The English Bookstore in Bologna

Chapter 1 The Porcupine

The Porcupine

Wearing stilettos that could kill, Sandy twisted the accelerator of her Vespa and sped through the mass of tourists who apparently couldn’t tell where the sidewalk ended and the street began. No matter, she’d make it clear, the Moses of Bologna, parting crowds like the Red Sea!

“Guarda dove stai andando!” she yelled. Watch where you’re going!

She’d once dated a test driver at Ducati, and aside from leaving her with a few memorable orgasms, he’d also taught her to drive. She charged forward, and with near biblical beauty, the sea of birdbrains parted.

She might have considered removing a heel and jabbing one of the tourists in the eye, but they were fantastic shoes that she’d only picked up yesterday.

Would have been a shame to damage them. Besides, she’d made the risky choice to wear white satin cropped pants along with one of her go-to tanks, this one in lavender; all the blood would be a disaster.

It was barely March, for God’s sake; why were the tourists even here?

Spring hadn’t kicked in, the weather was wretched.

Now that Bologna had been discovered, she’d accepted that summers would be epic misery—the sweltering heat, the long lines, the need for reservations, the onslaught of morons and cretini—but couldn’t she and the others who lived here have a few months to themselves?

The sales at the bookstore didn’t climb during the summer, that was for sure. None of these fleshbags read books; they were too addicted to watching Siberian huskies sing tracks from Frozen on TikTok.

Sandy passed close enough to a woman to have slipped the pleather tote off her shoulder.

She let loose a rant in Italian about pulling their eyes from their phones for one damn second.

These cretins should stay where they belonged: lining up to see Michelangelo’s David in Florence or pouring into the Colosseum in Rome.

She’d moved to Bologna twelve-plus years ago, before Fodor’s and a thousand bloggers had sunk their teeth into it, an Italian city drenched in culture and authenticity, not yet poisoned by the masses.

Yet here they were, coming for the magic that Sandy didn’t feel like sharing.

Reaching the Piazza Maggiore, Sandy made a hard right, two more fast turns and down a tight, crooked alley, then she was back to Via Giulia, the cobblestone street where she both lived and worked, a proximity decision that had once seemed like a good idea, only to come undone by her poor choice of how to pay the bills: opening an English bookstore in Italy.

Sandy parked amid a cluster of other scooters. Careful not to damage her heel—in case she might need to use it as a weapon later—she deployed the kickstand with a bit of sass, then climbed off the machine and removed her helmet.

After attempting to tame her lengthy golden-bronze hair, which was a shade or two lighter than her natural color of a decade ago (never would she be seen in public with even a strand of gray), she grabbed her leather shoulder bag from under the seat and started toward the scaffolding that blocked nearly all evidence that her bookstore even existed.

She tried not to growl at the three handsome construction workers in neon-green vests, who were doing absolutely nothing but eating panini and pretending like they weren’t checking out her figure (as if they could be so lucky!), certainly not making any progress toward repairing the hundred feet of portico, or sidewalk covering, that had started to crumble over the winter.

For three months now, the scaffolding and other equipment had hidden the splendor of the bookstore’s tiled portico with its sun-bleached stone columns.

The mess also blocked potential customers from seeing the books and author pictures in the window displays or even noticing the sign above the entrance that read, in Baskerville font, The Only English Bookstore in Bologna.

She’d done her best to combat the blockade by hanging signs on the scaffolding that stated, in both Italian and English, Don’t mind the construction; we’re still open!

, but even the most die-hard reader would have to muster incredible courage to get close to this shit show construction nightmare without a hard hat and a death wish.

Coming into the shade of the portico, she maneuvered through the scaffolding, ignoring the men who muttered “ciao” and “buongiorno” to her, then pulled back the door to what had once been the greatest love of her life.

When she’d opened this place ten years earlier, at the ripe age of .

. . Nope, not saying. At that particular age, it had seemed like a grand idea.

An English-only bookstore, modeled after Shakespeare and Company in Paris, a place where expats and travelers could find exactly what they needed.

Being a hungry reader, Sandy had nearly lost her mind trying to find books when she’d moved here to start a new life, until it dawned on her that her literary need had created a potential occupation.

What a marvelous idea that had been, in the most sarcastic sense.

Never had it occurred to her that most people rarely bought books after wandering into a bookstore.

Instead, most of them would stroll the aisles, bend the spines, then respond to an offer of help with, “I’m just perusing.

” Even worse when she caught them checking the prices online.

Peruse! The worst word in the English language.

Apparently, she’d opened a charity. “Hey, I’ve got an idea,” the perusers must say.

“Let’s buy a coffee and then go walk around a bookstore, bend and dirty the pages with oily fingers, while also bending the store owner’s ear sideways about the last book they read, then walk out without spending a dime.

” There you go. The wonder of the English-reading collective.

Nevertheless, the business might have worked had a few other obstacles not stood in the way.

She’d liked—no, adored—the location at the time.

Via Giulia was a standout street in a city full of charming streets, a Renaissance painting with more grit and modern soul.

Dazzling arched porticoes propped up by either stone or wooden columns covered the sidewalks on both sides.

If you looked up to their ceilings, you could enjoy impressive frescoes with floral and religious motifs that had quietly endured the centuries.

But at eye level, bright and tasteful street art, pulsing with anarchic energy, added a touch of modern rebellion to this otherwise ancient part of town.

Somehow, though, the store could go an hour without any foot traffic.

Little had she known that tourists were afraid of wandering down tight streets that weren’t featured in Lonely Planet.

How awful it would be to discover something that wasn’t in their Rick Steves guidebook.

On slow days, Sandy liked to play a game with Moira, her sole employee.

They’d watch the window and wait for someone to pass, then they’d cheer like survivors in the Alaskan wilderness who’d spotted a plane.

Foot traffic wouldn’t help much, though, because of the construction project.

It wasn’t only the scaffolding; it was the equipment: ladders, ropes, filthy buckets of stucco and concrete, massive machines on wheels.

As Sandy had learned, a supposed short-term construction project in Bologna could easily take two or three years, as if they were building a second cathedral.

Construction work in her home state of Florida was finished faster, and that was saying something!

The Italians did nothing quickly. Sure, that was nice when it came to enjoying their long meals and relaxing, not a care in the world, indulging in la dolce vita.

And she had no complaints with the way the young Italian lovers she’d conquered took their time pleasing her in bed, but when it came to getting things done, it would be nice to have a little more American oomph.

During the holidays, Moira would make a Christmas tree out of books and dangle lights from the ceiling.

If Sandy would let her, she’d decorate for every special day on the calendar, including National Fried Chicken Day or Eat Ice Cream for Breakfast Day, both of which existed according to Moira, who stayed knowledgeable in such things.

If Hallmark had a poster girl, it would be Moira Sacks.

The top sellers, some bookish tchotchkes, a stand of postcards, and the checkout counter filled the front room.

With its stuccoed walls and low ceiling crossed with wooden beams, the place felt more like a cozy tavern than a bookstore.

It was mind boggling to imagine the centuries of conversation that must have been had here since the building’s initial construction in medieval times.

In the far corner, a narrow and steep, winding staircase, not unlike one that might lead to a church bell, led up to Sandy’s small office, where she hid when she got tired of people.

Needless to say, she spent a lot of time up there, huddled over her computer answering emails, rejecting salespeople, and ordering more books that people wouldn’t buy.

But it was the main room that had captured her heart ten years ago.

Through a stone arch, the store opened to a much larger space crowned by a stunning vaulted ceiling—an elaborate masterwork that must have taken years to bring to life, its plaster alive with frescoes depicting Bolognese men and women from centuries ago trading their wares beneath the porticoes.

What a place to honor the world of books.

In this airy space, a series of shelves on rollers were organized by category.

The mobility allowed Sandy and Moira to move them out of the way for the occasional event.

Along the back wall were the staff favorites.

Sandy and Moira each had a section and had written on a blue index card what they liked about each book.