The years flowed by without ripples. Gentel learned Italian, helped Giorgio restore ancient manuscripts, and made books. Although Gentel did not bring up the murder again, the leather covers of his books often revealed his memories and fantasies. In a few he drew the alley poorly lit by a single beam from an incandescent lamp, or misty with an angel floating under an arch. Once he showed a young man, himself, with her alive in his mind; a brilliant yellow halo, the color of Annie’s curls, emanated from her short hair. On his favorite cover she was lying on his lap asleep with a Mona Lisa smile. He kept these books on a shelf in his apartment. They were not for sale, and the collection grew as a shrine. He moved the books in which he wrote stories to another shelf in order to separate the past from the present.
He also made books with abstract shapes, often appearing like cobblestones. They were displayed alongside Giorgio’s books and were for sale. Occasionally he would refuse to sell one as a joke and the two comrades giggled when the customer left, perplexed and irritated.
One day Gentel made a book with a rose-colored cover, almost pink, embossed on the upper left corner with a knife with a wooden handle and curved blade. A silver plate etched faintly with the initials AP capped the handle. Dark red elongated drops dripped from the blade into a maroon pool on the pinkish background. The design had a grotesque quality that was painful for Gentel to look at and yet at the same time an abstract quality that was pleasing and similar to the designs covering the books he sold. He added the book to his private collection and each night when he came home he looked at the cover and ran his fingers along the handle of the knife, which was raised just enough from the background to give him a creepy, tactile sensation of déjà vu.
As the weeks passed, Gentel began obsessing about this book and rushed home early to feel the knife. He had dreams about pools of blood, infinitely deep, that formed waves in the wind. His old dreams of handcuffs bearing his initials and a policeman interrogating him in a dark dungeon recurred. He thought of writing a murder story in the book, a whodunit mystery, but never found the energy. It didn’t seem right. Fiction was not appropriate.
“I think I want to sell this,” he told Giorgio one day as he placed the book on the counter. “Actually, I’m not sure. Can we keep it in the shop and see how I feel if someone wants to buy it? If I’m not here, let me know and I’ll decide then. Okay?”
“What beautiful shades of red,” said Giorgio. “Ah, the knife.”
Gentel didn’t respond and Giorgio looked at him knowingly.
“Could be,” Gentel said. “It’s whatever you want. Haven’t you ever seen a figure emerge from shapes that stick in your mind but aren’t sure if the artist meant it?”
“Of course. That even happens with my own designs! I like this book. Let’s put it in the window for awhile.”
The next day a short woman, mid-fiftyish, overweight, with a raspy voice and curly, grey hair entered the shop. She had a sweet smile and a tiny dimple in her chin.
“Can I help you,” asked Giorgio.
“Yes, please. These books are beautiful.” She opened one in front of her and felt the soft texture of the hand-made, blank pages.
“You like?” asked Giorgio. “The empty pages are for you to make these books your own.”
“Oh, they’re precious. Did you make them?”
“Most, yes. Not all. I have a colleague, an American who works with me now. He made some.”
“An American?” she said and lowered her eyes.
“I love the abstract designs on the leather covers, like cobblestones on the old streets. I would like to write in these books. I write; stories, poems, thoughts.”
“Really. These are made for you then,” said Giorgio.
“The book in the window, with all the red, and the curved shape at the top, almost like a knife blade, did you make that one?”
“A very beautiful book. You have good taste. No, my American colleague made that one. He’s not here now. He has a cold and is at home.”
“How much is it?”
“He didn’t say. He doesn’t sell all the books he makes. He told me he wasn’t sure about this one. I need to ask him. Would you be interested in any other book?”
“I like them all, but I really want that one. Would you call him and see if he’ll agree to sell it?”
She went outside to look more closely at Gentel’s book and when she returned Giorgio said, “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. My colleague had difficulty making up his mind. He says it’s very personal and he won’t sell it, at least not now. Please look around; you may find another that you like.”
“I’m so sorry, so very sorry,” she said. Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t want any other right now. Do you think he might change his mind? If I give you my phone number will you call me if he does?” She fidgeted. “Or you could give him my number and perhaps I can persuade him to sell it to me.”
“Of course. I’ll talk to him. You say you are a writer?” asked Giorgio.
“Yes.”
“I would like to read what you have published. Could you give me the titles?”
“Oh, no, no. I write, but never publish. That’s why I like these books so much. They’re so…personal and private. I always write with a pen, never a computer. I have never shown anyone what I write, not even my husband. Especially not my husband.”
“Why is that, may I ask?”
After an uncomfortable pause, she said, “I write to realize another person’s dream…a man I never met. The books are not entirely mine. It’s hard to explain. They’re like a voice in the dark. Never mind.”
She sighed, thanked Giorgio and reminded him to call her if his American colleague changed his mind.
When she reached the doorway she said, “And if he won’t agree to sell it, please don’t forget to give him my phone number so I can talk to him.”
Standing on the sidewalk, she looked at the book in the window for a long time. Giorgio watched as she rubbed her left side gently. She sighed again, saw Giorgio watching her, smiled sadly, and walked away.
“Tell him to call me,” she muttered under her breath when she was out of range for him to hear.