Nick had a spring in his steps as he walked across the sunny New York sidewalk. Music blared in his headphones. He was ecstatic, headed for his first summer job at a private owned bookstore on the Lower East Side, Winthrop’s Antique Books. The somber green awning was tattered and old. He walked in through the front door; a flurry of dust motes fell onto his head. He brushed it off casually and looked around. Dusty bookshelves dominated the room, filled with brown leather bound books that smelled of mildew. Nick opened his mouth to speak and was immediately accosted by the taciturn owner, Mr. George Winthrop; a figure whose age was given away only by the white of the hair encircling his bald pate and his neatly trimmed beard. He was of tall stature, standing 6 ft 10 inches and had severe features, an aquiline nose, thin lips, and hard grey eyes. He used a cane, black painted wood with a gilded eagle’s head, but had no limp whatsoever. He looked Nick up and down and gave a disapproving sniff at the boy’s casual attire. With no preamble, Mr. Winthrop spoke, he had an accent that Nick identified more with antiquated formality than with any particular quality.
“From this day forth, you shall dress in a manner that gives you at least the slightest semblance of courtesy and respect for the books which you will be dealing with.” Mr. Winthrop said. Nick nodded meekly, the bookseller’s formidable manner gave no room for any other response. Mr. Winthrop retired to a round table in the center of the bookstore, making small neat notes in a black leather notebook. Nick noted that the man did not remove the double breasted black coat, though the bookstore was almost unbearably hot. Nick himself stood in the threshold, uncomfortably glancing around, waiting for an assignment. After five minutes, Mr. Winthrop reached within his coat and pulled out a gold pocket watch. He turned to Nick.
“You’ve stood immobile in the doorway for nearly five minutes. Are you expecting a written invitation? Come now. I have no patience for frivolity or stupidity, if you have a predisposition towards either of these, please leave. I need the works of Marlowe organized by date. Are you familiar with them?” the elderly gentleman asked. Nick shook his head. He had never heard of Marlowe.
“I feared as much. Today I shall help you. Also, I shall give you a list of books. By tomorrow, you shall have researched them and know when they were written and by whom.” Mr. Winthrop said. He scribbled out a list and handed it to Nick, who began to look it over. He recognized none of the books but their very names conjured in Nick’s mind the image of thick tomes, thousands of pages thick. There were about fifty.
Suddenly, a loud crack sounded throughout the room. Mr. Winthrop had brought down his cane with force atop the wooden table, causing Nick to leap a full three feet in the air.
“I do not have all day for you to lag about. We must work.” Mr. Winthrop said angrily. He grabbed Nick by the sleeve and pulled him over to a mahogany counter. He ducked behind it and pulled out two pairs of white silk gloves. He passed one to Nick.
“Never handle a book in this shop without wearing gloves. They are delicate and of immeasurable worth.” Mr. Winthrop said. Nick pulled on the gloves.
“Also, a customer never touches a book. Do not allow a customer to touch a book, tell them to seek me.” Mr. Winthrop said. He led Nick over to a bookshelf and began to pull the books from the shelf and lay them gently on a table. He organized the books quickly while Nick watched, pausing only to correct Nick’s “abhorrent” posture, or to remind him not to get his “unsavory finger oils” on the pages of the books. He was halfway through when the first customers entered.
There were five, of middling height. Though their hair colors varied, they all had in common thinning hair and tweed suits. Mr. Winthrop immediately approached them.
“Gentlemen, welcome to Winthrop’s Antique Books. Please, do not handle any books. If you wish to examine one, please, send for me. Is there anything in particular you are looking for?” Mr. Winthrop asked. One gentleman, a little taller than the rest, with a doughy face, delicate spectacles, and blonde hair, stepped forward.
“Do you have a copy of the Lesser Key of Solomon, the Clavicula Salomonis?” the man asked.
“My dear sir, I have the original. It was written in 17th century, quite delicate. I acquired it in France, from an old bookseller who was, as the phrase goes, going out of business. Very lucky, that.” Mr. Winthrop said, strolling towards the back of the shop. Nick, who had been observing the encounter with interest, could not have failed to notice the look that passed between the blonde man and his companions. It inexplicably sent a chill up his spine. The men followed Mr. Winthrop to the back of the shop. Nick, after much deliberation, followed them, setting down the copy of Tamburlaine that he was about to put on the shelf.
Mr. Winthrop stood facing the men, his cane leaning imperially against a bookshelf. The blonde man surreptitiously stuck his hand in his pocket while the man beside him pointed to a thick brown book. Nick could see the gold lettering of the title, Clavicula Salomonis. As Mr. Winthrop turned to grab the book, the blonde man removed his hand from his pocket and lifted in into the air. Nick saw, to his horror, the wicked glint of a knife blade in the man’s hand. He gave a wordless shout, primal and unformed, a howl of animal terror. Though primitive, it had the desired effect. Mr. Winthrop turned and grabbed the wrist of the man who held the knife, twisting it savagely. The blade clattered to the ground. Mr. Winthrop wasted no time. He grabbed his cane and lunged forward, striking the blonde man in the knees and knocking him down. The assailant’s companions all drew knives, lunging forward as a mass, only to be beaten back by a series of blows from the cane. Nick dropped back, crouching behind the bookshelf. He peered through the small crack between the top of the books and the bottom of the shelf. He could see the eagle head at the top of Mr. Winthrop’s cane and the tweed trousers of the assailants. He heard first the crack of the cane on human bone, then a louder, more explosive sound. Gunfire! Mr. Winthrop was being shot at! The old man leapt backwards, ducking behind a table to escape the bullets. The gunmen advanced. Mr. Winthrop in danger, the gunmen would soon overpower him. Nick felt in the pit of his stomach, a jerking sensation, as if someone had grabbed his innards and gave them a brisk tug. Without thinking, he lunged forward, his shoulder hitting the bookshelf. It swayed precariously, a single moment, in Nick’s mind lasting a lifetime. Then it began to fall. Old books cascaded to the floor, followed by the heavy shelf. Nick gasped as he stood, five pairs of legs jutted almost comically from beneath the book case, twitching lamely, then stopping with disturbing finality. Thick red liquid pooled across the carpeted floor, marring the pristine white pages of the volumes with scarlet. Nick felt sick to his stomach. He swayed, much like the bookcase did only moments before, and vomited on top of the bookcase. Mr. Winthrop, extricating himself from behind the table, put an arm around Nick’s shoulder. He guided him to a large armchair with a velvet cushion.
“Just lie there. I will explain everything.” Mr. Winthrop said. Nick did not respond. “I cannot not tell you who I work for, or what my mission was, but I believe it will suffice to say that by acting in the quick and decisive manner that you did, you have saved many lives.” Mr. Winthrop said. Nick shook his head. He gave a shudder and did not stop shaking.
“I killed them. I murdered them. They were alive, now they aren’t. They were people, living people. And I killed them!” Nick said, his voice escalating to a shout. Mr. Winthrop placed a hand on Nick’s shoulder as he shuddered.
“It was a good thing.” Mr. Winthrop said. Nick wiped his eyes and sat up.
“How can you say that?” Nick said.
“Because they were murderers. They deserved death. Is not committing murder the greatest sin, one punishable by death? You simply carried out their sentence.” Mr. Winthrop said. Nick mulled over the man’s statement, scratching his head. Then he nodded briskly twice and wrung his hangs furiously as if washing from them a stain. He stood slowly, savoring the motion and rubbed his lower back. Mr. Winthrop extended his hand and pulled him along towards the door. When he finally came into view of the assassins, still crushed below the bookcase, he walked by as if he did not see them. But something stopped him. Nick reached down and grabbed the twisted spectacles of the blonde assassin and broke them with a swift movement of the arms. The teenager let the broken glasses fall, clattering softly on the carpeted floor, the shattered lens fragments reflecting the crimson of the once white pages of a 200 year old book. Nick strode through the door with a straight back and a weak smile on his face, with Mr. Winthrop, in his grim black frock coat and top hat, close behind.

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 26.04.2010

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