The phantom bookseller

Twice when Kevin and I have run low on reading material, we've made our way to the San Francisco Book Company. The first time, we were thumbing through the titles in the shelves outside when a man poked his head outside and asked if we would do him a favor.  He was about our age and had the distinguished but slightly rumpled look of an English lecturer. If I recall correctly, reading glasses hung around his neck.

"What's that?," Kevin asked.

"Will you go tell that gentleman over there to stop that racket? He's been talking loudly on his mobile for an interminable age," he said in his BBC English.

"Sure," Kevin said. "I'm from Texas, I'll take care of him!"

I then had to interject that Kevin wasn't from Texas, that he was generally a peaceful sort, but that he had recently pushed a pickpocket into a rubbish bin.

And that was how we met Michael, the bookseller.

We asked whether he had the book The Luncheon of the Boating Party, which had been recommended to us by our friend, Marie.  She thought that while we were in France, we would enjoy reading about Renoir and his friends and the story behind the painting, because although the book is fiction, it is well researched.  Unfortunately, the the bookstore only had a hard copy, which cost 17 euros.  (We decided to download the book from the King County Library, which we did from our apartment, and we have been enjoying it.)  

However, Michael also presented us with The Hare with Amber Eyes by Edmund de Waal, saying "If you're not hooked on this book after page 8, then there is something wrong with you."  We bought the book, which is an account of de Waal's Jewish family and the acquisition of 264 miniature Japanese sculptures known as netsuke (pronounced net-skay or net-skee). De Waal inherited the netsuke, and his book, although nonfiction, reads like fiction, as his tale takes the reader on a remarkable journey from Paris to Vienna and eventually Japan. It recounts his family's rise and hard-won success, and its later victimization by the Nazis and others. 

We liked the book immensely and felt it provided us with new insights, so when we returned to the bookshop to thank him, we were disappointed that Michael wasn't there. His American colleague said that Michael wasn't working that day. We remarked at how he had located just the right book for us.

"He's uncanny that way," said his colleague. "He can ask you three questions and hone right in on exactly the right thing."

I offered my theory. "I don't think Michael exists," I said. "I think he's a phantom, and he only appears when people need a book to change their lives." 

Of course, that was a wee bit of a stretch, because while the book is leading us in new directions, we know that Michael recommended it because one of de Waal's ancestors was a patron and friend of Renoir, so it had to be our initial request that led him to choose it. 

If we get a chance to return to the San Francisco Book Company*, we may get a chance to find out if Michael is a real person.  His colleague maintains he is, because "he has only a limited repertoire of jokes, and I have heard them over and over again." I must say though, I think he likes Michael. There was something in his tone that told me his exasperation wasn't that intense.

Real or imagined, Michael and his friend have given us some pleasurable Paris memories. After our first purchases, we went to the Luxembourg Gardens to read in the summer shade.  On the second visit, when it was considerably hotter, we walked to a nearby cafe, ordered two beers, and sat under an awning reading, while the afternoon slipped away. It was time well spent.

*I prefer to go to a lesser-known English bookstore than Shakespeare & Company. After all, Sylvia Beach is no longer there, and the location has changed!