Dearest George,
Tonight I run my hands against the soft mylar plastic that guards a beloved possession of mine; my first edition, first printing of E.B. White's Trumpet of the Swan. I always meant to ask you when I saw you at the shop; when you whispered in my ear that you would turn your head if I wanted to steal that book I wanted but was in the library, so it wasn't for sale; and when you'd pass through the main room of your flat when one of your friends would host a Sunday afternoon tea - did you remember me? I came in with a man you called a giant. You teased him about being too tall while I jumped on one of the beds, which you told me had real bed bugs in them. You handed me the book and told me I should read it. I didn't understand you. I didn't speak English yet. That giant of a man was my father Henri, and he translated what you said to me while I was merely disappointed it wasn't a book I could go home and read.
A few years later I left on a plane for America. I had a rather strict British English tutor. She's the reason why I spell some words with the British spelling, though honestly the way the Irish speak English is sort of my favourite. Once I had a basic understanding of the language and some vocabulary I started to read the book my father bought for me in your shop.
Over my lifetime of thirtyoff odd (you would have appreciated that typo) years I've been given a lot of recommendations about which books I should and shouldn't read. Now I don't think you peered down at the younger me and saw into my soul or anything. I know you just thought it was a good book for any child. And it was.
I fell in love with Louis right away. Every time I see a swan I see Louis with his trumpet and his chalkboard tied around his graceful downy neck and a stick of chalk stuck in his bill. I'm old enough now to know most swans are bastards. Classic not judging books by their covers, no matter how beautiful those covers may be. I live along the canal and when two swans were in trouble, I paid a hefty sum of money to have them transported to a cleaner, safer place. I went to the store and bought them lettuce and watercress - it wasn't the Ritz, but I did it out of love.
I did it out of love for a bird in a work of fiction.
When I moved back to France and settled in Paris it was natural that I should return there. Upstairs amongst the bookshelves I fell in love. Not just with the books that would never be for sale, but really in love with a man who will always be the love of my life. Sometimes Colette would run through frantically looking for you. I used to put treats in my pockets for her, explaining to my dog they were for Colette. I always gave her love because she was an extension of you to me. I know you loved her, though for a long time you called her Kitty, and like you she was always going from person to person excitedly. Sometimes just to poke you with a cold nose; sometimes for a belly scratch. It depended on her mood. You were like that too.
I will miss you George. I will miss all that you stood for. I will miss all that your bookstore meant to this city and to all us writers and readers and lovers of characters. It was a sort of home to me. It was the place where my dreams started coming true.
You and your spirit lives on in all of us who have been to your little spot at kilometer zero and had the priviledge of taking away with us some small smudge of dust or volume that like you will always remain with us.
Good-bye George and hello.
Ama
Tonight I run my hands against the soft mylar plastic that guards a beloved possession of mine; my first edition, first printing of E.B. White's Trumpet of the Swan. I always meant to ask you when I saw you at the shop; when you whispered in my ear that you would turn your head if I wanted to steal that book I wanted but was in the library, so it wasn't for sale; and when you'd pass through the main room of your flat when one of your friends would host a Sunday afternoon tea - did you remember me? I came in with a man you called a giant. You teased him about being too tall while I jumped on one of the beds, which you told me had real bed bugs in them. You handed me the book and told me I should read it. I didn't understand you. I didn't speak English yet. That giant of a man was my father Henri, and he translated what you said to me while I was merely disappointed it wasn't a book I could go home and read.
A few years later I left on a plane for America. I had a rather strict British English tutor. She's the reason why I spell some words with the British spelling, though honestly the way the Irish speak English is sort of my favourite. Once I had a basic understanding of the language and some vocabulary I started to read the book my father bought for me in your shop.
Over my lifetime of thirty
I fell in love with Louis right away. Every time I see a swan I see Louis with his trumpet and his chalkboard tied around his graceful downy neck and a stick of chalk stuck in his bill. I'm old enough now to know most swans are bastards. Classic not judging books by their covers, no matter how beautiful those covers may be. I live along the canal and when two swans were in trouble, I paid a hefty sum of money to have them transported to a cleaner, safer place. I went to the store and bought them lettuce and watercress - it wasn't the Ritz, but I did it out of love.
I did it out of love for a bird in a work of fiction.
When I moved back to France and settled in Paris it was natural that I should return there. Upstairs amongst the bookshelves I fell in love. Not just with the books that would never be for sale, but really in love with a man who will always be the love of my life. Sometimes Colette would run through frantically looking for you. I used to put treats in my pockets for her, explaining to my dog they were for Colette. I always gave her love because she was an extension of you to me. I know you loved her, though for a long time you called her Kitty, and like you she was always going from person to person excitedly. Sometimes just to poke you with a cold nose; sometimes for a belly scratch. It depended on her mood. You were like that too.
I will miss you George. I will miss all that you stood for. I will miss all that your bookstore meant to this city and to all us writers and readers and lovers of characters. It was a sort of home to me. It was the place where my dreams started coming true.
You and your spirit lives on in all of us who have been to your little spot at kilometer zero and had the priviledge of taking away with us some small smudge of dust or volume that like you will always remain with us.
Good-bye George and hello.
Ama
