In the Margins

That particular smell of old books in secondhand bookstores. The dusty accumulation of thoughts that are released to the next reader as they commune with the words on each page which have been read many times before. I maneuver through the stacks, my body making contact with the thought filled books, I breathe in the book air and listen for one of them to speak to me, to call me into its pages.

And here it is.

Protruding slightly, encouraging my fingers to curl around the spine. A small volume with perfectly yellowed thick newsprint holding the smell of thoughts and wonderings and promises of time passed without noticing. Pulling it carefully from the shelf I find my way between the floor to ceiling mismatched shelving to the well-worn armchair at the back of the store. It’s always warm in the depths of this shop, even when it’s cold outside. The books are insulation from reality.

It's not only that peculiar smell of thoughts that wafts from the pages of this book. Someone has left scattered thought moments scribbled in pencil as if they may have intended to remove them but had not. I feel a thrill of possible connection. Who am I to commune with?

A quick flick reveals that there are many places they have left their musings in the margins of this text. I see comments like, “All of this!” and “Yes!!!” But there are also places which read, “I think you have missed the point,” and “as if!” Their words are enticing and as I begin to read, I start to build up a vision of who has left me these marks to find…a scholar who first bought the book when recommended it by a friend. He, yes, he is certainly a he, is eccentric and even though books are sacrosanct, he too sees them as an invitation to further thinking and marks them accordingly. The book was sold to this bookshop when he passed away unexpectedly and his uninterested family got rid of all his junk, selling his most precious items, and spending their inheritance on stuff they didn’t need. The old scholar is now haunting them and every time they slide open the wardrobe door and in the whistle of the wind and the feedback from their speaker systems, they hear a whispering, “I think you have missed the point,” and “as if.” I laugh aloud at the construction of my imaginary friend, much to the surprise of another passing patron. The previous owner could just as easily be a high school student who couldn’t wait to be rid of this text which they only read under duress.

Digging through my bag I find a lime-green-microtop-pencil, one with the rubber completely worn down and the lead nearly run out. Halfway down the first page my scholar had written, “I’m not sure I like this book.” Underneath, I replied, “Why? Surely you need to give it to at least page 5.” I smile to myself at the ridiculousness of my comment, but I always give a book until at least page 5. And even then, if I don’t like it, I still finish it. I never want to miss out on what might be within the pages, even if it is only a better understanding of how truly rubbish some writing can be.

Sitting in the armchair I drift lazily between visions of my scholar and his horrible family who never really appreciated him, the book where we are finding each other, and the occasional interruption of another bookshop patron making their way through the stacks. The air is so dense back here that it almost provides actual meandering pathways for my thoughts. The dust motes captured in shafts of light to climb and then slide back down.

All of a sudden, time has passed, and I quickly pack up sending the dust motes into chaos and breaking the spell. I need to get home to feed Ginger and get ready to meet up with friends. I fold the corner of the page I am on and tuck the book behind the back cushion of the chair. It should be safe there until tomorrow.

After rising today, feeding the cat, work, banal water cooler chats, I am back in the bookstore to shimmy through the stacks hoping no one is in my chair. I’m in luck, the armchair is empty and the dense air and the dust motes are ready to play. Plunking down I reach behind the cushion to retrieve the book. It is there, just where I left it. But, what’s this? A bookmark is peeking out of the top. Opening to the marked page there is picture of the Pope with the words “I smite thee” emblazoned across it. In the margin there is a new note, “use a bookmark you terrorist!” with a little arrow pointing to the crease from the folded corner. Leaving the bookmark in place, I flip back to the front of the book to find there are also some replies to my notes in the margins. I sit back in the armchair idlily spinning my pencil as my mysterious scholar comes to life.

“Why wait until page 5 to find out if it’s any good? There are so many books you will never read if you spend time reading bad ones,” was the reply to my first comment. The margins are quickly running out of room so I dig back in my bag, find a pad of post-it notes, and proceed to answer his replies to my replies. Not all of them require a long reply and so I simply write “agreed” underneath some and add a smiley face or a tick to others. By the time I get back to the condemning Pope-mark, it’s time to leave. I stick one final post-it note over the Pope’s face, “Consider me smitten.” Urgh, that is so cheesy, so I rip it off, close the book and tuck it safely behind the back cushion of the chair.

Life gets in the way of going daily to the chair and dust-mote-dancing back of the bookshop, but every day I do go there are new notes and our Pope-mark moves steadily through the book as we discuss our thoughts going back and forth within and between the chapters. Post-it notes take over to extend the used margins and the book swells in thickness and weight. I am torn as I very much want to buy the book to keep it safe, but then our conversation would be over. Each time I leave the bookstore with it tucked behind the back of the armchair cushion, I risk losing it for another day of keeping it.

Before I realise, September passes and Pope-mark is nearly at the end of the book. I confess to friends about my strange liaison in the bookstore…

“Set a trap and find out who it is!”

“But I know who it is,” I tell them of my scholar.

“Let me get this straight, you believe you are communing with an old scholar from beyond the grave through notes in the margins of an old book?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t want to find out who it really is because…?”

“I dunno. It’s a bit like finding out how magic tricks work, it loses the magic.”

“This could be some creep playing you! He’s probably playing several instances of this game to see what he can catch.”

I roll my eyes and move the conversation on, “such lovely weather we’re having.”

There’s only one person who could be playing the role of my scholar. One person who knows when I visit the store and is always there when I’m not. As the Pope-mark gets to the last pages of the book, I decide it’s time to end the game and thank them. From the armchair I shimmy through the stacks to the front of the shop where the owner sits processing piles of books. Where she is going to put them, I have no idea.

“Uh…hi,” I smile awkwardly. “I just want to thank you for the fun of reading this book together,” I say holding up the fattened book with the Pope-mark poking out of the top.

She gives me a quizzical look. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about but what has happened to that book?”

“Oh, I…we…have we been reading it together?”

“Together?”

“Yeah, every time I come in, someone has left notes. Look…” I pass the book over for her to see and she flicks through it dislodging several of the post-it notes in the process.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I sincerely hope you are going to buy this book!”

“Oh yes, absolutely. I’m sorry…I thought…honestly, I’m really sorry, can I pay for it now?”

She rings up the book, gathers up the post-it notes which had fallen out and shoves it rather unceremoniously into a brown paper bag and hands it back to me.

“Perhaps pay for the book before defacing it next time?” Her raised eyebrow held all of the judgement of the Pope-mark with none of the humour.

Now I had bought the book and the eyebrow of the owner said that we were done for the day I could not shimmy back through the stacks to put it behind the cushion. I take my book and leave, going home to feed Ginger.

Rest tonight is hard to come by and in my disturbed dreams the imaginary world I have created with my scholar is folding in on itself and the armchair in the back of the bookshop where I sit is swamped with falling books and I am crushed beneath them and then I fall through the floor into another bookstore with the same stacks and the same chair but my decent starts another chain reaction and cascade of books. Fall, buried, fall, buried, fall…I wake up sore and tired. My bed is a tangle of sheets and blankets and even Ginger has retreated to the safety of her cat lair.

Time to put an end to this. I call in sick. Dress. Feed Ginger. Head to the bookshop.

The little bell above the door jingles and the familiarity of it has me second guessing my escalating paranoia. This is silly. What do I expect to find?

Beyond the raised eyebrow of the store owner, I do the book stack shimmy, inhaling deeply the dusty accumulation of thoughts. I traverse the length of the shop so I can approach the armchair from the side rather than the front. I can spy from the history collection until the scholar reveals himself and I can end this delusion. Who is living rent free in my head? Who have I been smitten by?

I don’t have to wait long. I hear the familiar book stack shimmy of a body carefully passing through the aisles. They too breathe deeply of the thought filled air and sigh as they settle into the armchair. There is a familiar rustling as they dig into their bag to retrieve post-it notes and a lime-green-microtop-pencil. I can almost feel their hand slide behind the cushion to retrieve our shared work…but it was not there.

Their breath stops – I hold mine.