The Stolen Story of a Forgotten Life

Anything with a scent in here makes you nauseous. Except for coffee. That’s the only uninvited smell that doesn’t make me want to puke.

She stood there holding one of those overpriced takeaway cups from the coffee shop next door. No surprise she took it to go. I’d rather sit on a stick than those damn uncomfortable chairs they have. And my tiny store’s squeezed between that pretentious coffee place and a clothing store that’s shut most of the year. At least I get some peace on that side.

What was I saying? Oh yeah, coffee. God damn, that smell wakes up the dusty wooden shelves and makes the books feel young again.

I turned back to the pile of books stacked in front of me, giving her space to seduce my shop with her coffee. Still trying to sort through the old guy’s books he left behind. He lived across the street in the elderly care home. What a great spot for a coffee shop and a bookstore, huh? Every day, staring at the soon-to-be dead.

I’ve shelved some of his books on the left side where I keep the secondhand ones. The right side has new books, but only from certain publishers. That’s about it. I wasn’t kidding when I said “my tiny store.” I also have a corner a young lady suggested turning into a thematic section each month. Too much hassle for me, but she volunteered to set it up. A couple of weeks ago she made a shelf with book covers facing out and slapped a little blackboard on it saying “Books That Made It To Screens.”

I don’t know much about movies myself, but I do remember and know very well Meryl Streep. So when I saw it yesterday among the old guy’s books, The French Lieutenant’s Woman, I put it right there in this section. Sometimes I add to the display when something feels right.

Lucky for me, being across from a living cemetery worked for once. A few months after he left, the care home manager donated all his books to me. I didn’t even know he existed, honestly. When they came to talk donation, they said he ran off and never showed up again.

“So he’s not dead?” I probably looked like I’d jumped to the worst conclusion.

“No,” the manager said. “Well, hopefully he is not. He could have been discovered by now if he was dead. But don’t worry, we waited three months before donating. We don’t think he’s coming back.”

“Doesn’t he have a family? Maybe you should check with them first?”

“We already know what to do in these cases,” the manager replied. A bit passive-aggressive, if you ask me.

“He came here alone, had enough money to stay until the end.”

“Alright, no more questions,” I said. “How many books are we talking?”

“About 200 on the shelves in his room, plus five big boxes in storage.”

“Well. If it’s alright, I’ll start with the ones in his room. My store’s probably smaller than that room. Can you keep the other ones in the storage for a while?”

“Sure. Let’s do that. Better you take them than us finding somewhere else.”

That’s how fast business gets done in my field.

So now, I’m sitting here with this pile of his books. I give them a quick glance, checking if they’re worth a spot on the middle shelves, their condition, publication year, and potential pricing. It’s a strange job, I must say. Sometimes old means junk, but sometimes it’s gold. Takes experience to do this fast like I do now. Didn’t start that way, though. I started working here for my old man in my early twenties, after I kept screwing up other jobs I had tried. Scared of the rise of cassettes in the ’80s, he began adding some books somewhere between those boxes filled with vinyl records. Not much of an innovator, but maybe he was onto something. Lucky the cancer took him before CDs and the internet came along.

Contrary to what you might fantasize, I didn’t start this job out of a love for literature. Later, of course, I read plenty over the years. Mostly out of boredom but also out of curiosity as well. Vinyl is too complicated for me. I’m not a music guy. I liked playing detective, hunting secondhand books at relatives’ places, asking if I could sell them. Over time, the shop transformed into what it is now: a bookstore with some records still in the middle section, cutting through the store.

Pricing records is still trickier for me than pricing books. With books, at least, you can kind of justify whatever random price tag you put on. You just get a feeling they’re worth something. That’s how I priced The French Lieutenant’s Woman too. It was a fair price, but apparently too much for whoever stole it the day I put it out. Honestly, it’s not worth anything unless the thief also runs a bookstore. Hah. That would be something: opening a bookstore with stolen books.

I’ve tried not to obsess over what might have happened to the book since I noticed an empty spot on the shelf before leaving yesterday. But it’s hard going through his other books without thinking about the thief. Should I even tell the people at the care home?

“Hi, can I get this? And can I pay with card?” Maybe after she leaves, the coffee smell will fade, and I’ll think straight.

“Sure. Let me look at it real quick. Cioran? Nice choice. But watch out, that one can get pretty depressing.”

“That’s good. I might enjoy it.”

“Here you go. Need a bag?”

“No thanks. I’ll just put it here.” She showed me one of those beige fabric bags everyone coming to the coffee shop is carrying these days.

I tried to remember who came in yesterday: a middle-aged couple buying a mix of new books as gifts, two school kids who didn’t buy anything, a skinny guy with long hair hunting records, a woman buying a huge hardcover Arabian Nights, she said she’d manage somehow taking it back abroad, another guy in his early thirties searching for every book on his phone (could’ve read a novel by now, kid), a woman who spent an hour here without buying, a couple just starting their reading journey with classics, and a college student who bought a book on the paradox of subjectivity or something.

That was it. More crowded than usual, I would say. Would’ve been easier if the thief picked another day. But what am I gonna do? Report a stolen secondhand book to the police? Who even steals books these days? None of those customers seemed to have a motive. None of them looked poor and desperately needed to read a book. Probably it was the kids messing around.

The bell above the door’s been here eighteen years and still makes me jump every time. But right now, it wasn’t a customer. It was the care home manager again. My heart jumped like I’d been caught stealing. Had to cough to clear my throat when I greeted him.

“Hi back at you. Came to talk about the donated books.”

Oh damn. Why am I sweating? It’s not like he accused me of stealing. But I’ve failed to take care of something that’s been entrusted to me. These donations bring memories and a huge responsibility. Like I need to pick the right buyers, or the books will end up somewhere they won’t be appreciated. I know you might have a pretty picture of an asshole about me, but I do have feelings.

“One employee said they want some books for a relative to decorate a restaurant with a big wall-to-wall shelf. I’d prefer you sell them, but we need some space in storage. Just wanted to let you know it’ll be the ones you have now. We are giving the rest away.”

“Okay, no problem. Thanks for coming here and telling me.”

“Good. Hope to see you soon. We’ve been neighbors on the same street for years, shame we never met before.”

“You’re always welcome here.” He was about to leave, but I stopped him.

“Got two more minutes? I have questions about the old guy.”

“As I said, I don’t know much. But go ahead.”

“Who was he? No family, but didn’t you get any info over the years? What was he like? How’d he get so many books? I never saw him around here. I’d think he’d visit a bookstore close by, right?”

“The man was a mystery to us all. Didn’t say a word about himself. Just stared out the window or read. Oh, the books... He’d send a list, and we’d order them online. He read the newspaper corner for suggestions as far as I know.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks.”

Something like this happening here for the first time. Someone stealing from my store. And that stolen book belongs to someone missing. Maybe he stole it himself? I don’t recall any old guy coming by. Or someone else did for him.

The manager brought the sunset into the store when he left heading home. But I couldn’t leave. I felt the burning guilt.

And then, I did something stupid. I tossed a coin. Just like John Fowles deciding his book ending. It landed safe. The book is with its real owner. Someone who knows him came back for it. Don’t ask me why or when. We can all feel at peace and I can go home now. I grabbed my notebook, my lunchbox, threw on my jacket, locked up, and walked home thinking about other things.

What is Meryl Streep doing nowadays?