They do it themselves

The Conquest of Happiness.

For a moment he focussed on the slim book, its cover as bright as pop art. He’d wandered into Self-Help for the second time that week. On Monday he’d done an about turn and had escaped. But today had a different feel to it – the shelves didn’t loom up around him with quite the same height or quite the same air of judgement.

Perhaps it was because of this bright little dust jacket that had peeked out at him from the bookshelf. A pink, yellow and green that clashed against the more solemn (well, duller) colours around it. 

Perhaps it was because of the pit of hard, heated nausea that hung low in his abdomen. The doctor insisted it wasn’t actually in his abdomen, but rather somewhere in his head. His doctor had said, “Look for it there instead.”  

Perhaps it was because of the tiny, plump sprite of a woman rearranging titles ahead of him down the aisle. An employee, he supposed. 

She stood up on a ladder, holding a stretch of tilted books just upright enough to feed more books into a gap on the shelf. She frowned and she sighed. 

Gazing up from his spot on the floor, he wondered if she would talk to him. And as he was putting The Conquest of Happiness back, she did. 

“You might want to keep that one. It’s a good one.” 

She stepped down to ground level and seemed to go on dropping. She was perhaps 5 feet tall. Wide green eyes looked up at him, alight.

“Bertrand Russel knew what he was talking about, all right.” Then her eyes clouded. “Actually – it’s a pity he was born when he was. If I remember, there are sections at the beginning that are very out of tune with today, out of tune with logic, even. He was already and adult in the 1920s and 30s.”

Her lips pursed in a hmph. She took the book from his hands and slotted it back between its neighbours in the bookshelf.

“Try this one instead.”

Her voice was light, her judgement swift and definite. He looked down at another thin volume. The Path.

He said nothing, so she answered, “It might suit your level of nihilism, without being too hopeless. I loved it, actually. There’s a lot of happiness there if you can see it.” She smiled again. “Open it up. See if it’s addressed to you.”

There was a path on the cover – a swift curve painted in black ink. He’d lost the habit of receiving advice – he didn’t quite take hers in, and just muttered, “Thank you. I’ll take a look.”

He stepped to the side to get past her, but her face and voice followed him.

“If you opened it here, it’d make my day. It’s rare for one to be addressed to you, and I have a hunch.”

His head tilted like her books up on the shelf, his eyes on her while hers were fixed on the book in his hands. He opened up The Path.

“There!” she exclaimed. A little note of triumph burst through – warm and resonant and surprised. “Is your name Harold Winter?”

“What? Yes-” 

Sure enough, on the first page, in the same print as the rest of the book; his name. And not just the name – a message.

The woman’s face shone. “Can I read it? Do you mind?”

“Um…”

She was already at it, her eyes darting from side to side. He snapped the cover shut. The bookshop quietened, like all of it was listening now. 

He asked, “Is this a joke? Who’s playing it?”

“It isn’t ever a joke, sir.”

“How did you find out my name, to put it in here?”

“We didn’t know it, I’m sure.”

“I’ve never bought anything here. You don’t have my details. I’m not even from this city.” He cut each word out of the air distinctly, “How are you doing this?”

“It just happens. Honest. Every January.”

Slowly, he spun on his heels, watching for faces in the aisle or over the shelves. There wasn’t anyone around. The place had been empty when he walked in.

“Who’s in on it?” he asked.

When she didn’t reply straight away, he looked back down at her.

“Who?”

What he saw was a faced crumpled up in confusion. “Well… the books, sir. They do it themselves.” Light crept back into her eyes, “Read the message and then maybe you won’t mind that it happened. It’s a good thing to happen. I think it’s lucky.”

He looked for ridicule in her face, but couldn’t see it. Just large eyes in a round face. Pink cheeks that shone in the bookstore heating.

Maybe there were cameras set up… but pushed the idea aside as ridiculous. 

Another thought struck him then. She’d read the message to him – his message – while he hadn’t. The irritation that came with that was immediate and irrational. A sharp spike of it. 

Perplexed, he headed out to privacy, away from the cornered-in shelves and pathways of wooden floors and rough rugs. He would set off to somewhere where strangers didn’t presume, where they didn’t march into his head like invaders, with hints and entirelyunsatisfactory explanations.  

“Sir.”

There was a different note in her voice now. It was lower, measured. It stopped him.

She continued, “Will you be leaving that here, or buying it?”

He had reached the doorway to the shop, the book in his hand. Could it be anything at all? Could it be important? Surely not. It was a joke. Maybe a cruel one, maybe just a thoughtless one. Like any joke played on someone starved of human contact, human content – words and faces and listening ears.

She stepped out from the bookshelves. Once again, and relieved that she must see him as no more than an outline in the doorway, he searched her for any signs of mockery.

He thought of tossing her the book from where he was, of dropping it to the floor, of making a run with it. Each idea reached new heights of ridiculous. 

So he bought it. Her lightness returned throughout the transaction. He noticed it even through his awkwardness. He avoided eye contact, but the lightness was in her hand gestures, her breaths, her tone. Her glance, when he did meet it, felt like a wink. He didn’t want it to reassure him, but it did.

He carried the book out into the street like you would carry a new pet, and he did it with more anticipation than he’d felt for anything in years. However it had come to him, he was about to open a little mystery.