Paul Robertson - According to Their Deeds

“She might be back sometime soon to return the book you loaned her.”

“I don’t think I’ll wait. I’ll just call her.”

“What if she won’t talk to you?”

“I’ll leave a message. It will be a test to see how anxious she is to hear what I have to say.”

“My name is Charles Beale. I’d like to get a message to Congresswoman Liu.”

“I’ll take a message, Mr. Beale.”

“Thank you. Please tell her I asked if she was enjoying the Wisdom Garden I loaned her and I had a question about Derek Bastien and a man named Patrick White.”

“Yes, Mr. Beale. I’ll give this message to her chief of staff.”

“Thank you.”

Charles leaned back in his chair.

“And now, dear, if you aren’t too busy,” Dorothy said.

“I’m never too busy for you, dear.”

“We really should spend a few minutes discussing business.”

“Business. Business? Oh, of course. The bookshop! How is that doing these days, anyway?”

“It is feeling neglected. I would like to discuss the fall catalog with you.”

“Fall catalog. What did we say? We’re featuring European literature, and travel literature, plus the usual.”

“Yes.”

“So I need to pick some.”

“We need the pictures and the text to the designer by Monday.”

“Monday. All right. We have sixty pages?”

“Sixty.”

“Mr. Beale?” Alice chirped. “You have a phone call. Congresswoman Karen Liu.”

“That was fast,” Dorothy said.

Charles shook his head.

“Too fast. She is too anxious, Dorothy.”

“Go ahead, dear. That is probably more important than catalog text.”

He picked up his telephone.

“Well, Mr. Beale.”

“Ah, Congresswoman. Thank you so much for calling back-I hardly expected it.”

“I had to,” she bubbled. “I’ve been looking through this garden book and I had to tell you how much I’ve been enjoying it.”

“I’m so glad to hear that.”

“I think I might even buy it.”

“Whatever you like! Please don’t feel at all obliged.”

Charles waited.

“And, Mr. Beale,” she said finally, with many fewer bubbles, “did you have a question about Pat White?”

“Well, I did. The only reason I’m bothering you with it is that he’s mentioned you now a couple times. I wanted to make sure that you knew he had been.”

“And what has he been saying?” There was no expression. Her voice had gone completely flat.

“I suppose you know what he’s been saying about John Borchard?” Charles asked.

“What has he said to you, Mr. Beale?” Still flat.

“Some very serious things. I don’t want to repeat them unless you’ve already heard them from him yourself.”

“I have.” The voice tried to perk up. “Mr. White has been under a great deal of pressure.”

“I know he has,” Charles said. “And I suppose that, in your position, you often are, too.”

“This book you’ve loaned me has been a nice help with that.”

“I’m very glad to hear it. I wonder if I could ever be of more help?”

“With another book?” she asked.

“I don’t know. But I hope you aren’t under the same pressure that Patrick White was.”

There was a pause of several seconds, then Karen Liu’s bright, happy voice was back. “I do hope I have a chance to get back over there to look at your other books. Maybe again this Saturday?”

“I’ll be here,” Charles said.

“Good! I will look forward to it!”

“What did that mean?” Dorothy asked.

“I think it means she has been under the same threat as Patrick White, and they’ve discussed it together.”

“But she isn’t unbalanced, is she?”

“No,” Charles said. “She is still holding up. She will come Saturday, and I have to figure out what I will say.”

“Will you tell her about Derek’s papers?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve only met her twice. I don’t know her well enough to be able to tell.”

“Tell what?”

He tapped his eye. “If she is the real thing.”

“The real what?”

“I don’t know if I trust her. Anyway.” He smiled and used his own bright, happy voice. “The fall catalog!”

“Well… you should start thinking about European literature and travel books.”

“European travel-oh my!”

“What?”

“The UPS man will be here in an hour.”

“Mr. Beale?” Alice asked. “Are you expecting someone?”

“Is it obvious?” he said.

“You’ve been looking out that window for twenty minutes.”

“And I couldn’t even tell you what’s out there. I think I’ve been somewhere else entirely.”

“Anyplace nice?”

“I’ve been wandering the Mediterranean.”

“That would be nice!”

“Well…” He looked wistfully out the window. “It’s been twenty years of war and dangers, and I’d really rather be home. And I don’t know what to expect when I get there.”

“I see.” Alice nodded, very sympathetically. “Twenty years is a long time. They might think you’re never coming back.”

“I know my beloved will always be true.” Suddenly he was alert, focused on the window. “There! There it is!”

The delivery truck came to a stop and the quick young man bounded up the steps. Charles had the front door open.

“Afternoon, Mr. Beale! Sign here.”

“Thank you, Roger. I’ve been waiting for this one. Alice, could you ask Morgan to come downstairs?”

“What do you think?” Morgan asked.

“I’m not sure. It’s very nice,” Charles said. Both of them were just inches above the front cover. “Very, very nice. We’ll open it.”

He put his gloved finger against the page edges and lifted, opening it in the middle. “The typeset is at least 1800s. And the.. . oh my!”

“What?”

“Look close. At the paper.”

“Is it parchment?”

“Vellum, even. This was a very expensive book.”

“What about now?”

“I don’t know yet.” He turned back to the beginning. “Not much of a title page, is it?”

“No date, no publisher, no city,” Morgan said. “Just the title and author.”

“It could maybe be a half title if there were a regular title page after it.” He shook his head. “But the book is still very nice.”

“But you don’t recognize it all?”

“No. It’s not any printing I know of. Get that Barlow, will you? Thank you.”

Morgan laid a heavy, modern book on the desk, modern at least compared to the other books in the room. Charles opened it with as much respect.

“Alexander Pope.” He found the page. “Two dozen editions before 1850.” He turned the pages of the Odyssey back to the first printed page. “I’ll say 1830s.”

“What about the signature?”

“Right.” He turned back another page to the inside of the front cover. “That is supposed to be an A?”

“And that’s the P,” Morgan said.

“It isn’t even two words. It’s just one word. Even dead, I think Pope would have signed more clearly than that.” He turned back to the first printed page. “Look. At the very inside edge. See?”

“It looks like…”

“Yes.” Charles closed the book and looked at it from the top. “Yes. You can see here. There was another page, and it’s been removed. You can see just the sliver that was left.”

“That would have been the real title page?”

Charles had the book open. “It’s been cut out.”

“So it was the half title.”

Charles was staring very hard. “I’m not sure. There’s something about it.”

Morgan waited. Charles looked up at the shelves. All four walls of shelves looked back. The shades varied, but they were all brooding hues of brown. The shelves were divided every three feet by vertical braces, and every section was numbered. Some sections were filled; many had spaces. Ceramic blocks held the books upright where the shelf wasn’t filled.