17 A World Within a World
A World Within a World
The outskirts of the Torre dos Clérigos were more open and luminous than Paulina had imagined.
From the moment the train had dumped the Castro–Homs couple out at S?o Bento station, Porto struck them as less dark and crowded than they had pictured during the long hours on the train from Barcelona.
Before arriving somewhere for the first time, almost everyone imagines the light, the streets, the colors, and the smells awaiting them.
Guidebooks, both the useful and less useful ones, tend to compress corners and synthesize them into postcard images in the traveler’s mind.
After a first walk, once streets have been trodden and buildings and lighting have been scrutinized, expectations evaporate, and the visitor begins to see reality in focus.
Porto, they soon realized, was a watercolor city, especially along the waterfront.
Paulina especially had a weakness for cities that had a river running through them.
It meant they were cities of contrast with different sides.
And maybe because they were reminiscent of Paris.
She was also especially fascinated by cities with funiculars, because it meant there was somewhere to climb and see with a beautiful bird’s-eye view.
Porto offered both. And a Livraria was waiting for her on Rua das Carmelitas.
She opened the box, took out a handful—maybe thirty—and filled the card holder she had bought just for the occasion. She slipped it into her handbag and, nervously, like someone about to commit a misdemeanor, went out to catch a taxi.
“To Livraria Lello, please.”
“Livraria Lello e Irm?o?” She had gotten the meticulous driver used to dealing with tourists. “On Das Carmelitas, senhora?”
“Yes, yes.”
Paulina had never seen a bookshop facade as imposing as Lello’s.
A singular neo-Gothic building with pale stone and modernist finishes.
It looked more like a church than a shop.
But she came with an idea, and with her focus, she didn’t have the patience to contemplate architectural filigree.
Once inside, the first glance did take her breath away.
At once, the grand wooden staircase dominating the space reminded her of the Titanic’s staircase she had seen in a picture in a book at home.
It was stately, with the noble aging of dark wood.
She was then entranced when she looked up and noticed the staircase’s sinuous curve, like a giant centipede unwinding.
She oriented herself easily with the Portuguese signs.
What she was looking for would be on the first floor.
There she noticed the staircase bulged magically, like it was suspended midair.
The ceiling, a colored stained-glass skylight spanning the length of the shop, was another work of art, bathing the entire Lello e Irm?o in light.
She walked through the corridor, which seemed to lead toward nature, and stopped in front of the animal books.
She read the spines one by one. A shop assistant labeling prices offered to help.
“I’m looking for anything on butterflies.”
She was quiet.
She had gotten a shop assistant who was also meticulous with languages.
“Mariposas. ?Libros de mariposas?”
“Oh, borboleta, you mean.”
The clerk pulled out three books, set them on a side table, and went back to sticking labels on books.
Paulina leafed through them. They didn’t strike her as very old or very new, particularly original or irresistibly beautiful.
But you never know what’s missing for a collector.
She opened them, turned the pages, and in her nervousness saw nothing—no photos, no drawings, nothing.
Borboletas everywhere, that much was true.
The trick was to look interested, undecided, to buy time until the sales assistant left the area.
When it seemed like no one was watching, she took the card holder out from her bag, pulled out three cards, slipped one into roughly the middle of each book, and closed them with a decisive gesture.
Her heart was pounding like she had just strangled a pit bull, and she returned the books to the shelf.
The message had been sent. The trip to Porto was now worth it.
Like nothing had happened, she fled down the stairs without even taking note of the elegant bloodred carpeted steps.
Once outside, she felt the need to put distance between herself and the scene of the crime.
Manuel had no choice but to fly to get to the United States.
It would take too many days by ship, and there was no commercial route crossing the Atlantic.
He made it to New York with the help of two whiskies and a pill.
Paulina didn’t need to sleep. The excitement of seeing skyscrapers for the first time kept her up.
The thrill of knowing that the next morning she would be at Rizzoli on Fifth Avenue to leave a token for Jean-Pierre excited her even more.
Once in Manhattan, an unexpected problem arose: Manuel, more protective than fearful, would not let Paulina walk out on her own.
“But . . .”
“I’d never forgive myself . . .”
“What do you think would—”
“You never know.”
So they toured New York together, Manuel thoroughly unnerved. Arm in arm for two days. They didn’t separate for anything. Not until the second evening, when Paulina, already anxious that time was slipping away, decided to take a risk. Without giving him a chance to object.
“I’m running down to the pharmacy to buy bandages. I saw there’s one right below, next to the hotel.” She already had her jacket and handbag in hand, so Manuel couldn’t react. “I’ll be right back.”
She ran to 712 Fifth Avenue. Based on her calculations, it was between Fifty-Fifth and Fifty-Sixth.
Just three blocks farther, and she’d be standing before a magnificent French-style building.
The marble floors and bronze chandeliers gave Rizzoli the air of a select private club’s library.
But it was a bookshop with character, the kind Jean-Pierre loved.
Photography and animal books were on the second floor.
She was out of breath. To save on time, she asked directly whether they had interesting butterfly books.
Eight different titles. Wow. At least two copies of each.
She didn’t even look at which ones. Using her body to shield her hands from the shop assistant’s view, she took out the card holder and began distributing cards here and there so each book could hold at least one.
“Thank you.”
“Already done? None of them interest you?”
“No, thank you. I changed my mind.”
Once more she felt the strange urge to flee the bookshop at full speed.
On the way back to the hotel, she found a pharmacy, bought bandages she didn’t need, and rehearsed an excuse she’d give Manuel when—she’d bet her life on it—he asked her about the delay.
When she entered the room, her husband was snoring with the TV on.
He was leaning against the headboard. At least he’d taken off his shoes.
The next day they drove to Boston in a rental car.
Manuel had been promised it was a calm city, the most European of American capitals.
Some neighborhoods were reminiscent of Victorian London with so many exposed brick buildings.
Others, like the downtown, leaned toward the impersonal financial districts common to so many of the Continent’s cities.
Paulina went to the Brattle Book Shop alone without excuses or subterfuges, and took her time to enjoy it.
She thought it was a unique place, insolent, unlike anything she had seen.
Most of the shop was outdoors, occupying a rectangular space that exposed the gray dividing walls of three worn buildings with very little charm.
Everything was so urban, and the contrast with the old-book market left passersby surprised.
The Brattle sat in a cul-de-sac—like the beloved rue du Trésor—but it had little else in common.
There was no glamour there, and there never had been.
At the back stood a black iron fire escape, zigzagging down like in the movies, descending from one building toward a steep drop.
The books, all old, filled shelves bolted to the walls and bookcases on wheels that were as tall as she was, all set out in the open.
A sign proclaimed it the oldest secondhand bookshop in the United States.
If Jean-Pierre ever came to Boston, he would certainly dive into that sea of books.
She was told sales only stopped when it rained.
Despite the cold or wind, both of which Massachusetts had plenty of, the shop never closed.
Paulina watched how people in gloves clutched steaming cups of coffee to warm their hands as they wandered among piles of used books.
She rummaged for a long time before finding what she was looking for.
The organizing method was disorder, and chaos was an added difficulty.
Not until she found an old guide to butterflies—she checked to make sure that was all there was—did she finish the task, catching two colds along the way.
She glanced left and right, and in a flash, she was done.
She was beginning to take pleasure in the risk. The game was reminiscent of love.