Pascal's Books

He knew it was over after receiving the text message describing the ‘viscous’ male dog she had a close encounter with. Apparently, the message continued, the animal had approached Alice in the park whilst she was eating her leaf salad.

The story seemed doubly unlikely to Tom, why would a dog be interested, and who hell the says leaf salad?

To him, this little vignette simply reaffirmed his burgeoning resentment toward her. Rather than ask the dog what he wanted, she assumed he was trying to steal her lunch when he may just have wanted directions or even the time, dogs were notoriously lacking in punctuality.

Tom had given her the benefit of the doubt. Haven’t we all had auto correct errors, he reasoned? However, when he asked teasingly in reply how sticky and slow moving this viscous beast been, Alice had immediately retorted that it wasn’t slow it was like really fast.

The leaf salad episode should have been enough, but he was starting to think that if now also avoided women who eschewed carbohydrates his available dating pool would be so puddle-like that he might as well go and live with his uncle Norman, collect pottery figurines, and masturbate into a sock. A different sock to old Uncle Norm but the image was vivid, nonetheless.

The point at which they had combined books was a flag so large and red it could have been seen from space. His ‘The Day of the Jackal’ had found itself ignominiously sandwiched between the ramblings of a pneumatic blond, Tina somebody or other, and Blanche the Donkey, self-proclaimed psychic to the stars. In a parallel universe he fantasised he would simply hire The Jackal to take them out.

It was wet outside, pouring in fact. He stood at the top of the sandstone steps that led down from his front door, hunched his head into his shoulders and carefully descended. The steps were of a design that became comically slippery when even the slightest hint of moisture appeared and, as he tentatively made his way, he imagined that The Jackal would get the name of the evil step architect as his second assignment.

He joined the usual heaving mass of people and animals that coalesced in the city, and found himself constantly speeding up then slowing down as he sidestepped, weaved and swore under his breath. The noise level was the familiar cacophony of cries, roars, and rattling diesel engines but the rain had made the smell especially pungent today, assaulting his nose with its rotten bouquet.

With his head down against the weather he inadvertently walked straight past his favourite bookshop where so many fruitful hours had been wasted.

He slowed his pace for a second and thought of the warm interior which was small and labyrinthine with shelves too high to be safe, audibly groaning under their load. Wandering down the History aisle in particular your shoulders brushed both sides simultaneously, so patrons constantly needed to be aware of catching a dust jacket with a sleeve jacket and bringing the literal weight of the past tumbling down.

He made his choice and turned abruptly on the slick pavement, almost a pirouette. Two fat horses loaded with a variety of shopping bags had been right behind him, one of them swore and called him a tourist as they swerved to avoid a collision before clip clopping away into the throng.

He opened the door, and the little bell announced his arrival. Pascal, the penguin was there as always. Tom had often teased him about the irony of him running a bookstore and he took the good-natured ribbing because Tom was a big spender, at least in second-hand book terms.

“Hey Pascal.”

“Hey yourself.” The small, rotund black and white bird said as he dropped off his stool to the floor and waddled over.

They bumped fist to flipper as was their habit.

“Anything new in?” Tom was an addict, always on the lookout for his next fix.

“Not much, there is a donated bag I haven’t been able to get to yet.” Pascal pointed a flipper to his living space behind the cash desk.

“Where did it come from?”

“Not sure.” Said the little bird. “It was on the step when I opened up.”

“No note or anything?” Asked the human?

“What am I, Colombo? There might be a note inside, but I’ve been up to my beak since I got in.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Tell you what, you know where they go as well as I do, if you put them on the shelves you can help yourself to one of them.”

“Deal, how could I resist a booky dip?” Smiled Tom as he slid himself between two stacks of books and behind the register.

Pascal ignored him. “How’s that girlfriend of yours doing, its Alice right? No no hang on, was she last month or this month, I forget?”

Tom shrugged noncommittally as Pascal persisted. “Let me guess, she chewed too loudly or turned over the corner of a page in one of your priceless second-hand paperbacks?”

Tom ignored the barb and parted the bead curtain to step through into the corridor that led to the birds living space. As promised, there on the floor, was an old, worn plastic bag that clearly contained several books. He lowered himself to sit cross legged on the carpet and inspected the handles which had been crudely tied together to create a fastening. The knot was tight, due to the weight of the contents, so he gave up trying to undo it and just ripped the plastic apart, allowing books to disgorge onto the floor.

He picked up the first one and turned it over to view the title. It was an old-style encyclopaedia, full of facts and figures about the World, interesting for sure but not for him. He placed it next to where he sat, starting the first of several piles that would correspond to a location in the shop where he would ultimately house them. Next was a paperback romance novel and a couple of spy thrillers that he had never heard of. He duly placed them in their correct spot and tipped what was left of the bag upside down to remove the final book which was caught in the bottom. It was thin, more like a magazine from the feel of it.

“How are you doing back there, is there anything interesting?” Pascal was shouting from inside the shop.

Tom was about to answer as he turned over the final book to read its title.

“Oh shit, what the hell?” Tom shouted it so loudly that Pascal immediately appeared through the bead curtain.

“If you’ve broken anything in here.” The little bird started the threat but when he saw the face of his friend he stopped. “What’s wrong?”

Tom was still sitting but ashen faced, visibly shaking in the confines of the small hallway with the flowery wallpaper.

He pointed to where the book lay. It was pale and faded like it had been in a shop window for too many summers. The back cover was facing up and was mostly blank save for a few short, faded words and a non-distinct photograph which was presumably the author.

Pascal used both flippers to pick the book up.

“Don’t!” Implored Tom, his voice was too loud for the small space and the startled penguin dropped it to the floor again.

This time it landed with the cover facing up and they both looked down at the title, which was faded but clearly visible, written in a kind of medieval style font.

Delicious! Ways to Prepare and eat Meat.

“Jesus Christ!” Exclaimed Pascal. “What the hell, is that real?”

Tom bent down to pick the little book up, with hands that were still shaking, when he spoke. “It must be some kind of sick joke book, this can’t be a real picture, can it?”

The front of the book had a photograph that was in colour but faded. There was a large, ornate dining table with place settings for six people including wine glasses and multiple sets of silver cutlery. On a large, round platter in the centre of the tableau was a large, dead bird that had been ceremonially laid out in, what appeared to be, preparation for eating. Its head was missing, the feathers were gone, and its naked flesh looked like it had been cooked until it was a golden-brown colour.

“Is it real?” The usually rambunctious little fellow was serious and hushed.

“It looks real.” Said Tom. “But who the hell would photograph it?”

“We need to report this.” Said the little bird as he reached for his coat.