Anyway, it was Enusat who I saw come into Rose’s shop one afternoon while I was in the back corner, looking at some of her candy I had no money to buy.
—Good afternoon, Auntie.—
Enusat said that. Rose was at the counter, as she was most afternoons, knitting, as she was most afternoons.
—Did you think about what I said?—
Aunt Rose continued knitting.
—It’s a good deal.—
Still Aunt Rose did not say anything. From now on I won’t say anything when she doesn’t say anything, I just won’t say anything.
—You won’t be bothered, Auntie, my boys are solid. They walk in, they nod, they get the package from the back, they nod, they leave. Like they weren’t ever here. My boys are solid.—
I had stopped looking at the candy by then and was peering through a rack of cheap coats.
—Maybe you’re worried about the Chapel? No reason. You’ll have seen by now they don’t come down here much. And those that do are reasonable men, solid. Solid like my boys. Maybe it is the money? The money is fair. More than you must make in a month selling twine. And you can still sell your twine, Auntie. Nothing will change for you. My boys will come in, they will leave, and in between it will be like they were never there. It is a fair price, especially because I do not need to pay it.—
Enusat kept picking things up and putting them down, like an old woman about to haggle. I was careful not to say anything, or even to breathe.
—They tell stories about you.—
This was the first thing Aunt Rose had said; I noticed that and so did Enusat. He came and sat on a stool across from her.
—What do they say?—
—That you have done hard things. That you are a hard man.—
—Do you believe them?—
Aunt Rose set something on the counter.
—Do you?—
Enusat snarled and puffed up his chest.
—You had best put that away, Auntie, before you hurt yourself.—
Have you noticed that people will often laugh when they are afraid? That was not how Auntie Rose laughed then. It was a real laugh, like when one of us kids tried to leave her shop without paying for something.
Enusat had nothing to say to that laugh. After a moment he got up and walked out, and then Aunt Rose told me I could come out from behind the coats, and she put away her pistol and gave me some rock candy.
It was a little one-shot pipe; I am not sure how she got it. There was a lot about Aunt Rose I never knew.
A little while after that Libluth took over the neighborhood. Perhaps he had heard what had happened with Aunt Rose. Perhaps he had not. Enusat was a mean bastard—excuse my language, but he was—and I do not remember anyone crying the morning his body was found broken at the bottom of the cliffs.
She was a special woman, Rose; I miss her often. Here we are.
No, mistress, I did not lie. I told you that for a mina I would take you to her, and here she is, below that tuft of posies. It’s a nice spot, don’t you think? We wanted to give her a headstone, but we didn’t have the coin. Those flowers are mine. I mean they are hers, but I planted them there, and I water them during the dry season.
The fever, three years come spring. She did not suffer long. We brought her soup and bread, and we even took up a collection to bring in a physick, a proper one, from the Lower Heights. He gave it back to us after he had taken a look at her. Some of it, at least. Grasping bastard.
We closed her shop after; there was no one to take it over. Rose had no children. Or she never spoke of any, and no one ever came to visit her. If I was hers, I would have come to visit her all the time.
What was left of her stock we sold to Nuratum, her competitor, on his shelves the next day and twice what Auntie Rose had charged for them. Her clothes we sold to the rag man, her books to a merchant in the Old Town. His name . . . let me think . . . his name was Puzu. The whole library he bought, nine mina, a very good price, I think. We split it between us—me and some of the other boys. I used my cut to buy a cycle, but the battery died last summer, and I cannot afford to replace it.
It is a good place, don’t you think? It would be better if we did not have to die, but if we must, and I suppose we must, then at least we should lie beneath green grass, and yellow posies, not so far from the sea.
Are you sure you can find your way? It might be best for me to walk you back down to the main road. It is a tricky path, as you have seen, and not everyone in the neighborhood is so friendly as Qem.
As you wish. It is your two mina. Speaking of which, do you suppose that my service is not worth some little bit extra? It was a very good story, after all.
Thank you kindly, mistress. I will leave you to it, then. Blessings of the God King on Amata’s day.
(11): Puzu
2:57 PM
Welcome to Abiditan and Sons—an honor to play host to one of the God King’s slaves. If you would be so kind as to close the door after you, Amata’s parade has been passing by since high sun, and while I have nothing but esteem for Ba‘l Melqart’s love, I’ve grown weary of the cacophony of her followers.
Thank you. Welcome again, as I said. Feel free to peruse the stock. I had a full set of Nasha just last week, though alas, that has already been purchased. Hard to keep them in stock, though who can say why? A pale, pitiful imitation of Samum, himself an overripe epigone of blessed Laqip. We have just gotten in a selection of Zaza’s latest, if you like that sort of thing—though I see by your face you don’t. A woman after my own heart! I would sooner burn them than sell them, but . . . need makes must, yes? If it weren’t for cheap melodrama, I’d be out of business before summer.
Puzu is my name, the eponymous “Son.” My father is long dead, and the title alas dated. Still, there is something to be said for tradition. It is a very lovely sign, and after all it is not as if we have ceased to sell books and begun to sell cutlery—the name of a thing is less important than what that thing does.
I sell books. I collect them, I catalog them, I care for them, and in time they leave me. It is a bit like being a father, though my books do not yell and whine and soil themselves. I have a close relationship with all the major printers, carefully cultivated, though most of the stock is secondhand. Less lucrative, but there is something about a used book, is there not? Each one a little bit of history, a piece of the life of a stranger. Sometimes you get lucky and find an inscription: “to Kammani, with love,” “to Igmilum, in honor of their first degree.” My regular clients keep me in steady supply, three they have already dog-eared for one they have not yet enjoyed. It is a strange sort of pusher who will trade stock for stock. You will see no similar arrangements among the poor devils who beg for puff.
Consignments? Now and again, not as a regular part of my business. Rose? I’m afraid . . . no, it doesn’t bring anything to mind. Oh, the children! I had forgotten the woman’s name, forgive me. I was skeptical at first, I thought the books might have been stolen. When I said there is nothing I love so much as a book, you understand that was a bit of hyperbole. Righteousness is to be regarded above any other good, even aesthetic, and I would never dream of straying from Ba‘l Melqart’s laws.
But anyway, the guard confirmed the children’s story, and so I was happy to purchase the lot. I did not know this Rose, but she had fine taste, truly an exceptional eye. There were three works of the poet Etel-pisha, very rare, and a copy of Arammadara’s history of the Rising, though as I recall that one was so badly mauled I had to get rid of it for a lonely kel, as if someone had marked it in a rage. There was even, now that I think of it, one of Laqip’s first editions. The first editions since the Ascent, that is to say; I have heard that that he had some books released during the last era, but they must have had a very small run, because I never saw one. In any event, they would have all been long expunged. You may rest assured that every book in my shop carries the High Chapel’s stamp and has been deemed acceptable by the chief censor.