The man viewed his new customer with suspicion, as if she’d suggested something illicit. ‘I’m the owner of this dump, or should I say fine establishment.’ He extended his paw-like hand. ‘Name’s Razoo.’
‘I’m Helen,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Razoo … it’s an unusual name. Really quite lovely. Razoo. Razoo,’ she repeated as if giving it her stamp of approval. ‘May I ask, what are the origins of your name?’
Razoo looked at Helen with even more distrust. The ‘pleased’ and ‘lovely’ had thrown him. And the way she went on about his name, a bit too much attention for a deadbeat like himself. Unaccountably, he felt the need to explain. ‘Real name’s John. I got called Razoo on account of my old man always telling me I wasn’t worth a brass razoo.’
‘Oh,’ was all Helen could manage, such was her regret for enquiring. ‘Would you prefer to be called John then?’
‘Shit no. Razoo’s fine.’ He wondered what tribe she came from; then again there was something about her he liked.
‘You do sell books?’ said Helen.
‘Unfortunately. Should burn the bloody lot. Be a damn sight more useful. Keep me warm in winter.’
‘May I buy some? Please. Before you burn them.’
‘Suit yerself. C’mon, follow me.’ He turned, making his way back the way he had come. Keeping the leashes short, he led the Rottweilers. Helen eyed them nervously.
Sensing she wasn’t following him, Razoo called out without turning to look at her. ‘Don’t take any notice of ’em. And don’t make any sudden movements. They don’t like it. Almost took a chunk out of the last chap who moved too quickly. And stop being scared. They know it.’ He stopped and turned. ‘Come on. We ain’t got all day.’
She followed Razoo inside, through what seemed like an everlasting succession of caves of tin and pieces of wood, with books towering over both sides of the narrow corridor that wound its way between them. The floor was covered with grubby carpet scraps, a different pattern to each piece and jammed together so their edges either overlapped or pursed up. Fluorescent lighting filled the rooms with a ghastly pallor. But despite the bizarre interior, the sight of the books had an immediate effect on Helen; she felt she was in Aladdin’s cave surrounded by treasure.
Razoo stopped. So did the dogs and three pairs of eyes balefully appraised her. ‘Have a wander about, a sniff, see what ya think,’ offered Razoo.
Helen looked closer at the books stacked closest to her, becoming aware that they varied enormously in condition, from poor to good to excellent. A lot were perfectly good.
‘My, you have a lot of books,’ she commented, visualising them in her shop.
‘A dollar apiece. You take the good with the bad.’
Helen did her sums. It was an excellent price. ‘One dollar per book?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Good. Would you like to leave me while I make my selection,’ she trilled, barely able to contain her excitement.
‘Selection?’ Razoo squeaked. This new and naive customer confounded him.
‘And I take it they’re organised in some sort of order? By genre?’
Razoo emitted an uncomfortable laugh. It was a low sad sound, and it made Helen guess he was hiding something. Brief though the laugh was, it prompted the Rottweilers to go off again, snarling and barking at Helen, who screamed out loud.
Razoo regained control of himself. Winching in the leashes around both hands he dragged the dogs away from his customer. ‘Shut up! Lousy good for nothing buggers.’ His bellowing had the desired effect. The dogs shied away, slightly.
Razoo looked at Helen. ‘Na. None of the books are in the order you said.’
‘Genre.’
‘Fancy word, but I ain’t got no use for it.’
‘I wonder which books I should select then. I’m just opening up a new second-hand bookshop,’ she explained, the strain audible in her voice.
‘Take what you’re given. Lot faster. I mean, you’re gonna need thousands of books to kick off.’
‘I’d like the best,’ Helen pronounced.
‘The best? What’s that then? You can never underestimate people’s taste too much. Let them pick the winners. Make ’em feel special.’ He gazed at her speculatively. ‘Maybe you’re like me, a dreamer. You want the best for others. But they won’t appreciate it. Don’t ask me what’s in this lot. Can’t read proper. All I read is the racing guide.’
He shrugged at her puzzled expression. ‘This line of work. The money’s shit. But it’s a job, all the same, moving shit. You don’t gotta read it.’ He laughed short and loud, a barking sound like his black and tan companions.
‘I expect you’re wondering how I got this place. Well, someone with a warped sense of humour dropped me in it. Weird inheritance, all right. But I had nothing better to do … so … here I am.’
Helen felt overawed as she surveyed the stacks. Hundreds of thousands of books. Billions of words, millions of chapters. How could someone semi-literate have such a job? Helen caught herself short, aware of her propensity to be a snob; it was a trait she hated.
Razoo was fascinated by the way she stood gaping at the books. Most buyers bought without browsing. This woman was a novelty. ‘Just say how many you want and I’ll deliver. That’s how everyone else does it. Believe me, nobody worries about picking books, special.’
‘Where do you get them all?’ she asked, angling her head to read the titles.
‘Here and there. Mostly deceased estates.’
Helen’s mouth went dry. The Rottweilers could have jumped her and she wouldn’t have raised a finger. ‘Deceased estates?’ She straightened up slowly, her eyes still on the book spines.
‘Yeah. That’s how ya get second-hand books. Mainly offa dead people. Or their rellies, really.’
She felt defeated; what was it about her that attracted this sort of thing?
Razoo, oblivious to Helen’s distress, prattled on. ‘It’s amazing how many people have libraries in their own houses. Then when they die, well … the vultures swoop, looking for the kill … sell up the lot.’
She felt sick. The blow she been dealt was a bolt from the blue. With a hand covering her eyes she began to cry.
‘What ya bawling about? Don’t do that. You’ll get the dogs going stupid again.’
As if on command the Rottweilers commenced their racket. ‘Follow me,’ he screamed above them, and pulling the dogs tight he guided her further along the corridor into a tiny room, which was his kitchen. He opened a door, pushed the dogs through it, and closed the door on them. Their howling continued until Razoo plunged an arm in a sack and brought out a large scoop of dog biscuits. He carefully opened the kitchen door and threw the biscuits at the dogs. Silence ensued.
Razoo closed the door, threw the scoop back into the sack, and turned to Helen. ‘Well, this is the office, inner sanctum, nerve centre, whatever,’ he laughed, waving his hand at the space before them.
The kitchen was rough; a room assembled out of old building remnants. Its sink, largely devoured by rust, had one tap that dripped a steady dribble of water onto a stack of greasy dishes. Streamers of black cobwebs hung low from one end of the room to the other. The table was covered in racing guides and a large radio sat in the middle of it all with its aerial stretched and angled like an antenna seeking out the thunder of horses’ hoofs belting down a racecourse.
Razoo grabbed the only chair in the kitchen and offered it to Helen. She sat down. He then took an empty milk crate, one of many scattered around the room, tipped it upside down and plonked himself on it. ‘What’s up luv? You got troubles visiting you, or something?’ he asked sincerely, while handing her a tea towel.
She took the filthy cloth, wiping the last of her tears with the back of her hand instead of the tea towel, yet holding on to it so as not to offend her host.
She looked through her weary tear-stained eyes to see his face etched with concern. ‘You’re very kind Mr Razoo.’
‘Ahh don’t call me Mr. It’s what the cops use to call me when I got into strife back in my younger days.’ Lifting his voice on the word ‘younger’ as though it were a time frame in which it was understood that everyone misbehaved, and youth excused everything.
She smiled faintly. Back in one’s younger days, she thought, back before it all started, back when things were good, back when there was little personal history to hold you up.
She leaned across the table towards Razoo. ‘Do you believe in books being haunted? That the previous owners come back as ghosts?’
‘Na. Can’t afford to, can I? And nor can you. Not if you’re going to run a second-hand bookshop.’
She sighed deeply. Could she do it? Could she live with books that came laced with nightmares, ready to unleash their ghosts come the night?
‘You can always have ’em blessed luv. Get a priest to sprinkle ’em with holy water. Or stick crucifixes around the shop.’
She studied Razoo. He wasn’t joking. He rubbed his great lump of a hand across his face before speaking again. ‘Gotta make a living.’
Yes, thought Helen, that was true. How could she have been so dim? Second-hand books had to come from somewhere. But for today she couldn’t bring herself to buy them. She gave him back the tea towel and made her excuses for leaving and Razoo guided her out of the book plant with the dogs in tow.
Outside, the sight of creamy yellow freesias took her aback. She’d forgotten that it was now spring. Her mind was all dark storm clouds, thunder and lightning as she sat in her car with the mud-encrusted tissues on her lap. What to do?
*
Arnold wasn’t about to let Gabriel off the hook. He wanted revenge. And the best way, he figured, was not to tackle Gabriel head on about his deceit, but to let him run with it. More, Arnold had decided he’d play his own part in the Big Lie as best he could. Let’s see how Gabriel liked being the butt of a lie.
Gabriel was slumped in a sofa watching TV when Arnold plonked himself down next to him. It was a tight fit, and Gabriel was squashed against the armrest.
‘Where are we now, son? End of September. Ella, well she’ll be sixteen weeks gone.’
‘You’re the expert,’ said Gabriel, annoyed at the intrusion, at being hemmed in by his father’s hefty body.
‘When am I going to see her then?’
‘Listen here T-Rex, you know when.’
Arnold closed his eyes.
Without shifting his gaze from the television Gabriel added, ‘I’m not bringing her here until this dump is cleaned up.’
‘I’m trying. In fact I think I’m nearly there, son.’
‘Let’s just hope it happens before the baby has its tenth birthday. Hey?’
Arnold ignored the last remark as the TV took his attention.
‘Change the channel, will ya? What are we doing watching a soap opera?’
Indeed, thought Gabriel, then again, he realised that ironically he was living in one, with his father starring opposite him. There had been a lot of drama with nothing to show for it. A sense of inertia had fallen on Gabriel. His father was a lost cause; he hadn’t moved one single piece of junk.
‘I like this show,’ replied Gabriel. ‘This guy’s got amnesia and forgotten he’s got a wife and two kids.’
‘Half his luck,’ said Arnold.
*
And so the toing and froing between Helen’s empty bookshop and Razoo’s Book Plant began. Razoo didn’t worry too much about Helen’s hesitancy. She came regularly, staying for an hour or two, staring at the books as if they’d committed a crime. He gave her hot milky tea in chipped mugs, which she drank from gratefully. And he, in turn, began to enjoy her company, even curbing his swearing.
One day as Helen was surveying the books, Razoo approached her. ‘What’s bothering you?’
‘These books, their owners are dead. The dead bother me. When I have their stuff, they haunt me,’ she said, continuing to stare at the books as though she was looking at urns full of human ashes.
‘Strewth,’ said Razoo as if comprehending her dilemma for the first time. ‘But these books are mine. I paid for ’em. And the dead, well somehow they know that and they leave me be.’
She turned to face him. ‘I’m scared of them.’
Razoo, with a sweep of his head, encompassed the books around them. ‘Dead is dead. These books, they’re fine. They’ve never spooked me and that’s because I own them. And I’m not dead. Am I?’
The dogs gave a low growl of agreement.
Helen studied him, thinking over his argument. It made sense; still she hesitated, it seemed too good to be true. An easy way out. She was poised to leave, to consider yet again, but was startled by a clear image of Vivian lying in his bed. The mantra, ‘Give me a reason to get out of bed,’ rang in her head. His depression had begun the moment the clean up was over. He needed activity to get him moving. She knew what had to be done. ‘Time I bought some books then. Can you deliver them?’
‘How many?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Who’s running the bookshop, you or me?’
‘Me, but I can’t decide.’
‘Start with five thousand then. A good mix. Cost you five grand. Pay me as you sell ’em.’
‘Five thousand cash,’ repeated Helen, still unaccustomed to dealing with large amounts of money.
‘Crikey, I just told you, pay me as you sell ’em.’
Another easy solution, too easy. Helen vacillated again.
Razoo, mistaking her hesitancy, said, ‘Want them for nothing?’
‘Oh no. It’s just … of course I’ll buy them, please.’
‘You’re on!’
16
Standing on the pavement Helen looked at the sky and snivelled with despair. A ruffle of black clouds hung low, threatening to drop their watery load at any moment.
She stood, shoulders slumped, a picture of desolation as her eyes surveyed the books that had been poured onto the pavement from a tip truck twenty minutes earlier, at six a.m. to be precise. She’d been up on the top floor, emptying the buckets, which had filled from the leaks in the roof, and had not heard the truck until it was too late. Razoo, afflicted with shyness, guilt, contempt, or possibly all three, had failed to stop for a chat, or announce his arrival. He’d thrown a tarpaulin over the books but it only half covered them.
She cursed the man, and cursed the books that resembled a mountain range spilling onto the road. Was this how you delivered five thousand second-hand books?
She felt the first drops of rain as she hefted an armful of books to her chest. She stood up straight. A grey wash had descended, giving the streetscape a mournful appearance. What was she to do? The books were doomed; they’d be waterlogged within the first ten minutes of a heavy downpour.
Running inside the shop she leapt up the stairs and stood at the end of Vivian’s bed, still hugging the books to her chest. ‘I cannot do this on my own,’ she declared.
Vivian studied her from his pillow.
‘I’m sorry you’re … feeling depressed. But I really need your help, right now. It’s starting to rain and there’s five thousand books out there needing to be brought in.’
Vivian contemplated his mother and her predicament. He weighed it all up and as if by some invisible force, inched his way out of bed, dragged a windcheater and a pair of jeans over his pyjamas, pulled on his joggers, and without looking at her said, ‘Let’s go.’
They had a wheelbarrow, which they filled and refilled over the course of the day, carting load after load into the shop and stacking them against the walls and the shelves.
Despite scattered showers throughout the day only a few books were spoiled. Razoo’s tarpaulin and Helen’s raincoat spread over the wheelbarrow saw to that.
It was evening when they carried in the last of the books; both of them were sopping wet, and cold. Vivian gave a violent shiver, rippling the air around him, and Helen felt a twinge of guilt. He didn’t have an ounce of fat on him to
keep him warm.
‘Better go and have a shower,’ she said.
Vivian did as he was told.
*
The rain that had been falling on and off all day now built itself into a deafening drum as Helen and Vivian sat in the dying light going over the books.
Vivian held up a well-thumbed book titled Brunette Babes. The silver embossed lettering stood out against tanned flesh hanging out of a red bikini. ‘You picked this?’
‘No, Razoo said it was best not to select. Take what you’re given.’
She was making a stack out of cookbooks when Vivian pointed out, ‘No one cooks these days Mum.’
‘How do they eat?’
‘Out.’
‘Out,’ Helen repeated wearily. What would a twenty-five year old know, she reflected despairingly. ‘Better get dinner started then, seeing as we’re eating in.’
Vivian stood up. ‘I’ll have a beer first.’
Helen watched him as he slowly crossed the floor and disappeared up the stairs, then turned her attention back to the books lying before her. They spanned every conceivable subject: cars, cats, computers, chess.
There were lots of ‘how to’ books. How to make your first million dollars. How to make friends. How to become an intellectual. How to be beautiful. How to make a cactus garden. How to make history. All the ‘hows’ in the world, thought Helen, and how many succeeded?
She picked up Ten Steps to Happiness, and frowned at the stupidity of its promise. Could Vivian beat his depression? For today, he had, and for that she was grateful. She threw the book aside. Some poor soul would buy it.
She selected another with the bold title Hot Combat and groaned aloud. Who the hell would want this? She thought of Razoo, and cursed him. What did an illiterate man know of books? She spied titles such as The Bride’s Blush and Honeymoon Nights and twitched violently at the thought of their contents.
Amid the dross though were books that gave her hope: Ethan Frome and Jane Eyre; A Fine Balance and A Patchwork Planet. She thought of ringing Razoo in the morning, to see if she could return the worst books, but didn’t like her chances. As she climbed the stairs she berated herself for agreeing to his method of book selling. How were they to sell all those inferior books?
The Bookshop on Jacaranda Street Page 10