Sit down, Anton suddenly said to me, as if he had intuited the thought. He gestured with his wineglass to the chair beside him. I would rather have joined Eline behind the counter, but he was not a man whose injunctions were easily ignored. I sat down obediently. He exchanged glances with Eline, then reached for an empty glass and poured me some wine.
Anton is in a bad mood, Eline said. She said this in a manner that was entirely matter-of-fact, as if it were neither unusual nor particularly serious. A deal gone bad? she asked. She was no longer really paying attention, she had turned back to the stove. He shrugged and watched me as he sipped from his glass. Just trying to clean up the mess made in my absence, he said. That idiot Vincent let go of some good firsts for next to nothing, and the inventory’s in total disarray. I work in books, he added to me, by way of explanation. Anton has a beautiful shop in the Old Town, Eline said.
Yes, I said automatically, I’ve been there. I felt Anton’s eyes slide toward me. Did you buy anything? he asked casually. Yes, I said. In fact I spent more than I intended. I was looking for a gift for someone. I laughed, too loud and nervously. He nodded. Most of the sales are online, of course, he said. But the storefront is more important than you might think. Just the other day, a man walked in and asked for forty meters.
Eline looked up. Forty meters of what?
Leather and gilt, he said. Old-fashioned. Classic.
Ah, she said. An interior designer.
He could only speak in the language of his mood board, it was really quite extraordinary. Tobacco. Royal blue. Plush. Traditional. I asked him if he was interested in a particular author, or a particular genre. But no. These books aren’t for reading, he explained. They’re for—creating a look, an atmosphere. Anton waved a hand before his face as if to evoke a delicate perfume. He dropped his hand. Of course, we were happy to oblige. Forty meters of books is a great many books, tens of thousands of euros’ worth of books. And he truly didn’t care in the least what was inside them, a kind of Jay Gatsby if you see what I mean.
Goodness, murmured Eline, I could see that she had lost interest in the story.
But that’s not all, he added hurriedly. That’s not the end. She looked up, he had her attention again. We sold him a lot of worthless junk, subscription editions, encyclopedias, remaindered monographs, that kind of thing—the prices only very slightly inflated, of course. He grinned, so that we knew the opposite was true, and I saw Eline glance at me, perturbed. And the point is, she murmured.
The point is, the point is—you’re always hastening toward the denouement, Eline, he said irritably. It’s very tedious of you.
Yes, I know, she said, her hands resting on the countertop. She looked at me with a smile. Anton loves to tell stories. He loves—digressions. He takes longer to tell a story than anyone I know. Although it’s true the digressions generally do have a point, at least eventually. She paused and looked back at her twin. Go on, then.
He gave an elaborate sigh and leaned forward, propping his hands on his cane. It was clear now that the cane and the limp were not the result of the assault, but something he had been born with or lived with for some time. In that light, his flamboyance seemed different, a manifestation of his vulnerability, and also his resilience. I felt ashamed of the assumptions I had made about this man, with his expensive shoes and his pressed shirts, I remembered how fondly Eline had spoken of him, it was more than familial loyalty, her twin had saved her during the breakup of her marriage, he had been an uncle and a father to her sons.
He continued to address Eline, but his gaze was on me, his body turned in my direction, as if he had detected the shift in my sympathy. Last week, I went to Lars and Lotte’s new house for the first time. Of course, they bought the house nearly a year ago, but we generally meet in restaurants or bars, Lotte doesn’t like to cook. But this time, they invited me to the house, given the circumstances, they thought I would be more comfortable there.
There was a hard edge to his voice, and Eline frowned and then said, But they were right, Anton. It is far more comfortable for you to be there.
I don’t mind people staring.
It’s not a question of people staring. Anyway, I always prefer to eat at someone’s home, that’s why—and she looked at me apologetically—we’re here tonight.
Let me finish my story.
Of course.
I was very conscious of the fact that I was being invited to their new home for the first time. Miriam was away so I limped—it was the first time he had referred to his physical impediments, from the corner of my eye I thought I saw Eline flinch—over to the fancy deli and bought a bottle of wine and some chocolates, I don’t know, usually it’s Miriam who handles these things, but as I’ve said, she was away.