“There is one more thing. I’m wondering if Mr. Rieneau has a favorite book of all time and if so is it among the ones you’ve already mentioned?”
“You’re correct, Christine. There is one book that stands above the rest for the old fisherman. I was remiss. No, I have not mentioned it. It’s Moby-Dick. Not surprising considering his occupation and love of the sea. I will not ask if you have read it. I know you haven’t read it. It’s no longer read. Occasionally, it is bought, but rarely read. It is a foreboding voyage that explores territories both inward and outward, a terrible yet sublime journey. It begins in relative comfort but soon leaves all comfort behind. If you read it right, it is a story that casts a sublime light upon the world, like the marvelous aurora borealis, the cold, captivating lights that illuminate the night skies of the northern hemisphere. Like its primordial subject the leviathan, it is not an easy book to master. It speaks in mystical signs and indefinite shadows and rare immensities. It seems to speak candidly, but its deeper truths lie beneath the surface, just as in life. It is the greatest mystery story of all time. So perhaps I am in agreement with Mr. Rieneau about its accomplishment. However, Moby-Dick is not an easy voyage, Christine. I recommend that you begin your journey with one that strays not so far from home. Let eternity wait awhile. I could use a cup of tea. How about you?”
“Yes,
I would love some, thank you,” I said, surprised by his hospitality, but also
thinking of the others who had offered me similar hospitality, Mrs. Henderson
and Robert.
Mr.
Sage had a hot plate on his desk and a small pot of water and two cups. I was
fascinated by this little man who lived in a world of books and yet was so
unlike Mr. Rieneau. While we drank our tea, we talked of other things “of a
less weighty nature,” such as the weather and the city. He had spent his entire
life in San Diego even during the war. He had worked for the previous owner of
the store, who sold it to him when he retired. Mr. Sage has worked in this same
bookstore for over thirty years! I said that it doesn’t seem to get much business.
Only one person had come in while I was there, said hello to Mr. Sage, browsed
then left.
“Business
has been declining for the past ten years. The downtown has changed. San Diego
used to have style in the fifties and even during the sixties though in a
somewhat different way. But the stylish people have pretty much moved elsewhere,
perhaps to retirement communities. It does seem style itself has gone out of
style. I say that because today people are different. They dress different. Levi’s,
tee-shirts, tennis shoes. You just didn’t see that in the old days. The style of dress was classy then even among teenagers.”
“Why
do you say style has gone out of style?”
“Of
course, style is a matter of taste. When I say style I think actors such as
Walter Pidgeon, Leslie Howard, and William Powel.”
“I’ve
never heard of any of them.”
“That
because they were of a different generation.”
“They’re
all men. What about women?”
“Women
used to be so stylish. They were inspired by actresses such as Deborah Kerr,
Elizabeth Taylor, Ingrid Bergman, Gene Tierney, and perhaps the classiest of
them all, Audrey Hepburn. You see them in the old movies on TV and they take
your breath away.”
“You
seem to love them, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“I
don’t mind at all. I adore them, the actors and the actresses. You talk about
wanting to weep during the movie. Sometimes I feel that way just because... I
don’t know. It’s as if something truly grand has been lost to us. Anymore, I
rarely watch the old movies. Too heartbreaking. So I read and listen to music.”
“Because
they remind you of an America that is no more? An America that was once yours.”
“You
are both a smart and insightful girl, Christine. Yes, that’s it. When I think
about how everything has changed I sometimes become a little sad, sometimes
more than a little.”
“But
I thought you were an optimist.”
“In
the little things I am, such as your having paid my humble store a visit today.
Memories of the past come wrapped in nostalgia, not with regret but
gratefulness. I feel blessed and would not want to have lived at any other
time. Perhaps one simply gets attached to one’s own era. It is the era of one’s
family and friends and youthful experiences. I try not to dwell on the past
because I’ve outlived everyone I once cared about. So I focus on the little
things of the present. I get my hair cut next door. I’m a special client
because I knew the barbershop’s founder Ace Williams. He sang in a black barbershop
quartet. Sometimes when they rehearsed next door I would visit. I was always
welcomed.”
“Does
the quartet still exist?”
“No.
After Ace died the shop was sold a couple of times. The barbers there now are
young men who never met Ace. They specialize in stylish haircuts for black men,
very artistic haircuts. But they’ll do the old fashion haircuts as well for old
men like me. No barbershop quartet, but they kept the original barbershop pole,
though now it has to be brought inside each night because of vandals. That’s
how things have changed.”
“Well,
I’m glad I paid you a visit.”
“So
am I.”
“So
when did business start to change?”
“Gradually.
It changed gradually. I would say the sixties were the best years. By then I
sold only secondhand books. Young people came by often to browse and buy books.
They liked the old stores like mine and Burgett’s Books, Emerson’s and
Wahrenbrock’s better than the chain stores. Young people don’t read as much today.
They were really curious in the ‘60s until the end of the Vietnam War. But don’t
worry. I don’t need to make money. I have what I need. The store is paid for
and I’ve never been a big spender. I live near Hillcrest and each morning have
breakfast at the Hilltop Cafe. Then I take the bus to the store. I usually
don’t eat lunch. I told you I used to smoke, loved it. Not in the store of
course. I’d stand outside and watch the parade, but gave that up when my doctor
said that if didn’t quit soon I might want to consider whether I wanted to
donate my body to science. Don’t I have to die first? I asked him. Yeah, he
said, that’s what we’re talking about. I told him he was bullying me, but it
worked and I quit—except for that one time with the old seaman on his boat. I
drink more tea now, but it’s not the same.”
“You
could chew gum.”
“You’re
joking.”
“Yeah
I am. You’d look silly chewing gum. Have you ever thought about retiring?”
“And
then what would I do? Maybe if I were married and had grandkids. All I have is
the store and it gives me something to look forward to each day. I enjoy the
routine. And each week a few locals will drop by, as Mr. Rieneau once did,
except most of them just want to chat. Not really interested in buying books. Sometimes
I will recommend a book to someone and won’t even charge them, just tell them
to bring it back if they can’t get interested in it, or if they do pass it on
to a friend. I think books can have very interesting lives. Look at all these.
There are thousands and they have come to me from previous owners, maybe more
than one. I’m especially fascinated by the ones that were given as gifts and
signed by the giver who had read the book. They usually include the date, the thirties,
forties, fifties, even earlier. Christine, sometimes when I look at my books I
see ghosts of those who read them, gave them as gifts, and the authors who wrote
them. In a way my store is like a graveyard filled with ghosts.”
“Do
you tell all your customers that?”
“You
know, I don’t. You must be a special person, Christine. I bet people tell you things
that normally they would keep to themselves. I can see why Mr. Rieneau would
enjoy talking with you. I think you’ve cast a spell upon old seaman.”
“I
don’t know about that. I think maybe he has cast a spell on me. It is strange.
I never had these kinds of conversations much in the past. There has been one
person. I have always... I don’t know, been a loner I guess. Or maybe it’s
because I really never met people like you and Mr. Rieneau. I’m not sure.”
“Hmm.
I can see that you are a thinker.
“Like
Rodin’s statue?”
“I
don’t know. Perhaps. He’s obviously not mulling over a trivial matter.” Mr.
Sage’s face brighten.
“As
I recall he’s supposed to be sitting in front of the gates of Hell.”
“That’s
certainly not a trivial matter. And you’re right. He is supposed to be Dante,
contemplating the human condition perhaps. To me the statue symbolizes that
life is a serious matter and that we must think and choose wisely because once
it’s over it can’t be amended.”
“Amended?”
“Improved,
changed for the better. Our lives are like Rodin’s sculpture. When they are
completed it’s for better or worse. Rodin’s life, like the statue, turned out
for the better.”
“And
that must be why there’s a museum dedicated to him in Paris.”
“I
would think it would be an inspiration to visit.”
“I
visited it but was too young to understand what I was seeing.”
“You
will return to Paris. It’s unavoidable. And this time you will understand what
you’re seeing.”
“Why
do you think that?”
“Because
you are looking for something and Paris is part of that something. Some cities
are like great books that must be read. Paris is one of those.”
“And
San Diego?”
“No.
You’ve obviously found something here, something that has encouraged your
journey, but what you have found has little to do with the city itself. For
that, you must travel elsewhere.”
“To
Paris?”
“Yes.
I regret never having visited the city or others in Europe.”
“But
you can still go.”
“I
suppose. Let me say this, Christine. Some things are better done when you are
young. For you Europe could be an inspiration, as has been for many American
artists, but not for me. Inspiration is useless to an old man. I would simply
be an old tourist. Do you remember what I said about reading books?”
“You
mean every week I don’t read a book will be another book I’ll never read?”
“That’s
right. You are a very good student. I can see why Mr. Rieneau likes you. Life
is like a book but one you write rather than read. Some people’s lives are like
great books, Mr. Rieneau’s, for example. Others, are filled with mostly blank
pages or the same thing written over and over again.”
“Metro, boulot, dodo.”
“My
point exactly.”
“Do
you regret your life a little, Mr. Sage?”
“You’re
not one for idle talk, are you, Christine. Normally, I wouldn’t answer that
question, but I will tell you because apparently I’ve become a part of your
quest for understanding. Yes, I do. Not horribly. In many ways it has been a
perfect life, but I wish I had added to it when I had both the time and energy.
My mistake was thinking when I was younger that I needed more money in the
bank, and then when I was older there were responsibilities, such as my mother
and the job that needed my attention. But the truth is, waiting for the perfect
moment to do something can become an excuse for doing nothing. I never
graduated from college. I never married. I never visited Europe or even New
York. Yes, I should have done more. And I’m sure you will do more, Christine.”
“I
will. I promise,” I said. What he told me made me sad.
“Good.”
“Is
that why you give away books? To encourage people to read?” He looked at me for
a moment thinking over the question.
“Yes.
Books have been my salvation. They have enlarged a very small life. And I’m not
a creative person. I don’t think I could ever write a book and certainly not
carve a statue, but I can appreciate others who can and enable others to do the
same, if they are so inclined. You know the old proverb that you can lead a
horse to water...”
“But
you can’t make it drink if it doesn’t want to.”
“Yes.
These books are the water that I offer, and occasionally I give away books to
encourage the customer to drink.”
“That’s
no way to run a business, is it?”
“Of
course not, but sometimes you just want somebody to read a book.”
“Like
me?”
“Oh
no. No need to motivate you. I can see that.”
“I
think the advice and encouragement you give are as important as your books.”
“Thank you, Christine. However, I don’t advise all my customs, only the ones like you who have discovered something new that they want to know more about. We old-time booksellers who run secondhand bookshops have spent our entire lives around books. They are our children. We brag on them. I think we're a dying breed like the cowboy. That reminds me, last week a man came in who wanted to read about American Indians. I suggested that he would find a lot more information at the library down the street. But no, he wanted some books that he could keep. So I took him back to my small collection and showed him what I had. He was very interested and ended up buying three books. That sale made my week. I quite enjoy introducing people to books—like today.”
