Death by the Book

~5~

Jack spent most of Sunday afternoon in a small, musty attic room in Balmain, all spider webs and dust and dejected cardboard boxes. The deceased estate: another feature of the second-hand dealer’s lot. Looking through dead people’s crap, driven by the slim possibility of finding something of value.

The final haul was meagre: a small box of literary pretension from the 1950s and 1960s. Man and His Symbols by Jung; John Barthes’ Giles Goat Boy and The Sotweed Factor; the trilogy Nexus, Sexus and Plexus by Henry Miller; Camus’ The Myth of Sisyphus and Simone de Beauvoir’s The Mandarins; The Unquiet Grave by Palinurus; and Meetings with Remarkable Men by G.I. Gurdjieff.

There was an elaborate bookplate with a striped coat of arms inside the front cover of each volume: From the Library of Harold J. Cummins. Obviously Harry had been all class. The books were in excellent condition. Jack wondered if he had ever actually read any of them.

Only one little volume really interested him. It was the last book he found, right at the bottom of a crumpled cardboard box, squashed under the weight of a small horde of old literary journals and magazines. Jack supposed it was not too much of a coincidence. Because trawling books was what he did, because at any given time, with any box full of books, the odds were there. That Jack had met the author’s brother two days ago had nothing to do with nothing.

The front cover was dark blue. The title and the author’s name were in grey typeface. Below, in the bottom third of the cover, was a reproduction of Hundertwasser’s Genesis — Pieces of Pineapple. The strong yellows and greens seemed a little colourful for Kass. Almost humorous. It was the first copy of Simply Even that Jack had come across.

Inside, it was inscribed: Dearest Harold, For all your help. With gratitude, Edward.

Jack directed the taxi straight over to Susko Books so that he could dump the box and not have to worry about lugging it there in the morning. The city was empty and spacious. A calm had settled along with the drizzle. It looked clean in the pearly afternoon light. This was how Jack liked it best. The city in winter. Red wine weather. He remembered there was a bottle of cheap Shiraz under the counter at the shop.

Apart from a few people waiting for buses, York Street was deserted. Jack got out of the taxi and took his box from the back seat. As he crossed the road he heard the flags on top of the Queen Victoria Building snapping in the wind, their cables ringing out against the poles like thin, erratic bells. He glanced at the Town Hall clock. Just after 4.00 p.m.

He opened the front door to Susko Books and stepped inside. The light was metallic, blue-grey, but soft too, regardless of the cold. Jack left the lights off. He put the box on the counter and switched on the heater by his desk. From a drawer he took out an aluminium ashtray and from under the counter the bottle of Shiraz.

He took the Edward Kass book from the box and pressed play on the stereo. Sketches of Spain drifted into the shop like a warm desert wind. It reminded Jack that he still had not read Don Quixote.

He sat down at his desk, poured wine into a glass and lit a cigarette. He opened Simply Even at random. Page 12.

Jack brushed some ash from the page. He flipped through the book again. Page 36.

So much for the bright cover.

The phone rang. Jack put the book down, went to the counter and answered.

“Susko Books.”

“Jack?”

It was Annabelle Kasprowicz.

“Speaking.”

“Oh, it’s you. I wasn’t sure if anybody else worked there.”

Jack leaned against the counter. “Well, there’s Carlos,” he said. “But he never answers the damn phone. I’m thinking about sending him back to Costa Rica.”

Annabelle Kasprowicz did not laugh but she might have smiled. “I tried your home but there was no answer.”

Jack swapped the receiver to his other ear. He glanced at the clock on the wall behind him. “What can I do for you at a quarter past four on a Sunday afternoon when I shouldn’t even be here?”

“Are you closed?”

“Only for the masses, Ms Kasprowicz.”

“Please, call me Annabelle.”

“Sure.” Jack heard the click of a lighter and a quick sharp breath.

“This is a bit awkward. But … well, I heard about what happened on Friday. After I left. I just wanted to apologise. Are you all right?”

Jack rubbed the edge of the counter with a thumb. Durst must have told her. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said.

“Well, yes it was, sort of. You see —” She pulled herself up. “Anyway, I’m sorry. I stormed out and didn’t even say goodbye.”

Jack tucked the phone into his chin and reached over for the glass of wine on the desk. “Bit of bad luck he saw you come in. That’s all.”

She did not reply. The line droned for a moment.

“Unlucky coincidence.”

“Yes,” said Annabelle, as though she were talking to herself. Then she took a deep breath. “Our divorce comes through next month,” she said, raising her voice a little. “The official end. Of course, he wants us to get back together.”

“Right.” Jack put the wineglass down and picked up his burning cigarette. He thought about Ian Durst. He pictured Annabelle Kasprowicz with Ian Durst. He said nothing.

“Listen,” she said, “I feel awful about what happened. I was hoping you might let me make it up to you. Lunch, tomorrow?”

“Well, I do have this little business to run.”

“Okay then, what about dinner?”

“Sure.”

“Here, about seven?”

“At your place?” The words came out too quickly.

“Yes, unless you’d prefer somewhere else.”

“No, that’s fine. I mean, whatever you like. You don’t have to go to any trouble.”

“Don’t you think I can cook?”

Jack grinned. “I’ve got no idea.”

Annabelle blew smoke down the line. “My father won’t be here. He’s away. Business.”

It threw him. A couple of seconds passed before he managed a squeaky, “Okay.” What did she mean? He was already trying to remember her tone, but the words had faded too quickly. He waited for her to say something else, to give him a clue. She said nothing. The pause was pregnant with triplets.

“Seven o’clock then?” she said.

This time Jack was sure she was smiling.