In a Narrow Lane Several Blocks Away from Harvard Square, There Stood a Bookshop. The

The Bookshop

By: Derek

In a narrow lane several blocks away from Harvard Square, there stood a bookshop. The building was old: a crumbling brick front punctuated by sheets of foggy Plexiglas. There was no sign, only a battered American flag hanging limply near the doorway. Upon entering, one's eyes were blinded as they struggled to adjust from the bright sunlight to the dim interior. Therefore, the nose reported first. Strange smells -- exotic scents from faraway lands -- assaulted it. A beautiful blend of jasmine, peppermint, and lemon wafted through the shop. One's eyes soon adjusted, revealing a breathtaking sight: glorious stacks of books, soaring upward into the darkness! Thousands of books covered every wall in the shop: books concerning history, philosophy, literature, and religion. When viewed from the entryway, the books blended to form a warm mottled brown. I would come here as a boy, with my mother. We went to the shop every week, where she had scholarly conversations with the proprietor. He was an aging Chinese gentleman, and for most of my childhood I considered him the smartest man in the world. He wore a tattered burgundy robe, and always had a cup of Earl Gray within reach. His face was a mass of wrinkles, and although he bore a constant frown, I always knew that he was glad to see my mother. He would reach below the worn countertop and draw out a special stack of books he had put aside just for her perusal. As a rule I took no part in these academic discussions; usually I bounded straight up the rickety spiral staircase. Before arriving at the top landing, I would crouch as low as possible and stealthily crawl up the last few steps. With a shout I would startle Tiki, the green parrot, and send her swooping down to land on the shoulder of her master. In triumph I arrived at the top -- my favorite part of the shop. Bright sunlight, streaming from a solitary window, cut through the gloom. I delighted in kicking up plenty of dust, watching it sparkle in the light. My mother's voice would drift up from below, pleased in rediscovering some new bit of ancient knowledge. She was researching Ancient China, and would have these conversations on a weekly basis. I would hear them only occasionally, for the piles of books lying everywhere swallowed most of the noise. Only a small fraction of the books actually fit into the original bookcases; most of the volumes were stacked in cheap wooden shipping crates. The old gentleman never came up to that loft, preferring to guide the customer from below. He seldom left his stool at all. Soon I would hear my mother calling for me, and I would stagger back down the metal stairs under a load of books -- perhaps all the red books, or the ones with gold letters on the spine. My mother would good-naturedly make me return them, and only then could we depart. Unfailingly, the old gentleman would halt us at the door. Rising from his stool, he would fish around in his pockets, eventually producing a candy bar, or maybe a bag of M&M's. At this point my mother would protest, saying that I had far too many sweets as it was. Nevertheless, the gentleman would always win, and I would leave with a delicious treat.

Returning to Cambridge many years later, I looked for the old haunt -- but it had succumbed to the ills of progress. The place had been restored, and an internet cafe occupied the purged building. I hesitantly stepped inside. The books were gone, and the garishly lit interior reeked of Windex. They said that the old fellow had died of liver cancer less than five months before. I nodded, and then ordered a cup of Earl Gray.