“Of course we’re going in there.”
“Is it open?”
—That might actually be important.
The narrow lane between the buildings had opened onto the smallest plazas. Or was it a plaza at all? Hunched shoulders and thick scarves hustled through the alleys on thin sticks wearing fine shoes, protecting the residents from the shopkeepers’ glaring wrought iron gaslights. For all, the cobblestones were of critical concern. There was a place in the background to be had for the price of a drink and a small dish of anchovies and pickled onions, but whether one was a large shape passing in the streets or a pair of beady pupils and the tip of a nose in the inky interior of a bar, the whole scene was dominated by a dramatic horizontal yellow gesture across a black canvas.
But now the sky had opened from between the buildings revealing the full moon, dissolving away the buzzing glow of tungsten filaments. That was enough to have arrived at a ‘somewhere’, and this somewhere had a window.
“What is that?”
“I can’t tell if it’s a store or a house. Are they buying something?”
“I don’t know.”
The man behind the counter was old and plain, and was charming the two ladies standing opposite him. They could have been his daughters, but they were listening to him with the wide eyes and rapt smiles of grandchildren being told a bedtime story. With a big smile, he handed them a small parcel wrapped in paper. One of the ladies extended a delicately gloved hand to receive it.
“Look at all the books. It must be a rare book store.”
“And an expensive one if they’re finishing a sale at nine-thirty at night.”
“There’s no sign."
She paused for a beat.
"We have to go in.”
—At worst, it wouldn’t be the first embarrassment in Venice.
Nobody seemed to be wedging a foot in front of it in protest, so they kept gingerly teasing open the door. The window certainly had not been a vignette, nor had the golden flax wall paint been an illusion created by a savvy merchant’s well-lighted window dressing. As they slipped inside, their sheepish sideways grins went unacknowledged by the shopkeeper and his patrons who continued their conversation as if in their own world. For Americans, being unnoticed making an entrance was strange enough to warrant treating everything on the shelves with utmost care.
And the shelves.
“I think they’re journals. Look, this one’s a calendar.”
The little books looked almost frail because of the simplicity of their construction. The covers of some of the books were heavy paper covered in little Venetian crests. Others were faux-leather or real leather embossed with ancient crests or dragons. All were different colors, shapes and sizes, and there was not a character of text to be found inside. Just a few of them had calendars or notebook lines, and the rest were blank.
“Do you see anything you like?”
It took a mild act of courage to risk breaking the spell.
“Lots of things. Look in the back—that must be the leather.”
Through a small doorway into the back of the shop, finely-tanned leather skins of all colors, shapes and sizes draped over racks. It looked like a rainbow factory, with all the bands of colors waiting to be cut and sewn.
A bell jingled. The ladies had left. Behind the counter, the old man was smiling at them.
“Buona sera,” he said quietly with a little nod.
“Buona…buona sera.”
Probably not Italians. Americans, most likely. He casually went back to his work. Selecting two squares of cardboard, he laid them inside the cover paper blank and applied a little paste with a brush. With an old knife, he carefully cut off the corners of the paper and precisely folded the edges over the cardboard. He then drew a folding bone from beneath the counter and ran it across the folds.
Perfection.
Finally, the book pages were glued into place and lightly pressed.
“Huh. I’ve never seen that done.”
“Neither have I.”
Somehow, in the modern age, it should have been harder. The delicate operation had taken just a minute or two, and each simple gesture had its own unique hypnotism. Measure and cut, measure and paste, measure and press. Book. A book. One single book for one single little boy or girl. And no other.
They stood there for a moment, taking a first look at a newly completed puzzle to consider the results.
“I want to get one for my father.”
“Get whatever you want. For everyone.”
For the next twenty minutes they picked through photo albums, medium-sized journals, small appointment books. Every one was perfect, and yet, on closer inspection the perfect one was hard to find.
“Do you think Steve and Lara would like this?”
“I think so. Look at the dark blue of the leather.”
“It’s between these two. I’m leaning towards St. Mark’s lion rather than the Gryphon, but I like that this one doesn’t have lines. I think he’d prefer the journal without lines if he wants to sketch something small to go with his thoughts.”
The decision was hard. The Gryphon was beautiful, but the gilded Lion of St. Mark with its paw on the Gospel was brilliantly simple—gold embossing on bright red leather.
“Can I see?”
After careful inspection she rendered a verdict:
"Get the Lion."
Before they knew it, every family member had something picked out for them. Somewhere in the shelves, the bookkeeper had hidden a perfect book for each one, as if he had known who was coming the day before.
When they approached the counter, the old man didn’t look up. He finished carefully assembling the book that was in front of him, and after double-checking all the folds, he placed it aside, looked up and smiled.
He said something in Italian.
“Um…”
“Francaise?”
“Desole, ju parle petit Francaise.”
He chuckled.
“Ah, prego.”
Drawing a large, brightly colored and gilded piece of paper from the roll next to the stool, he placed it on the graded work mat in front of him. After measuring, he creased the paper, folded it over, took up a very large work knife with a weathered wooden handle and cut the crease between the folds. The book was placed in the center, and delicately wrapped. Each crease and fold was precise and economical, and without hurry or force, the parcel was perfectly sealed in fresh paper.
He continued wrapping the books, and all of a sudden, stopped. He looked up.
“Something important about this transaction in Italian?”
“Oh dear. Did he ask about the price?”
“I don’t know. I thought I heard something about ‘do you want’.”
He asked again.
“I don’t know what to do.”
She tried something in Italian approximating an apology.
He turned away and reached into a drawer. He pulled out a little packet and offered it. They burst into laughter. It was a packet of tissues. The sniffles from the weather outside had followed them in.
“No, no, grazie mille, grazie mille!”
“Sei secure?”
“Si, grazie!”
The old man laughed with a broad smile, put them back in the drawer, and finished wrapping the books.
“OK. Centinaio di quaranta sette.”
They paid, and with many smiles and international gestures of thanks, walked back out into the night.
They hurried through the sea of multi-colored hats and coats past the glittering window displays selling Murano glass, gilded teacups, hand-painted papier-machet masks and little cafes.
“They are going to love these.”
“I know! My sister is really into journaling right now, and this is perfect. I need to find her a special pen to go with it.”
“Did you see the way he wrapped it? I’ve bought books at stores where they wrapped it in brown paper, but every little part of that from the knife to the paper was a work of art.”
“He folds paper for a living, so I’m not surprised it’s perfect.”
“What must that be like, making books for people in the Old World style of a master craftsman and finding out that people really love what you do?”
“Life-affirming. Not just personally or professionally, but cosmically.”
“Yeah. I think the photo album was the right choice for my brother’s family. Do you like the color?”
“Of course, and so will they. I mean, I don’t think you could go wrong, but the purple was definitely my favorite.”
He slowed, then stopped halfway up the steps of one of the footbridges over a minor canal.
“What?”
“He’s very old.”
“Yes, he’s probably at least eighty.”
“Yeah.”
The full moon was sinking towards the rooftops in the distance.
“What is it?”
"He's going to die soon."
She waited.
“Once he’s gone, that’s it. There are no more of these.”
She took his hand, and they stood there looking out over the water.
“I wonder how many generations that photo album will make it before it finally disintegrates. Do you even keep a journal once it’s full?”
“My dad does. He’s kept them all.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. He kept them.”
The crowd bustled by them.
"We're leaving tomorrow afternoon. We can always come back in the morning and get a few more if you want."
"Nah. Let's just make sure we come back."
"Are you sure?"
He took a deep breath of the night air, and then slowly released it back to the world.
“Yeah. Let's just make sure we come back to Venice again some day. OK?"
"OK."
She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, and they began the long walk back to the apartment again.