chapter 8 Redway’s Bookshop
REDWAY’S BOOKSHOP
Redway’s Bookshop is squeezed between Cummings Costume Boutique and a tiny jewelry store on Museum Street.
An ornamental Buddha sits serenely in a display case surrounded by esoteric books, including several volumes of The Book of the Sacred Magic of Abramelin the Mage, translated by S. L. MacGregor Mathers.
Mr. Redway, the proprietor, stands behind the counter making entries into his ledger. He is a small man in his mid-sixties, cleanshaven and balding. He wears large round eyeglasses with thick black frames, giving him an owl-like appearance.
He looks up from his work and is startled to see MacGregor and Moina Mathers wearing jet-black business attire. “Oh my! Forgive me, I didn’t hear you come in.”
“We’ve come for our money, Mr. Redway,” Moina snaps arrogantly.
“Yes. Yes, of course. Your Sacred Magic has been selling remarkably well, especially to the members of the group. Yes, indeed. They all seem to need one.”
Neither respond to Redway’s chatter. He opens the register to gather the cash for their book sales, while Moina rummages through various books on the remainder table. She picks up a slim volume and starts to read.
“I say! Redway! Must you peddle this smut? Look at this, MacGregor!” She holds the book up to her husband, who is a bit self-conscious about Moina’s behavior.
“Jezebell and Other Tragic Poems, by Aleister Crowley. Listen to this . . .
‘A swart fierce face, with eyes where sin lurks like a serpent by a stone. A man driven by lust . . .’”
She slams the book shut. “Really, Mr. Redway! This is pornographic! And you sell it side by side with our . . . my husband’s serious works?” Moina turns to Redway. “Who is this Aleister Crowley? He should be put in irons. And you too, Redway, for selling this smut!”
“I’m sure it’s not bad as that, dear, otherwise Mr. Redway wouldn’t carry it,” Mathers attempts to cool his wife.
Redway gently plucks the book from her hand and places it back on the table. “Actually, Mr. Crowley’s works have been reviewed quite favorably.”
“By whom?” she snaps. “The Police Gazette?”
Mathers again attempts to calm his wife. “Everyone isn’t Shakespeare, darling.”
Anxious to change the subject, Redway hands Mathers several notes, a few coins, and a receipt. “If you’d be so kind to sign, sir.”
Mathers quickly pockets the money, signs the receipt, and hands it back to Redway.
“We return to Paris Wednesday next,” Mathers says. “We will drop by again in the spring.”
“That is if you and your pornographers aren’t in jail,” Moina mumbles under her breath.
Mathers smiles embarrassedly. “Yes, dear. We must be off, then. Good day, Mr. Redway.”
As they exit, they unwittingly pass right by Crowley, who is standing with his nose pressed against the Redway Bookshop display window.
Crowley is smartly dressed in a half-cloak and a Sherlock Holmes deerstalker hat. He checks his reflection in the glass and straightens his tie, then makes a dramatic entrance through the shop door.
He struts boldly up to Mr. Redway, who is back at his ledger.
Crowley addresses Redway with an overly cheerful, “Good day!”
“Good day, sir. May I help you?”
“I wish to speak with Mr. Redway, the proprietor.”
“I am he, sir. How may I assist you?”
“My name is Crowley. Aleister Crowley.” He pauses. “The poet? Perhaps you’ve heard . . .”
Redway’s face brightens. “Crowley! Yes. Oh, dear me, of course, sir. You honor my shop. I carry your Jezabell and Other Tragic Poems.” He gestures to a table near the back of the store.
“I have two on the remainder table. Remarkable work, I must say, sir. Provocative. I enjoyed it very much. A pity that—”
“Only two left?” Crowley interrupts. “Excellent! How many have you sold?”
“Ah, well, sir, I’m afraid, none. Those two have been my entire inventory of the title. I regret to say they haven’t sold in three fortnights. You see, my clientele is interested primarily in rarities and volumes treating on mysticism and the occult.”
“Right then,” Crowley confidently snaps. “There’s nothing rarer or more mystical than the esoteric verses of Aleister Crowley!”
Redway is visibly uncomfortable with Crowley’s exuberance. “No, sir. Indeed. I agree.”
Crowley pulls a fountain pen from his coat, unscrews the top, and scribbles his autograph on the title pages. “There! I’m sure they’ll sell more briskly when your customers discover the volumes bear the talismanic autograph of the poet himself.”
“Yes, sir. Most kind of you, sir.
Crowley takes one of his little books and strides over to the display window. He plucks a book that is already on display and replaces it with his own.
“No use hiding our light under a bushel, eh, Redway?”
“No indeed, sir.”
Crowley glances at the cover of the book he has just removed: The Book of the Sacred Magic of Abramelin the Mage translated by S. L. MacGregor Mathers. For a moment Crowley stands paralyzed. He then swings around and almost shouts at Redway, “When did this arrive?”
“Ah, yes! That’s a used copy, I’m afraid, but in mint condition, don’t you agree?
Its owner sadly met with a most unfortunate .
. . well . . . it is from the estate of a wealthy collector of such things.
It was a most anticipated translation. I know that Mathers chap and his wife personally.
They come into the shop now and again. In fact—”
Crowley seems as if he will burst. “Mathers!” he shouts. “I must meet this Mathers!”
“I’m afraid that might be difficult, sir. He lives in Paris now but for years worked at the British Museum. Kind of a strange bird, that one. But the others hold him in the highest regard. Yes, indeed; a great adept they say.”
“Others? What others?” Crowley is making Redway increasingly uncomfortable.
“I . . . I really can’t say, sir.”
“Who, man? Who?”
“It’s a kind of club, sir. A club of magicians . . . full of Freemasons and writers and poets and politicians . . . very powerful people some of them. To hear some talk, they secretly rule the world with their magic. Ladies, too, sir. Yes, indeed, lady magicians, actresses, and heiresses—”
Crowley assails the desk brandishing The Book of the Sacred Magic before him like a sword. “Are you a member of this order? Tell me!”
“I, I, I really can’t say, sir . . .”
“You must introduce me to a member of this order. Please!”
“I’m afraid that . . . that—”
“Please! I insist!” Crowley’s voice betrays the upwelling of tears. He slams the book on the counter. Redway jumps.
“Members of that particular organization are sworn never to reveal the names of other members.” The voice is that of George Cecil Jones.
Crowley spins around to see a thin young man in his late twenties who looks exactly like Jesus Christ wearing a black suit and tie. Crowley instantly drops his wild and arrogant demeanor. He reverently takes his cap off, as if he were in the presence of a holy man.
Jones continues. “And I assure you, sir, that threatening an elderly bookseller does little to recommend you.”
Crowley is paralyzed for a moment, then turns to Redway. “Mr. Redway, please, please. I beg your pardon. Forgive me. I’m such a fool.” He turns back to Jones and wrings his cap nervously with both hands.
“Dear, sir. Please understand. This is an omen. Whatever forces, divine or satanic, have guided my feet to you. . . . Are you sent to me? Are you he who is sent to be my master?” Crowley grabs a nearby wooden chair and noisily drags it to rest between himself and Jones.
He drops to his knees and uses the seat of the chair as a prayer altar.
“Master, look into my soul. You surely see my sincere longing . . . my lust for initiation.”
Redway backs far behind his counter. Jones looks around nervously, hoping no one else is seeing Crowley’s behavior.
“I confess to you now, my lord,” Crowley pleads. “There is no one on the face of the earth less worthy than I to take upon me the mantle of . . . to rend the veil of the mysteries, but I must! I must!”
Jones is embarrassed. “See here, old man, I’m not a Lord, and this is hardly the place . . .”
Crowley continues. “But I swear! I swear by Jinn and by Shin and by the space between that I shall die before I abandon my quest. I will not rise from my knees until the door of initiation is opened unto me!”
The door of the shop opens, and two young ladies step inside, but when they see Crowley kneeling on the floor before Jones, they immediately turn and exit. Jones uses the distraction to put a stop to Crowley’s embarrassing display.
“Get up man! You’re chasing away Redway’s customers. I’m not anyone’s master! Get up!”
Confused and now a bit embarrassed, Crowley rises to his feet. Jones pulls the book from Crowley’s hand and reads the title. He and Redway exchange glances. Jones pauses a moment, then hands the book back to Crowley.
“Look. Be a good fellow and pay Redway for this book you’ve been mistreating. Then join me outside. I’m on my way to the museum. You may join me. We’ll talk more about this quest of yours.”
Jones turns and exits, then waits outside the door of the shop. Crowley hurriedly takes out his billfold and, without looking, removes all the bills (a good thick stack) and lays them on Redway’s counter. He grabs the book and runs after Jones.
Redway smiles as he starts counting what is obviously a huge overpayment.