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“I don’t collect fountain pens, Miranda.”
“It’s not a pen. It’s a Mabie Todd.”
“Then maybe Todd would like it.”
“Very fu
He looked at me like I was trying to pull a fast one but in the end he picked up the largest fountain pen I’d ever seen.
“So? It’s a pen.”
“Jaco, turn it around. Look closely.”
He turned till he saw the name engraved in gold lettering on the black barrel. When he spoke again, his voice was almost a whisper, as if his tongue had grown too big for his throat. “No! Is it?”
I nodded. “I have authentication.”
“How did you—”
“At a Sotheby’s auction last week. I saw it in their catalog. I think it came from Lord Esher’s estate.”
“Rolfe.” He read the name reverently. “I remember from the Symons biography, he was supposed to have always written with a huge fountain pen.”
“That’s right.”
Exasperated and smiling for the first time, he shook his head. “Miranda, how do you find these things? How did you find Frederick Rolfe’s fountain pen?”
“Because I love what I’m doing. Hunting for things, having them in my hand for a while. I love selling them to people like you who care.”
“But you never keep anything for yourself?”
“Never. You have to decide whether you’re going to collect or sell. Collecting would exhaust me. I’d never be happy with what I owned. I would always want more. This way, I can enjoy things for a while and then sell them to the right people.”
“Like Dagmar?”
“Like Dagmar, and you. Do you want this?”
“Of course I want it!”
I waited a good half hour after he left before I made the call. Jaco had the disconcerting habit of returning in a rage to demand a better price for something he had just bought. In the begi
“Hello?” Her voice was soft and elegant, as sexy a woman’s voice as I knew.
“Dagmar? It’s Miranda. Jaco was just here. He bought the pen.”
“Of course he did, darling. It’s exactly what he would want. That’s why I bought it. It’s a fabulous piece.”
“But why sell it to him? Didn’t you want it for your collection?”
“Yes, but he would love it more. Baron Corvo is one of his few heroes.”
“I don’t understand. You finally left him after all those years of unhappiness, but you’re still giving him things?”
“Not giving, selling. Loving Jaco was like sitting on a cold stone: you give it all your heat but it gives none back. You end up with a chill in your behind. I couldn’t take it anymore. But leaving doesn’t erase most of my adult life. I still love him for a few things and always will. Not that I necessarily want to. Sometimes you can’t control who you love.”
“But you’re happy you left?”
“Blissfully. The only time I look back is to check to make sure I locked the door. Tell me how Jaco reacted when he saw the pen.” I could almost hear her smile through the telephone.
“He nipped. He was in heaven.”
“No doubt. Hadrian the Seventh is his favorite book. No wonder—the story of a miserable, undeserving person who’s chosen to be pope. Jaco identifies totally.”
“I’ll bring you a check tonight.”
“No hurry. Today I’m beyond madness anyway. The caterer called and said he won’t be able to make the yogurt trilogy for dessert, which essentially ruins the di
“Yogurt trilogy?”
“Don’t be cynical, Miranda. One taste and you’d be a believer. Plus our apartment smells like a wet washcloth, and I have to go have my hair done. Sometimes it would be nice being a man. For them, a haircut is nine dollars. For a woman it’s a religious experience. So I have to go, sweetie. If I live through today, I’ll be immortal. Be here at seven. I’ve invited three Scud missiles for di
“That’s tough to live up to.”
“But you are!”
Few people came into my store to browse. For the most part, the clientele knew exactly what they wanted. I lived a good deal of the time on the road, tracking down their specific and often expensive desires. You could page me on my wristwatch or call me on the smallest portable telephone I could find. I was happy when I could spend even a few weeks at a time in the store straightening things up paying bills, reading catalogs and faxes. Yet I was also happy in airports, hotel rooms, restaurants that served regional dishes I had never heard of. There was no man in my life. I was free to come and go as I pleased.
In college I had majored in sociology, but realized junior year how unsatisfying demographic charts and terms like gemeinschaft and gesellschaft were. For extra money I found a job at a used book store and was lucky enough to be there the day a man came in with two cardboard boxes of books to sell. Among them was a signed limited edition of Faulkner’s The Hamlet, which happened to be on the reading list of a course I was taking. Knowing it was valuable, I showed it to the owner of the store. He said I could keep it because I’d been honest and was a good worker. I took the book to class to show the professor. His eyes widened and he asked if I would sell it to him for a hundred dollars. There was something in his tone that made me suspicious. I looked up the telephone numbers of several rare book dealers and called to ask what the book was worth.
Nothing is permanent, but books are one of the few things that come close. Hearing how valuable the Faulkner was, I realized I had been made privy to one of life’s small secrets, which was that there are objects that mean nothing to most people, but everything to some. What’s more, if you knew anything about the subject, you quickly discovered collecting books was one of the last real treasure hunts possible in this age. There are old books everywhere and most people don’t care about them. The few who do will go to remarkable lengths to possess them.
As I continued, I realized I was good at the job—this in itself is a great reward. I loved my customers’ excitement and delight with what I found. I loved the serendipity of the hunt. My heart still pounded on seeing something unique or important in a junk store, second-hand shop, a Salvation Army bin in the bad section of some downtown. Slowly reaching out, I would take it in my hand, knowing one of the greatest pleasures of all was here. Opening the book, I would check the first pages to make sure it was what I thought. Yes, there was the proof if you knew what to look for—the letter A, or the even more obvious first edition. Other indications, emblems, marks… the secret alphabet and language of book collectors. On the inside front cover someone would have carelessly written in pencil, $1 or 50ў. I paid ten cents in Louisville for the most beautiful first edition of The Great Gatsby I’ve ever seen. Five dollars for The Enormous Room. I couldn’t understand why more people weren’t doing this. Even if you knew only a little about the subject, it was like looking for gold everywhere you went.
After reading the journals of Edward Weston and Paul Strand, I became interested in photography. That opened up an altogether new world, not to mention business opportunity. On a trip to Los Angeles, I discovered a large box of photographs at a yard sale. Most were of strangers, but some subjects were famous movie stars of the 1930s and ‘40s. What struck me was how beautifully the pictures were lit and how naturally the people had been posed. On the back of each was a stamp with the photographer’s name, Hurrell, and address. I bought them and never forgot the look on the woman’s face as I handed her money: it said I was a sucker and she was the wi