I didn’t see her at first. She was standing by the glass door, perfectly still, lost in thought, looking away into the night. I cleared my throat. She turned. There was a pensive, lonely, almost sad look on her face. I didn’t know what else to call it but a window to the soul. It disappeared at once and the mask came up. She looked surprised, as if she’d forgotten I was there.
“Well, Mr. Janeway. You all finished?”
“Give me another week and I might be just getting started.”
She didn’t say anything.
“I thought I’d buy something,” I said. “I guess I wanted to show off. But I’ve got to tell you, I don’t know where to begin.”
“It has that effect on people. It can be overwhelming.”
“I hope when you go away for months at a time you have some way of protecting it.”
“I do lock the gate.”
“Don’t you even have a burglar alarm?”
She shook her head. “You think I should?”
“Yes, and an armed guard, and spotlights, a siren, and killer dogs. I’d also put a moat around the house and fill it with crocodiles. That’s for starters.”
“Oh, it’s no fun having something if you’ve got to lock it up… if it makes you paranoid.”
“There’s a difference between paranoia and common sense. You’d hate to come home someday and find all these books gone.”
“Yes, but they’re only books. I’d just go get some more.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
She said, “I love what I do but I’m not very materialistic. If I don’t have them, somebody else will. As long as they’re not destroyed, the world’s no worse off.”
“I don’t believe you said that. I could spend a week in that room without water, food, or air.”
“Speaking of food and water, I’m fixing us something to eat. Hope you don’t mind fruit and veggies. I’m trying to stop eating meat.”
It was an Eastern dish, very tasty, with nuts and shoots and broccoli under a golden baked crust. She had a good bottle of wine and a little chocolate cake for dessert.
We talked over dinner. She was giving up meat for both main reasons, health and politics. She was an environmentalist, but I had already guessed that. I didn’t think the individual could make much difference. She bristled at that and said, “As long as you think that way, you are the enemy. The individual is the only one who can make a difference.” I didn’t believe that but I didn’t want to ruffle her. She was a woman who mattered to me, very suddenly, very keenly, and I wished we could talk without having our conversation sprinkled with land mines. I said, and meant it, that I probably agreed with most of her political views, I just didn’t believe some of them could be won that way.
She looked at me with a blank expression. “I can’t figure you out, Janeway.”
“That makes us even. I can’t figure you out.”
“I don’t know whether you’re a poet or a thug.”
I laughed at that: couldn’t help myself. She shook her head and didn’t seem amused.
“What do you do in the summer?” I asked.
“Travel. What do you do?”
“What I do all the time anymore. I look for books. Do you look for books in the summer, in exotic and faraway places?”
“I don’t have anything to do with books in the summer. I am, for all practical purposes, closed down between May and September. I don’t even read books in the summer.”
“What do you do if you get a call on the first of May from some guy in New Mexico, who says he’s got ten thousand perfect books and he’s selling them all cheap?”
“I tell him he’ll have to call someone else. I might refer him to you, if I like you.”
“You give me the impression that none of this matters.”
“It matters. This collection was put together with tender loving care, so it does matter. It’s just not the most important thing.”
“What is?”
“I don’t think I’ll answer that question yet. Maybe I will, if I ever get to know you better. For now, it’s none of your business.”
