Back
in December, before Christmas, before the pandemic shut-down, in those chilly,
blissful days when Dark Time came early, and I would hustle the cats inside to
cuddle up and read with me, my book club made a donation of books—some new,
some used—to a local group home that serves children who have been separated
from their parents due to abuse. The residential facility, located on
beautiful, sprawling acreage, was just getting its library reorganized after
some renovation, so the books were greatly appreciated.
Most
of the books were purchased new from money we’d collected in a bake sale, but
we did have several boxes of books donated. A small group of members went
through these donations, checking to be sure they were appropriate for children
and teens, and also making sure the books adhered to the guidelines we’d been
given by the group home: No dark subject matter, no gratuitous violence, no
themes of death or dying or separation from parents. We ended up with a small box
of rejected books that sat on my kitchen floor, just inside the door, until
well after Christmas, New Year’s, and maybe even Easter, if I’m being honest.
My
intent was to donate those books, a few at a time, to the Little Free Library I
mentioned in my previous post. And I did. Every time I took a drive up to drop
something off for Harry or his cat, Asher, I took another few books. Finally,
there was one book left in the bottom of the box.
I
pulled it out when I was getting ready to head up to Harry’s again, intending
to put Sophie Quire in the library as well. But you know how that goes if you’re
a bibliophile; we’re always curious. I flipped it over and read this on the
back of the book:
Barcelona,
1945: A city slowly heals from its war wounds, and Daniel, an antiquarian book
dealer’s son who mourns the loss of his mother, finds solace in a mysterious
book entitled The Shadow of the Wind, by one Julian Carax. But when
he sets out to find the author’s other works, he makes a shocking discovery:
someone has been systematically destroying every copy of every book Carax has
written. In fact, Daniel may have the last of Carax’s books in existence. Soon
Daniel’s seemingly innocent quest opens a door into one of Barcelona’s darkest
secrets—an epic story of murder, madness, and doomed love.
Intrigued
(who wouldn’t be?) I opened the cover and read the first paragraphs:
I
still remember the day my father took me to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books for
the first time. It was the early summer of 1945, and we walked through the
streets of a Barcelona trapped beneath ashen skies as dawn poured over Rambla
de Santa Monica in a wreath of liquid copper.
“Daniel,
you mustn’t tell anyone what you’re about to see today,” my father warned. “Not
even your friend Tomas. No one.”
“Not
even Mommy?”
My
father sighed, hiding behind the sad smile that followed him like a shadow
through life.
“Of
course you can tell her,” he answered, heavyhearted. “We keep no secrets from
her. You can tell her everything.”
Shortly
after the Civil War, an outbreak of cholera had taken my mother away. We buried
her on my fourth birthday. I can only recall that it rained all day and all
night, and that when I asked my father whether heaven was crying, he couldn’t
bring himself to reply.
And
then, as the saying goes, I was hooked.
My
desire to read the huge tome (of 487 pages in very small font) created a bit of
a dilemma. If you are an avid reader who loves nothing more than to spend an
afternoon browsing through a used book shop, please take a moment here to close
your eyes and take a nice deep breath. As you exhale, thank the Universe (or
whomever you would like) that you do not have a lung disease. Because if you
were me, you wouldn’t be able to have that joy, that luxury, of walking through
the aisles with row upon row of titles, pulling first this one, then that one
off the shelf, loading up your arm or basket or bag with 5 or 6 or 10 because
they’re priced at a dollar a book.
I
can’t do that. Dust will kill me. Dust in books is really, really bad. And this
book in particular was very, very old and very, very dusty. Just reading the
first page started me coughing. So I did what I’ve learned to do in that situation.
I put on the N95 mask I use for cleaning the house, took the book in the bathroom,
plugged in my blow dryer, and blew the dust out while flipping through the
pages. Works like a charm.
I’m
so glad I did. Because when I finally started reading it, I needed it
desperately. I needed its rich, dense prose, so carefully crafted, to lose
myself in. I needed the twists and surprises of the plot to keep me turning
pages. (I didn’t really need to be staying up past my usual bedtime every
night, but that’s okay; I’m a grown-up. I have choices.) I needed to have that
story to look forward to as cases of the virus continued to climb and the country
went into lockdown and I couldn’t go to my book club meetings or have tea with
friends or see my kids or grandchildren. In the days that I slowly made my way
through it, savoring every page, that one author’s craftsmanship kept me from despair.
It's
amazing how powerful books can be, isn’t it?
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