According to Their Deeds Read online

  The pocket around the station was in giant twelve-story scale, of offices and plazas, tied to the rest of the city only by it being brick. Beyond, though, a few blocks of King Street brought Charles to the three-story scale of real west Alexandria, authentic and shabby from a century of pawn and secondhand existence, now getting better but still not good.

  Then another five blocks east and the buildings were solid and many were very good, and rents were high and the shop windows cleaner and the doors were appealing instead of simply peeling.

  Charles crossed noisy Washington Street and into the heart of crowds and crowds. At Market Square he turned right into quiet streets, then one more block, and finally up two steps, and into a place that was very, very quiet.

  The first impression was always the quiet. It was the special calm silence of books aging, books that were very practiced at aging.

  “Hello, Alice.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Beale.” Alice had a way of speaking that did not disturb the silence. “Mrs. Beale was just asking if I’d seen you.”

  The second impression was the quiet of color. Only the part of any color that could last decades was left in the room. Even loud colors were quiet.

  “Is she upstairs?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Then the smell, which was faintest, half like a forest and half like old linen, but sharp.

  “And have you seen Angelo?” he asked.

  “No, sir.” Her dress was the russet of a bright red cover faded over forty years.

  “I didn’t think he’d be back yet.” The counter stretched across the right side of the room and stairs went up the left side, and a rail ran across the back.

  “And have we sold anything?”

  “A 1940 Gone With the Wind.”

  “I can empathize with Scarlet,” he said. “I feel like I’ve just come from the burning of Atlanta.”

  He opened the gate in the middle of the rail and climbed the steps.

  “There you are.”

  Her voice was quicksilver and light and everything peaceful.

  “Here I am,” Charles said. “Dorothy, it was worse than I’d expected.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her hair was slow silver, short and easy, and lovely. “Were you there long?”

  “Twenty minutes. But I sat beside Norman Highberg.”

  “Oh, dear.” She smiled, which was the moon at its brightest. “Did you get the books?”

  “Yes, for twenty-seven. I had to outbid Jacob Leatherman just at the end. Oh, he scowled!”

  “He’ll get over it, and you will, too. I’m glad you got them. It helps to close the circle with Derek.”

  “It does help. And I have to tell you about Derek’s desk.” His own desk was at the front window, and he sat and pushed aside newspapers and magazines and catalogs to make space for an elbow.

  “I suppose there was something special about it?” Anything would be special if she only spoke its name.

  “Everything he had was special. But this was more than just ordinary special.”

  “It was auctioned today?”

  “Yes, and sensationally.” Now that he was sitting, he stretched his back, and put his hands behind his head. “I came in right in the middle of it. It should have gone twenty-five thousand, and it was about to go for thirty-four, and whoosh, two people bid it right up to a hundred and five thousand. There was a riot.”

  “A very calm one, I’m sure.”

  “People actually turned in their chairs and looked around. It was that drastic.”

  Her blue eyes widened in her own calm amazement. “Why would it sell for so much?”

  “It’s a complete mystery.” He stared out the window at the street. “Poof.”

  “What?”

  “A lifetime. Three hours and it’s gone.”

  “Selling off all his things?”

  “His world. Everything he was, all scattered.” With his hands behind his head, the space on his desk he’d cleared for his elbow was empty now, abandoned.

  “Life is more than what you own,” Dorothy said. Her own desk was perfectly ordered, with a computer screen, a neat pile of papers, and two photographs. She put her elbows on the empty middle and looked at him.

  “Oh, I know,” Charles said. “But that’s what’s left at the end.”

  “He was an important person, wasn’t he?”

  “He was a bureaucrat in the Justice Department. Yes, he was important.” He glanced at the newspaper. The first page was rancor in Congress, and the president refusing to cooperate, and officials denying any wrongdoing. “What would the Post print if there were no scandals?”

  “Hollywood divorces, like everyone else.”

  “I guess that would be worse. Every story on the front page is about someone’s failing.”

  The sun was overhead, in the west, full on the townhouses across the street. The shadow of his own building was creeping toward them.

  He read a paragraph. “This poor man,” he said. “A highly respected federal judge. Ten years on the bench. Then it comes out that he cheated on his exams back in law school. Over thirty years ago! First he was forced to resign, and now he’s being disbarred.”

  “It does seem severe.”

  “There is more to life than what you own. There’s also what you’ve done wrong.”

  “And what you’ve done right. Charles, you’re getting moody. Did you bring the books home?”

  “Angelo has them, speaking of lives lived questionably.”

  “I didn’t know you took him.” The two pictures on her desk were of Charles and of a teenage boy.

  “I just decided at the last minute.”

  “Was he dressed all right?”

  “No, he was not. There wasn’t time. He wouldn’t have come inside anyway.”

  “We have a delivery for him to make this afternoon in Arlington. And I was thinking we should get him a suit for his next probation review.”

  “His regular business clothes are fine.” He dropped the newspaper into the wastebasket. “Felons in suits annoy me.”

  “Besides Angelo, how many felons do you know?”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “Mr. Beale?” Alice had come up the steps. “Mr. Leatherman is here to see you.”

  “Take a deep breath,” Dorothy said.

  Charles did.

  “Jacob!” Charles said from the stairs. “Welcome!”

  “What did you do that for?” It would have been a growl, but from such a small and fragile man it was a yip.

  Charles reached the floor, smiling all the way. “Let me get you a chair.” He swept through the gate and came to rest at his guest. “I’d invite you to the office but it’s up all those stairs.”

  “I don’t need a chair.”

  “I’m glad you could stop in. I was sorry you couldn’t after dinner last night.”

  “I have time before my flight and I don’t like sitting in airports. I told the taxi to bring me here.”

  “I’m so glad,” Charles said.

  Jacob smacked the floor with his walking stick. “You’re glad? You’re gloating, that’s what it is, for outbidding me. What did you do that for?”

  “You could have bid higher if you wanted them, Jacob.”

  “That’s all they’re worth. Now I’m going back without anything.”

  “I’m sorry your trip was a waste. I’ll sell them to you, if you want.”

  “How much?”

  “Thirty.”

  “Thirty?” He smacked the floor again. “They’re not worth that. I’d have bid thirty if they were.”

  “Then I guess I’ll keep them.”

  “I didn’t come to have you gloat. I’ll give you twenty-three.” Smack.

  “Thirty-five. And you’re perfectly Dickensian when you do that.”

  “Bah, humbug then. Dickensian?” He rubbed his nose. “I like that. And you said thirty.”

  “You should have taken it while you could.”

  “Wh
ippersnapper! Mocking an old man! You’ll give me apoplexy, and I have all those airport lines to go through yet. You’ll send me to an early grave.”

  “That’s no longer possible, Jacob.”

  “I know when I’m not wanted. I’ll leave if that’s how it is.” He narrowed his eyes. “The Locke, I’d have liked to look at that one. Is it as nice as you said it is?”

  “It is, Jacob. Nothing special—I know you’ve seen better ones. But it’s nice.”

  Jacob’s scowl lightened a little. “I like looking at them. Do you have the books here?”

  “No. I had a courier bring them.”

  “A courier? Why would you do that for?”

  “Just common caution. Shall I call you a taxi?”

  “I have one waiting outside. Did you say twenty-five?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  “Thirty-five!” Whack. “Mocking an old man. I’ll leave. I have to go.”

  Charles held open the door. “Then have a nice flight.”

  “No such thing.” He started slowly and painfully down the first step, and then froze. “What’s that?! Don’t touch me!” He lifted his cane.

  Angelo was four feet from him, also stopped, his eyes slits and his white teeth showing.

  “Jacob––—” Charles started.

  “Street gangs!” Jacob yelped. “Here at your door! That’s why you use a courier!”

  “Jacob,” Charles said. “This is Angelo Acevedo. He is my courier.”

  Angelo was silent.

  “Just take the box in,” Charles said.

  Jacob shrank back as Angelo passed. “You let him touch your books?”

  “I do,” Charles said. “And it’s fine. Let me help you to your taxi.”

  “Bah! I’ll make it myself.”

  “Take care, Jacob.”

  “You too, Charles.” Once Jacob was launched he moved quickly. The cab door was opened for him, the cab driver was scolded, and the cab drove away.

  Charles closed the door and took a deep breath. “Angelo. Everything went okay?”

  “Except that old crazy man.”

  “That’s Mr. Leatherman, and he’s actually very nice, just prickly.”

  Angelo frowned. “What is prickly?”

  “Like a cactus.”

  “Like a little dog to bite at you.”

  “He doesn’t bite, he just barks. But never mind. You took a long time.”

  “I came a different way from you, or why should I even carry the box instead of you?”

  “You’re right.”

  Angelo held out his hands. “So, boss, here is your box.”

  “Thank you.” He took it, respectfully. “Go check with Mrs. Beale. I think she has a delivery for you to do this afternoon.”

  “Okay.”

  “And Angelo . . .”

  He turned back from the steps and waited.

  “Do you remember the delivery we made together, last November, and the man had the chess set on his desk, and he talked to you in Spanish?”

  “I remember that house and that man.”

  “That is the man who died. These are his books that I bought back today.”

  “Oh, that man?” He shrugged. “That’s too bad.”

  “It is too bad. That book we took him, it’s here in this box.”

  Angelo glanced at the box with no greater interest than before, and then turned to his next task.

  “I’ll be in the basement,” Charles said to Alice.

  But he was interrupted. “Mr. Beale?”

  Charles had just started for the basement.

  “Yes, Morgan?”

  As Angelo had ascended, Morgan had descended. He sat on a step halfway down. “There’s a first edition Odyssey that just came up on eBay.”

  “Which translation?”

  Morgan had stopped too high and he had to lean forward to see into the showroom. He bumped down one step, and all his pale face and red hair floated into view. “Alexander Pope.”

  “A 1725 Pope first edition?” Charles snorted. “I doubt it!”

  “The listing says first edition. And it says it’s signed by the author.”

  “The translator, you mean.”

  “It says the author.”

  Charles paused. “The Odyssey, signed by the author. That would certainly answer the question of whether it was written or oral. I suppose I should come and see.”

  “Do you think it could be anything you’d want?”

  Charles squinted at the picture on Morgan’s computer. “Not much of a picture.”

  “It’s not a dealer,” Morgan said. “Just an individual.”

  “Send an email. I want to know the usual—the publisher and city, number of pages, and the date. And I want a picture of the title page, and see if he’ll tell us where he got it.”

  “How much would it be worth?”

  “A 1725 Pope first edition? Even in poor condition, at least thirty thousand. But that’s nothing like a first edition. I’d say it was nineteenth century. How long is the auction?”

  “One week. It just started this afternoon.”

  “Keep an eye on it. We’ll see how high it goes. I might decide to bid once we hear back from the seller.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, Morgan.”

  Charles stopped at the door to his office.

  “Was Jacob all right?” Dorothy asked.

  “Yes. Just being sociable. Have you ever read Homer’s Odyssey?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember which translation?”

  “No. It was in college.” She noticed the box in his hands. “And that is the books?”

  “This is Derek’s books,” he said. “Yes. I’m taking them to the basement right now to work on them.” He looked at the box in his hand. “Or maybe I shouldn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “There might be Greeks hidden inside.”

  “That was the Aeneid, and that box is not a horse, and they would have to be very small Greeks.”

  “The Trojans didn’t think they were in any danger either.”

  AFTERNOON

  Down, down, down. He unlocked the door at the bottom and turned on the light.

  The building was as old as most of the books, which was fitting. The basement had served many purposes; framed photographs in a corner showed what the renovation had uncovered. The floor had been bare earth for the first half century or so, and then quarters for two slaves, and then for two servants after the Civil War. Then it had been storage and children’s rooms and disuse alternating over more years until it had finally become what it now was.

  Now the walls were filled with shelves, and the shelves were filled with volumes, and the volumes were filled with . . . everything. They rested in their ordered ranks, contemplating the deepest and widest thoughts man had accumulated since contemplation had begun.

  The floor, walls, and ceiling were thick and fireproof. The dry, cool air was thick with their philosophies, histories and literatures. It was a very safe place for books.

  A few very valuable volumes were in the bank safe deposit, and the lesser items were in the display room upstairs, but this was always the foundation and the heart.

  Charles set the box on the desk and turned on the computer.

  Then he opened the cardboard box and lifted out the first package, wrapped in crisp brown paper. The paper fell open as he cut the tape.

  He opened a drawer and took white gloves, thin clean cotton, to put on, and then he touched the book.

  The boards and spine were the brown of soil walked on and worn hard and flat. The lettering was faint.

  He lifted the volume and studied it. The spine was sturdy and the page edges were aligned, with none loose. He cradled it in one hand and opened the front board.

  The Wealth of Nations by Adam Smith.

  A two-inch square of light green paper slid off the first page. Alexandria Rare Books was printed on it, with the numbers 7273 2002 handwritten below.
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  He closed the book, turned it over, and opened the back board. Then he closed it again, turned it vertical, and opened to the center and then to a few other pages, efficiently and carefully, inspecting it at every angle.

  Finally he set it back on its wrapping paper and turned to the computer. He typed 7273, read through the book’s history on the screen, and then started typing: Purchased at auction 4/21/08, Derek Bastien Estate. Condition unchanged, very good. Price—

  He paused and wrote the name of the book on a scrap of the brown paper. He wrote $3,100 beside it, and then typed that number onto the screen. He carried the book to a shelf and moved a ceramic block to make a space.

  He typed 235 into the Location field on-screen.

  Then he stared again at the brown paper, and paused.

  “. . . eleven . . . twelve . . . thirteen . . .” And he frowned.

  But then he shrugged and started on the next package.

  “Mr. Beale?”

  “Yes?” He had four books and four prices listed on the brown paper. Two glass jars and a few small brushes were beside the book he was just closing.

  Morgan had marched down the steps. “I’m getting the Anthony Trollope for Angelo to deliver.”

  “Do you need the computer?”

  “For just a minute. And I think Alice was just answering a phone call for you.”

  “Mr. Beale?” Alice’s voice marched down the steps. “There’s a call for you, Mr. Edmund Cane.”

  Charles slid his book into its new space and picked up the phone.

  “Charles Beale.”

  “Good afternoon.” A slow, deliberate voice. “My name is Edmund Cane.”

  “Yes, Mr. Cane? What can I do for you?”

  “I understand you were at the Bastien auction this morning?” Every syllable was a distinct word.

  “Yes, I was.”

  “You were present during the sale of the Honaker pedestal desk?”

  “Derek Bastien’s desk? I was.”

  “Perhaps you saw the young woman who purchased the desk?”

  “Mr. Cane,” Charles said. “I hope I’m not being impertinent. By any chance, do you happen to have white hair and a dark gray mustache?”

  The phone was silent as Einstein contemplated an equation or two. “Yes, I do. I see you remember me.”

  “I certainly do, Mr. Cane. It was very dramatic.”