The First Dialogue

/, Literature, Blesok no. 57/The First Dialogue

The First Dialogue

Sonya stares at her reflection in the O of the shop’s name on the window. She has already taken four aspirin, the last two at lunchtime, and she is determined lo overcome her headache through intense work. Mind over matter, she thinks, turning to the suitcases. For the next three hours, she wipes each book with a soft cloth, feels the texture of its paper, inhales its particular mustiness, flicks away the remnants of the odd insect, and blacks out the names of previous owners and prices. Then, using all the experience gained in three years of buying and selling, she prices each with a small yellow sticker on the spine.
Finally, she pushes aside the last pile of books, crushes her cigarette in the overflowing tray, blows a few flakes of ash from the glass counter, and slips the packet of aspirin from her jacket. Now, as the winter evening tightens its grip on the city and rain begins to fall, darkness presses against the front window, enhancing the reflection of ceiling-high shelves that appear not quite perpendicular, Sonya rubs her left temple and gazes at the white tablets in the hollow of her palm. Tiny eggs in a nest of wrinkles, she thinks. After a deep sigh that seems to take the stuffing out of her, she tosses the tablets into the back of her mouth and swallows them with a gulp of cold coffee. Soon the tiny eggs will hatch in her knotted stomach, releasing two angels of mercy that will spread their wings, flutter through her veins, hum their way through the labyrinth of her brain and silence the merciless demon chiselling at her temple.
A fire engine screams past, gleaming under the orange streetlights. Inside, chewing casually, a young fellow in the back seat is buttoning his coat. Stepping over books piled on the floor, she goes to the doorway, drags in the stand marked BARGAINS and locks the door. She stands there for a while, staring now at her features circumscribed by the O, now through them at the street glistening with misty rain. The two parallel lines across her forehead have become more prominent in the last year. Splashes of orange, red, green colour the bitumen. A truck groans past, shaking the front window. The reflected shelves sway, as though about to topple and bury her in books. Her eyes are a haunt for purple shadows. A cherubed clock behind the counter chimes six. Simkin will be here soon. Across the street a brightly lit FOR SALE OR LEASE board stands on the veranda of an empty shop. Next to this, the once-fiery sign PLAMEN’S GRILL has been almost obliterated by smoke. The restaurant burnt down last month, and through the gaping upper-storey windows the blackened roof-beams stand out against the night sky. The other three businesses in the row of two-storey terraces appear to be faring better. There is no shortage of customers to the betting agency; in fact, the number of gamblers appears to have increased in direct proportion to the depth of the recession. Punters are always loitering around the entrance, littering the footpath with tickets and cigarette butts. The bread shop is also doing well, providing punters with crispy French sticks and a little fresh hope between races. Last summer a body piercing salon opened in the building on the end. An artist worked on the front window for days, painting an eagle and a snake caught in a ferocious struggle.
From the gathering dark a face appears and presses between the letters on the window, smiling crookedly. Sonya turns the CLOSED sign outward. A claw with numerous rings clatters on the glass. Sonya recognises an old woman ‘who comes to the shop from time to time to sell books and exchange gossip. Tonight, though, with the headache becoming sharper, Sonya rattles the sign at her. The woman points to an old-fashioned shopping trolley with which she roams the streets and lanes in the area, rummaging here and there, collecting anything that might be of value. The books she brings are generally of no interest to Sonya, though she is sometimes pleasantly surprised by the offering. No, she now exhorts herself. She bought several hundred this morning and sold about forty. The woman opens the trolley’s cover and invites Sonya to look inside. What has she found this time? Perhaps a classic long out of print? Chastising herself, she opens the door. The woman pushes her four-wheeled trolley inside, complaining that winter was not this cold when she was a girl. She was sixteen when she got her first overcoat. Now she wears two and still cannot get warm. Chuckling, she dips into the trolley and places the books on the counter. The odour of marijuana rises from them. She found them in a back lane, all in a rubbish bag. The young people who have invaded the area respect nothing, she complains. What with their pink hair, torn jeans, and pins through their noses there is no telling boys from girls. They live like gypsies. Six months here, six there. And every time they move, out go half their belongings. They have it too easy, she scowls. Things were different back in the old days when honest families lived in this area. People had respect in those days – respect for work, for their appearance, for their belongings.
Rubbing her temple, Sonya inspects the offering at a glance: novels, books on the occult, three or four battered texts on mathematics. She already has several copies of Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment and one of Tolstoy’s Resurrection. Should she buy the ones on the counter? They are in good condition. The woman smiles and adjusts her unevenly buttoned overcoat. A few drops of rain flick onto Sonya’s hands as the woman shakes a red umbrella. She selects seven or eight titles and pushes the others back. Her wrinkled face contracting in disappointment, the woman tosses the unwanted books into the trolley. Sonya rings open the cash register, scrambles out a few coins and drops them in an extended palm that closes like a mousetrap. Outside, the woman opens her umbrella, waits for a break in the traffic, and hobbles across the colourful street, where she straightens her overcoat and enters the betting agency.
Sonya removes the day’s takings from the register and goes to the back room. She prods the dozing fire and throws in a few scraps of black, damp wood. Thank heaven for aspirin: the pain in her head is not as strong. Simkin is due any minute. Sitting in a faded armchair with protruding springs, she prepares the rent money. A few dollars short. She should have listened to reason and not opened for the old woman. Now she will have to squirm in explaining the shortfall to Simkin. She lights a cigarette, leans back and closes her eyes. No sooner does she feel a tingle coursing through her body than she starts and sits upright. Voices again. Is it due to the headaches she has been having? Is it her imagination playing tricks? Or the fact that business is slow and she is spending more time alone? It has happened a few times in recent months. At first, nothing more than the rustle of a page, as though someone were leafing through a book on the other side of the shelves. Had a customer entered without her knowledge? It turned out to be nothing more than a draught sneaking in through the gap under the front door. Then the sounds became a whisper coming from the back room, where she keeps drama, poetry and religion. When she -went to check, the whispers gave way to sap wheezing in the fireplace. She began to play classical music when things were too quiet. This dispelled the sounds, but only temporarily, for they returned with more distinctness than before.

2018-08-21T17:23:05+00:00 December 15th, 2007|Categories: Prose, Literature, Blesok no. 57|0 Comments