Rising from the stairs, I stepped into the darkness of the shop. I didn』t he light switch to find my way. I know the shop the way you know the places of your childhood. Instantly the smell of leather and old paper was soothing. I ran my fiips along the spines, like a pianist along his keyboard. Each book has its own individual he grainy, linen-covered spine of Daniels』s History of Map Making, the racked leather of Lakunin』s minutes from the meetings of the St. Petersburg Cartographic Academy; a well-worn folder that tains his maps, and-drawn, hand-colored. You could blindfold me and position me anywhere ohree floors of this shop, and I could tell you from the books under my fiips where I was.
We see few ers in Lea』s Antiquarian Booksellers, a st half-dozen a day on average. There is a flurry of activity iember wheudents e to buy copies of the new year』s set texts; another in ay when they bring them back after the exams. These books my father ills migratory. At other times of the year we go days without see-g a t. Every summer brings the odd tourist who, having wan-Ted off the beaten track, is prompted by curiosity to step out of the sunshine and into the shop, where he pauses for an instant, blinking as his eyes adjust. Depending on how weary he is of eating ice cream and watg the punts on the river, he might stay for a bit of shade and tranquility or he might not. More only visitors to the shop are people who, having heard about us from a friend of a friend, and finding themselves near Cambridge, have made a special detour. They have anticipation on their faces as they step into the shop, and not infrequently apologize for disturbing us. They are nice people, as quiet and as amiable as the books themselves. But mostly it is just Father, me and the books.
How do they make ends meet? you might think, if you sa ers e and go. But you see, the shop is, in financial terms, just a sidelihe proper busiakes place elsewhere. We make our living on the basis of perhaps half a dozen transas a year. This is how it works: Father knows all the world』s great collectors, and he knows the world』s great colles. If you were to watch him at the aus or book fairs that he attends frequently, you would notice how often he is approached by quietly spoken, quietly dressed individuals, who draw him aside for a quiet word. Their eyes are anything but quiet. Does he know of… they ask him, and Has he ever heard whether… A book will be mentioned. Father answers vaguely. It doesn』t do to build up hope. These things usually lead nowhere. But oher hand, if he were to hear anything… And if he doesn』t already have it, he makes a note of the person』s address in a little green notebook. Then nothing happens for quite some time. But later—a few months or many months, there is no knowing—at another au or book fair, seeing a certain other person, he will inquire, very tentatively, whether… and again the book is mentioned. More often than not, it ends there. But sometimes, following the versations, there may be an exge of letters. Father spends a great deal of time posiers. In French, German, Italian, even occasionally Latin. imes out of ten the answer is a courteous two-line refusal. But sometimes—half a dozen times a year—the reply is the prelude to a journey. A journey in which Father collects a book here, and delivers it there. He is rarely gone for more than forty-eight hours. Six times a year. This is our livelihood.
The shop itself makes o no money