-
Some of Gentel’s books had many pages, some few; some had pages of soft pink, like he remembered her toenails on the night of her murder.
Giorgio, also a bachelor, had a forlorn quality, a distant sadness that resonated with Gentel and gave an undercurrent of familiarity. Gentel came often to the bookstore over the next few months and they became friends. They spoke about soccer, politics and art. The two men bonded.
Gentel became Giorgio’s apprentice and learned to make books with empty pages. When a customer wanted to buy one of Gentel’s books many months later, Gentel hugged it against his chest, as Giorgio had done. It was more than a book; it was a part of himself. The blank pages still needed to be filled.
“I’m sorry,” said Gentel. “This one isn’t for sale; it’s special, and not quite finished yet. Can you find another?”
The customer looked annoyed, but Giorgio smiled at Gentel and nodded.
“How about this one?” the tourist asked. “How much is this one?”
Now it was Giorgio’s turn. The book was one of his recent favorites on display. “This one, too, is not for sale,” he said, joining his friend.
“Are you guys out of your mind? Isn’t this a bookstore? How do you make any money?”
The customer stormed out and the two friends laughed.
Gentel had found a new home. He made large books and small books with leather covers showing abstract designs, mostly curved lines of varying thickness in gold leaf, that glittered like Annie’s hair in the sun when she was his little girl. Not having seen her for many, many years now, he didn’t know whether her hair was still golden. Probably it had lost its yellow luster, or perhaps she dyed it brown or ochre or…well…he didn’t know. He’d lost touch after Rachel remarried and Annie had gone off to college. They faded into empty pages.
Some of Gentel’s books had many pages, some few; some had pages of soft pink, like he remembered her toenails on the night of her murder; some had cream-colored pages, the color tone of her calf. Occasionally, he expressed his longings in his books. In one he fantasized that death extended a young, terminally ill woman’s life by reincarnating her as a living spirit in a lonely man’s heart. In another he wrote a poem in iambic pentameter about the freedom of shamans transforming from spirits to humans and back again, and in still another he wrote a short poem that didn’t rhyme about the futility of sinister forces attempting to slay angels in heaven. He had no desire to publish his work or show it to anyone; they were as private as his imagination.
One day after many months Gentel told Giorgio about the murder. He confessed his guilt for not trying hard enough to save her, for being happy that the assailant ran away and left him alone with her, and how he gave his heart to the beautiful victim.
“She became an inseparable part of me, more than a wife,” he said.
“I know it’s strange, Giorgio. Rachel left, took Annie away, I was lonely…and you should have seen her. An angel. She’ll live forever in my mind. How can one describe perfection? She was human art…she filled the void in me…the empty pages…and still does. I’ve lived with her…for twenty-five years…no, a few more than that.”
“Why didn’t you call the police or get an ambulance?”
“I yelled for help, looked around, but it was deserted. I didn’t know where to go, didn’t speak a word of Italian, and then I felt like an accomplice. I can’t explain it. I wanted her for myself so badly. I thought she was dead…she must have been…I felt no pulse, no breath, no movement…well, after that final little flutter. Oh, God…I can’t talk about it anymore.”
Giorgio raised his eyebrows and shook his head in bewilderment.