by Lily Velez
Then there was the afternoon when Noah, feeling unsociable and perhaps a touch shy, had hung back beside the horse while his brothers greeted a family that was new to town. The man, noting Noah’s silence, asked plainly, “Is your brother deaf and dumb?”
Noah was an oddity to them all. Strange. When it was clear they wouldn’t pull words from him, they’d move on to his friendlier siblings and feel relieved that the plague of silence hadn’t stricken the whole family. No one could quite understand his ways, which is why it had stunned him to hear Jeremie speak three words he never thought anyone would ever speak where it concerned him.
I understand completely.
He understood. He, Jeremie Perreault, understood. The one who loved to tell a story, the one who asked question after question until he fully grasped the subject, the one for whom words were the greatest riches man could know…he understood.
He’d deflected Camilla’s words from himself like swatting away gnats.
He could’ve easily agreed with her. He could’ve laughed with her and marveled at Noah’s severe ineptitude. He could’ve confessed to some burgeoning exasperation with his would-be friend’s infuriating quietness, and no one in town would’ve faulted him for it.
But he hadn’t.
For whatever reason, he hadn’t, and try as he did to resist it, Noah couldn’t help but feel vindicated by that. And as he’d slowly stepped away from the window that afternoon, pulling out of the conversation as if waking from a dream, he wondered if this was what it meant to have a friend.
His thoughts switched to the weight in his pocket. He looked about him to ensure he wasn’t the subject of anyone’s observation, and then he reached his fingers down to check on the object. The metal was hard and warm, its finish as smooth as river stones. He’d recalled Jeremie’s story about the luck of the horseshoe and thought it’d be fitting to present him with a horseshoe of his own, one that Jeremie could hang above the inside doors of the bookshop for good fortune, one Noah had specifically crafted for that very purpose.
He hesitated, though. It was a silly notion, he knew. Childish, some might say. The average person didn’t present a gift to another to express gratitude for kind words spoken. A simple “thank you” sufficed. A gift, however, was certainly much. Perhaps a bit wretched as well. If nothing else, it’d only communicate that Noah was unaccustomed to others speaking of him agreeably.
Then he remembered something. Had not Jeremie presented him with a collection of poetry some time ago? And for what? For the simple fact that Noah had been the first to enter his bookshop.
“We, as God’s children, must all look after one another,” his mother had once said. “As you give, so it is given to you. Measure for measure. So when someone shows kindness to you, you must pass it on. In that way, we spread God’s love.”
His shoulders lifted at the memory. Measure for measure indeed. A horseshoe for a book then. Was that not a worthy exchange? Decision made, he checked one final time for a glimpse of his father, and seeing that the man was nowhere near, he hurried across the dirt road before he could change his mind and pushed his way into the bookshop.
He didn’t think it was possible, but the shop swelled with even more books than last time. They overtook the floors en masse the way leaves, branches, and bark did in the wake of a severe storm. There were more shelving units as well, standing tall and strong like oaks in a forest of books, but their slabs yet laid bare.
Noah navigated his way through the shop, trying to find empty patches of floor amongst the books the way one might look for the stepping stones in a garden. A faint murmuring grew louder as he furthered into the space, and when he finally cleared one last wall of shelves, he saw that Jeremie was speaking to someone.
“Will it be ready within the next few weeks, though? I must have it for the store’s opening.”
“I’m certain that will be no trouble, monsieur.” Noah recognized the man Jeremie spoke to as the town’s woodworker. He crafted the signs for all the storefronts in Avignon.
Noah halted, feeling largely out of place, like an interloper, and he wished he’d stayed beside the dray-cart outside.
Then Jeremie noticed him. His face immediately brightened, like a candle lit. “Noah. What a surprise. What brings you by?”
Noah hesitated, second-guessing himself once more, wondering if he was a fool for bringing the gift. He could say he only wished to check in on the store’s progress, and as uncharacteristic as that would be of him, Jeremie would think nothing of it. Still, the weight in his pocket grew heavier and heavier. He warred with himself a few moments more, but in the end, he pulled the horseshoe from his pocket and extended it to Jeremie, his heartbeats straining as if pulsating from within a fist.
Jeremie’s eyes fell to the object. A second passed as he processed what it was. Then he laughed, and the sound of it pleasantly filled the room like a flood of sunlight when the curtains were drawn.
“A horseshoe!” He took it into his hands with a broad smile, his eyes practically dancing. “Noah, this is marvelous. I’ll hang it with pride, please know. Thank you so very much.”
Noah’s face was hot, and a part of him longed to retreat if only to escape the attention, but he also felt proud. Jeremie clearly took delight in the craftsmanship of the horseshoe in the same way Noah’s farriery clients always did. It was a job well done, and his chest swelled even as it slightly trembled.
“I’m glad you’re here actually,” Jeremie said then. He exchanged a few more words with the woodworker before thanking him and seeing him off.
He turned back to Noah. “A shipment of books has arrived for me on the outskirts of town. Would you be at all able to accompany me? I could use the assistance. It’s quite the load.”
Noah’s first instinct, as always, was to decline. He’d come only to deliver the horseshoe, and he had a ready excuse in that his father would be waiting for him by now. But as he put together the words in his mind, Jeremie had fetched a wooden stool and was already nailing the horseshoe above the doors right where Noah had imagined it would be, and seeing that, Noah, despite his weeks of evasion, despite his still existent uncertainties, and despite his very nature, somehow surprised himself by saying yes, he would help Jeremie with the books.
Little did he know how much that one decision would change the rest of his summer.
9
As it happened, Noah ended up helping Jeremie with his books several more times throughout the rest of June.
They adopted a pattern amongst themselves, one that was wordlessly established. Jeremie continued with his regular visits to the Capet farm, speaking with Noah or reading aloud from a new book while Noah crafted horseshoes, shod horses, bathed and groomed them, cleaned out the stables, or tended to the other livestock. Noah, surprising himself, slowly grew accustomed to the other’s presence. That it had ever bothered him at all now seemed silly and laughable. Understanding that Jeremie held no expectations of how Noah should act (or how much he should speak), Noah was free to be himself. It brought great ease, and soon he almost looked forward to Jeremie’s company.
Often, Noah’s sister Margaux would join the two, typically while cradling a bummer lamb in her arms, this despite Noah’s repeated warnings that they’d never get a ewe to accept the lamb if Margaux kept coddling it.
“Then I’ll keep him all to myself,” she said, nuzzling the lamb’s silken face from her perch on a bale of hay in the barn.
“A bummer lamb?” Jeremie asked.
“An orphan,” Margaux explained. “In this one’s case, he was the smaller twin, and his mother rejected him for lack of milk, so now we get to raise him ourselves. Once he’s strong enough, we’ll have to return him to the herd, but I wish I could carry him around like this for the rest of his life.”
Noah reminded her she wouldn’t feel similarly once the sheep matured to full size and weighed more than she did.
She grinned. “Then I’ll simply tie a ribbon around his neck and take him
everywhere I go. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.” She pressed a kiss to the lamb’s cheek. “But Jeremie, tell me all about the bookshop now. How is it coming along?”
“New books arrive every week,” Jeremie said. “But I can hardly keep up with them all. I could use some assistance with getting organized to be quite honest. Otherwise, I fear I won’t be ready to open in time for the Saint Agricola festival.”
Then he’d asked Noah if he might spare a few hours for that very task from time to time, which is how Noah regularly found himself in the warpath of Jeremie’s bounty of books. He came once a week, not counting the times he briefly stopped in while in town to trade (always equipped with a slice from his mother’s most recent pie, using it as an excuse, as if the woman had forced him to say hello).
And each time he visited, his eyes paid tribute first to the horseshoe hanging above the interior doors, and he’d derive a sense of satisfaction—perhaps even enjoyment—from its display.
“Books, books, and more books,” Jeremie would say, stepping around towers of tomes like a king with more riches than he knew what to do with.
Even now, only half the shelving units smiled at them with uneven volumes for teeth. Noah wondered if Jeremie didn’t simply spend his time reading books all day instead of dutifully shelving them. Nonetheless, they made progress. The air, for one, no longer smelled stale, as if the shop were preserving something, or worse yet, as if a person were inhaling ghosts with every breath. Noah had convinced Jeremie to open the windows and doors instead of entombing himself and his books like some modern-day Egyptian. Once Jeremie could be sure no harm would come to his collection (they spent the morning moving shelves away from the windows), he acquiesced. Finally, pillars of yellow light slanted into the space like the sloping flying buttresses of a cathedral, and the air became fresh and breathable at last.
The occasional, curious townsperson would at times peek in, asking when the shop was to open, and Jeremie would ensnare them with spirited conversation so that it was sundown by the time they continued on their way, wishing Jeremie all the best with his new venture, promising to become a loyal patron. For the most part, though, the shop remained a quiet haven, and the swelling heat of the summer doubly made it an ideal retreat for Noah. He’d grab a crate or two of books upon arriving, position himself before a half-finished shelf, and then begin organizing as Jeremie had shown him.
The books came in all sizes. There were light ones and heavy ones, large ones the size of tombstones and ones smaller than his hand. Some had covers made of tattered cloths as abrasive as gravel while others boasted the smooth covers that came only from animal hides such as calfskin.
“I’ve eagerly awaited this shipment for months now,” Jeremie said one evening, carefully cutting into a package that had just arrived by horse courier.
Noah, who was in the middle of alphabetizing the four books in his hands, glanced over in time to catch the look of awe on Jeremie’s face as he peered down into the open packaging. It was like the sudden glow on a cloudy day when the sun had found a patch in the sky through which to peek.
Jeremie reached in and gently lifted the topmost book. “What an absolute treasure. Noah, you must come see this.”
When Noah came to his side, he saw a book that looked more like a work of art than anything else.
“Elaborate gold tooling all throughout,” Jeremie said about the cover. “This is how they decorate their books in Italy and Spain. They picked it up from the Islamists. It gives the book a regal appearance, don’t you think?” He touched his fingertips to the gold impressions and traced their shapes across the cover with the utmost reverence, as if touching the marbled foot of a saint at a shrine. “A gilded spine. Multicolored onlays. Hand-sewn double endbands. It is, without a doubt, masterful binding.”
He continued marveling. “I admit, part of the allure of establishing this shop was the simple opportunity to surround myself with books just like this. But I’m not so idealistic as to believe I can make my way in the world without some sort of livelihood. The bookshop is for pleasure, but this…” He gestured to the lavishly decorated book. “I hope to make books like this one day, to become a master binder.”
Noah was surprised by the confession. He didn’t think people of Jeremie’s standing pursued such trades. Then again, he supposed it could hardly be considered work with the way Jeremie clearly worshipped the craft.
For the rest of the evening, Jeremie reviewed book after book from the new shipment, explaining the intricacies of their elaborate ornamentation and binding, passing each one to Noah so that he could study the artistry for himself.
“Look here. This book dates itself. See how the title is lettered in ink on the fore-edges of the pages? There was a time when books were shelved spine-in, and this was how you identified them. Then came along Jean Grolier de Servières. He was a well-known bibliophile, and he was one of the first collectors to have the titles of his books lettered on their spines. His own collection numbered in the hundreds. I can’t even describe the exhilaration I would feel if ever I stumbled upon a Grolier book. They’re considered enormously valuable.”
He showed Noah another book. “This one’s bound in full vellum that has been hand-painted. And look at this one here: the entire cover is decorated with seed pearls and bullion.”
He shook his head, a child among playthings and confections who didn’t know where to begin. “I feel what most moves me about these works is how they’ve outlasted their own artists. Here before us are books that are centuries old, Noah. It’s almost as if through the things an artisan creates, he achieves a sort of immortality. It’s a beautiful concept.”
Noah’s eyes were no longer on the books. They were on Jeremie. To Noah’s family and the townspeople of Avignon, Jeremie was the gregarious conversationalist. Joyful, enthusiastic, almost carefree in a way. Here, he talked about art and immortality, as if his very soul hungered for both.
Jeremie met his eyes. “You must think me absurd. The son of a wealthy businessman, taken by the bookbinding trade. It’s laughable, I know.”
Noah shook his head. He didn’t think that at all.
“No?”
“No,” he said. He didn’t elaborate, but he thought about Jeremie’s expression when he’d beheld the new books in all their splendor. He thought about how he was almost certain it was the very same expression he wore internally whenever he crafted the perfect horseshoe.
10
“You truly have never wished to live anywhere but here?”
Noah and Jeremie stood on the Pont d’Avignon, a twelfth-century, stone bridge that branched out across the Rhône river—but only halfway. Only halfway because over a century ago, a devastating flood had swept away the rest, leaving the bridge in a permanent state of disrepair.
It was early July, and the sun was setting. Overhead, clouds the color of apricots stretched long across the sky as the sinking sun, its edges rippling as the horizon swallowed it whole, transformed the river under the bridge to liquid gold, as if with the Midas touch. Below, fishing boats bobbed in the water as their boatmen tethered the vessels and unloaded their last catches of the day—trout, sander, and pike among them, their slimy skins shining the way paved roads did in the rain.
Noah shook his head in response to Jeremie’s question.
“But how can that be?”
Noah tore off a piece of the tartine he held and ate it. Though it was nothing more than a simple, toasted baguette slathered with goat cheese and honey, the insides of his cheeks tingled at the sweet taste.
“Then again, Avignon has proven to be a lovely oasis.” Jeremie looked out at the panoramic view of the town. A church bell chimed in the distance, its Gothic tower piercing the sky like a knight’s lance. Other steeples and spires reached toward heaven similarly, like waiting hands outstretched for alms. The town looked small enough to tuck into a pocket.
“Still, I can’t imagine staying in one place all my life. Not when there’s so much of the w
orld to see.”
Jeremie had recently begun recording destinations for a new pilgrimage. This one would have him behold all the localities noted in his favorite works of literature. He might think of one when a new shipment arrived and rush to write it down. Other times, the thought came while they were elsewhere in town, and he would ask Noah to commit it to mind and then later say, “What was that name I asked you to remember?”
“Lisbon,” Noah would say. Or La Mancha. Or Ithaca. Or Scandinavia. Or Inverness. He wouldn’t be able to point out half of them on a globe.
“Besides, you have such talent,” Jeremie was saying.
Noah looked up at that.
“I’ve seen the horseshoes you make firsthand. You could be tending to Napoleon’s own horses if you wanted.”
Noah waited for him to laugh, but he didn’t.
“It’s true. I think it a shame that Avignon alone should know of your skill.”
Noah wasn’t so sure. It wasn’t as if he’d designed a façade of the Louvre like Jeremie’s ancestor or had chiseled any of the numerous sculptures that sat within it. Jeremie was, as usual, being overly kind.
“You’ve never thought of it?”
“Of what?”
“A life beyond the one you now have.”
Noah hadn’t. Not seriously. He hadn’t traveled the way Jeremie had and so knew of few places to which he’d even go. His family had sometimes roamed to other neighboring towns to trade, but Noah had never found anything particularly exceptional about them. He shrugged, unsure of what to say, wondering if Jeremie thought he lacked ambition.
“Come now. If you could go anywhere in the world, anywhere at all, where would you go? What’s the first place that comes to mind?”