Finding Love in the Secondhand Bookshop

I carefully laid my box of books on the table and nodded at Gerald, the old shopkeeper. He smiled in response and moved towards me.

This was my dad’s favorite secondhand bookshop. It was a homey little place that we would go to every weekend we were free. Used to anyway, since Dad’s been sick for a while and had to stay home instead.

Every week, we would donate our old books here to get half off of our purchases for the day. Then we’d lounge for a few hours and go through the books together.

It was a delight for me to discover hidden gems, and I usually took my time savoring each one until I had to make my final choices. Dad, however, was pickier. He would open a book, peruse the first few pages, and either place it in our basket or leave it aside.

“I only read the first sentence,” he’d say, as he returned another book on the shelf. “If I don’t get hooked by it, I’m not reading it.”

Gerald looked over the books in my box and waved me away. I thanked him, grabbed a basket, and slipped among the well-stocked shelves.

I let my fingertips lightly brush the worn books as I walked past their stories of brave heroes, strange creatures, and delicious recipes. Titles were haphazardly strewn about, despite the few marked sections. There were a few times I’d get frustrated by the disarray, but more often than not, it was a treasure hunt I gladly indulged in.

Today, however, I didn’t have much time to go on an adventure. I had maybe half an hour before I had to bring Dad to the hospital for his check up. Ah well, at the very least, I’ll try to find something for him.

I walked to the shelf designated “Fiction,” and started going through the books one by one. I saw a few there that I’ve read before and a few I’ve given back to the shop, too.

What always saddened me was seeing a couple of familiar ones each time I came here, the books that haven’t found their forever homes yet. I lovingly touched one such book, an old edition of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. “I wish you the best, my friend,” I whispered, as I caressed its spine and placed it back on the shelf.

I looked over more books and picked a few interesting-looking titles. Tan’s Saving Fish From Drowning, Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, Chadbourn’s Jack of Ravens, Lowry’s Gathering Blue, Austen’s Northanger Abbey. Lovely.

I was getting worried about not finding anything for my father, when I finally saw it. I cried out in joy when I picked up a hardbound copy of Marquez’s Love In The Time Of Cholera, one of my dad’s favorites. Smiling, I placed it in my basket and made my way to the counter.

One thing I noticed about my dad was that while he read books of different genres, he seemed to prefer Latin American literature and would often look over different editions of the same books. I asked him about it once, and he said that he just really enjoyed magical realism and Spanish influences. Personally, I imagined it was because he saw my late Latina mother in them.

I never got to meet my mother, who died while giving birth to me. My father didn’t talk about her much either, but when he did, it was always with softness and a tear or two. “It was she who pushed me into reading,” he said once, as he picked up a different edition of the book I currently had in my basket. “And I’m glad I pushed you into it, too.”

People were starting to trickle in the store as I dropped my basket beside the old cash register. I secretly dreamed of meeting the love of my life here, just as my dad found his with my mom. I giggled as Gerald rang up my purchases.

It was a story he’d tell me when my birthday – her death anniversary – would come up. He would talk about how he was having fun with his newly bought Polaroid camera that day, and how he ran into the secondhand bookshop to get away from the rain that night.

It was quiet in the store, and he only saw one other person in there. It was a Latina girl who wore a red beret and had her nose deep in a book. He fell in love immediately.

With his new camera, he tried to discretely take her photo, but she looked up at the last second. Flustered, he froze in place and watched as she scrutinized him from head to toe. The hum of the camera buzzed as they stared at one another. He came to his senses when he saw her close her book and step towards him. Without a word, she grabbed the Polaroid, scrutinized it carefully, and stuck it into her book. She then left the store immediately.

After that day, he started going to the bookstore every day in hopes she would appear. He didn’t chance upon her for the first few days, so to pass the time, he perused the titles on the shelves. One day, he was engrossed in a novel when he heard the click of a camera. Looking up, he saw her smiling at him with a Polaroid in her hands. He smiled back as she waved the photo back and forth, and asked her out for coffee, which she gracefully accepted.

Gerald waved his hand across my face, and I was brought back to the present. I paid for my books and left hurriedly. I got in the car, dropped my purchases on the passenger seat, and rushed home. As expected, I saw him standing by the door, impatient to see what I got for him this week.

“Get them from the car,” I said, running back inside to grab a few things. “I got you your favorite.” I saw him grin and open the door to pick up the brown paper bag.

Just as I stepped inside the house, I heard him cry out. Worried, I rushed back outside to see him pick up a piece of paper from the ground. He had the Marquez book in his hand and tears were streaming from his face.

“Finally, finally,” he whispered to himself repeatedly. I held on to him as he stared at the paper in his hand, which had an old Polaroid of a girl in a red beret. He turned to me with a big smile. “It’s her, your mother,” he said with a quivering voice as I hugged him tighter.

I smiled, and saw why he fell in love with her. He often complained of my tenacity and stubbornness, and I saw both of these in my mother’s proud Latina eyes. I looked just like her, and I suddenly considered getting a red beret for myself.

I took the photo from him, and turned it over to read one line: “Only God knows how much I love you.”

We sat together on the ground that moment, crying over a woman so beautiful, so seductive, so different from ordinary people, a woman we loved and lost, a woman we can remember through a faded photograph caught between the pages of a beloved book.

–
Image source: deviantart.com/bqw/art/Bookstore-Scene-2-111199036
First written November 27, 2017.
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