn’t summon up the energy. He sat all day behind his desk, trying to fathom what had happened to him in Newbery. He might have perpetuated such a daily stasis forever had not his brother walked in unannounced one afternoon, and dropped a pile of cash on the desk.

Mamoulian bestirred himself. “What’s this?”

Lev beamed, but Mamoulian refused to mirror the expression. “Part of the money I owe you.”

“You’re really working again?”

“You bet. And me and Roberta are getting along really good too.”

Mamoulian poked at the money disinterestedly. “Well, that’s a first. Good for you —I guess.”

Lev frowned. “Shit, Alex. Are you actually disappointed that I didn’t screw up again?”

“No, no, I’m glad you got back on your feet. It’s just— Listen, when you were hitting the bottle hard, did you ever blank out? Maybe go through a few hours you couldn’t remember afterwards?”

“Of course. All the real alkies experience that. Why do you ask?”

“Something like that happened to me recently. And it scared the fuck out of me.”

“Were you drinking?”

“No. That’s the scariest part. I was stone cold sober, and in the middle of the best experience of my professional life.”

“Sounds like overwork to me. I’ve heard about that happening to type A guys. Some stockbroker on the edge walks out of his office and wakes up in Peoria a week later. You work too hard, Alex. You should think about taking a vacation. Come with me and Roberta and Avram next time we go to the shore. You can bring a friend if you want.”

Mamoulian snorted. “Yeah, sure. Me and Mrs. Palm.”

Turning to leave, Lev said, “Think about it, Alex. I’ll be back next month with the rest of your loan.”

After the door had closed behind his brother, Mamoulian took out his prized rare Ballard from its cabinet. He turned it this way and that, but the book roused no feelings of pride or pleasure in him. He propped it up by the keyboard as a reminder. Next time Avram stopped in, he would have the boy show him how to post sale entries to his Website, using the Ballard as the first instance. Sell the damned chimera and forget about it, let the scholars debate its existence.

The next thing Mamoulian did was find his checkbook and, after consulting his records for the relevant name and address, write out a thousand-dollar check to the widow Hollis. On the memo line he wrote:
Sold those magazines for more than I planned.
He sealed the check in an envelope, stamped and addressed it.

About to step out for lunch, Mamoulian was halted by the ringing of his phone.

“Mamoulian Rare Books.”

“Mister Mamoulian. One of us had to call, and it seemed that someone wouldn’t be you.”

Mamoulian dropped into his chair. “Emily. How you doing?”

“Just fine. More to the point, how are you doing?”

“To level with you, not so great. I seem to have lost the thrill of the chase somehow. My job isn’t what it used to be. I can’t get excited about rare books anymore.”

“That’s too bad. What’s going to happen to the Hemphill Collection now?”

“That’s totally up to you. I’m out of the picture.”

“You know, when you vanished so inexplicably, I have to confess that I thought you might have purloined the choicest items and bolted. But a quick glance showed me nothing was missing. That left me very puzzled. I still am. Would you like to help relieve my confusion at all?”

“Boy, Emily, I sure would. Then maybe I’d feel better too. But I can’t explain what happened to me. I just fell into some kind of crazy fugue. You and your goddamn million-dollar library just sent me round the bend. Now every morning when I wake up, the first thing I do is check to see if I’ve gone nuts during the night.”

Emily remained unspeaking for a moment. “And so far?”

“So far I seem okay. But I can’t risk getting close to your Hemphill Collection again. It’s too full of spooks.”

“Literature is powerful, Mister Mamoulian.”

“Is that a quote?”

“No. But maybe it should be. Well, I guess I won’t bother selling the collection now. My heart never advocated such a sale. Only my brain kept insisting the money could do the academy some good. But money for the gym renovations can accumulate through bake sales. The books will remain here, just where they’ve always been, if you’d ever care to visit them again.”

“Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer someday, Emily.”

“I guess our association is at an end then. Goodbye, Mister Mamoulian.”

“Emily—”

“Yes?”

“Uh, what new authors do you like these days?”

Emily’s voice registered a rare vitality. “Oh, there are quite a few undiscovered wunderkinds out there. For instance, do you know the name — “

Nodding sagely, pen in hand, Mamoulian took very careful notes.

RETURN TO COCKAIGNE

The pretty, nervous-looking woman—thirtyish, dark hair in bangs, long cloth winter coat concealing her taste in clothes—entered the Kirby-Ditko Extended Care Residence hurriedly. She brushed past the bored attendant at the reception desk, rode the elevator to the third floor, turned left familiarly down the long, disinfectant-scented corridor, and hastened to a private room. Inside she carefully closed the door, then grabbed a handy chair and wedged it under the knob.

“Westbrook, Calla—sorry I’m late. Do you think jamming the door will give us enough time?”

On the high-tech bed centerpiecing the room lay a comatose man, hooked to various supplemental machines and assorted drips. The sheets neatly drawn up to his neck failed to conceal the lines of his wasted form: limbs like rope-wrapped poles, chest a set of wax-paper bellows. Grapes under blanched rose petals, his closed eyes punctuated a sunken, expressionless face.

Two earlier visitors, a man and a woman both of an age with the newcomer, sat in ugly institutional chairs beside the patient’s bed. The finely suited man possessed the brutish handsomeness of a troll, ameliorated by an impish grin. Legs crossed, he jogged his raised leather-shod foot impatiently. The other woman—plain-faced, wearing a drab blouse and skirt, oversized prescription glasses buffering watery blue eyes—remained intensely focused on the unconscious man and seemed content to wait as such forever.

“Our old friend just underwent a bath and massage,” replied Westbrook, the male visitor. “Mealtime, of course, to use one of the patient’s own favorite phrases, is a non-issue. I doubt he’ll receive any more attention for the next several hours, at least. That should give us plenty of time for us to get in and out. With luck, no suspicious or dutiful helper will even so much as jiggle that knob. But I appreciate your concern, Hazel.”