table. She ordered ashe , a
vegetable-noodle soup, and a plate of shireen palow , a
sweet orange-flavored rice with pistachios. As she ate, she
pondered the day's events as well as those of the weekend. Now
that she and James had had sex, would they sleep together every
weekend? She would enjoy that. But perhaps they would go to her
flat instead of his, if the restaurant they chose was closer to
Kings Cross. She must put in some time cleaning. She also
resolved to buy herself some new clothes before Friday: a couple
of pretty dresses, a pair of shoes, and the most critical need
of all, good lingerie. Even if James preferred her naked, she
still wanted to look good taking it off. She was considering a
haircut when George stopped by her table to say hello.
"You need
something salty to go on that shireen palow . Maybe I'll
fry you a nice slice of eggplant."
"That's okay,
George, I'll have it finished faster than that." She hesitated,
and then asked, "Do you still see James Whelan around here?"
"Oh yes, on
Thursdays. He usually gets takeout, but last time he brought
Maggie with him, just like the old days. It's a good thing you
didn't take up with him. I have a friend who's about your age, a
solicitor. Good-looking bloke, and nice. Maybe you'd like to
meet him sometime? I could invite him and seat you at the same
table."
"Thanks, George,
but I've started seeing someone."
"Good. Bring him
here, sometime! I'd like to meet him."
She smiled weakly
at George as he turned back toward the kitchen. So James was
still seeing Magda. There were any number of reasons he could
have for doing so, she told herself. Legitimate ones that didn't
involve their sleeping together. But she felt far from certain.
14.A Very
Satisfactory Transaction
The next day, she
stopped in at Sotheby's and learned that George Patterson, Esq.,
deceased in late 1979, had indeed been a relation of the Martha
Blount who inherited sixty of Alexander Pope's books and most of
his estate. But without a catalog of Pope's library, and without
an ownership inscription in the Horace, she was left in doubt.
She obtained a copy of the Patterson sale catalog, reasoning
that if the Pine had belonged to Pope, then other books in the
sale probably had as well. The next three days were spent
isolating the volumes in the catalog that could have been owned
by Pope, based on publishing dates and other information in the
descriptions. Notices of auction records from old book-trade
periodicals were her next avenue of inquiry. She discovered that
two large lots containing her likely quarry were purchased by an
antiquarian bookseller, J. Roworth, whose store was still in
operation. It was a longshot that anyone there remembered the
Patterson sale, but good researchers left no loose threads. And
besides, thought Laura, it's time I treated myself to a book or
two.
J. Roworth was in
Islington, east of Kings Cross near Barnard Park. Entering the
high-ceilinged shop, she breathed in the familiar scent of old
paper and leather bindings, and feasted her eyes on the laden,
towering shelves, some fitted with sliding glass doors and some
not. There was a jumble of separate, smaller cabinets holding
various bibliophilic treasures, and several cardboard boxes of
books, strategically placed in spots that seemed calculated to
induce stubbed toes or herniated discs. Any wall space not
filled with books held an old print in a dusty gilt frame, and a
heavy, dark library table dominated the center of the long,
narrow room. To the side, at a cluttered desk with a squat
green-shaded reading lamp, sat a man with a mostly bald head,
thick glasses, and a slightly unkempt grey beard. He studiously
ignored her.
This was standard
behavior for booksellers, so she wasn't dismayed in the least.
She browsed about, spending extra time in
vegetable-noodle soup, and a plate of shireen palow , a
sweet orange-flavored rice with pistachios. As she ate, she
pondered the day's events as well as those of the weekend. Now
that she and James had had sex, would they sleep together every
weekend? She would enjoy that. But perhaps they would go to her
flat instead of his, if the restaurant they chose was closer to
Kings Cross. She must put in some time cleaning. She also
resolved to buy herself some new clothes before Friday: a couple
of pretty dresses, a pair of shoes, and the most critical need
of all, good lingerie. Even if James preferred her naked, she
still wanted to look good taking it off. She was considering a
haircut when George stopped by her table to say hello.
"You need
something salty to go on that shireen palow . Maybe I'll
fry you a nice slice of eggplant."
"That's okay,
George, I'll have it finished faster than that." She hesitated,
and then asked, "Do you still see James Whelan around here?"
"Oh yes, on
Thursdays. He usually gets takeout, but last time he brought
Maggie with him, just like the old days. It's a good thing you
didn't take up with him. I have a friend who's about your age, a
solicitor. Good-looking bloke, and nice. Maybe you'd like to
meet him sometime? I could invite him and seat you at the same
table."
"Thanks, George,
but I've started seeing someone."
"Good. Bring him
here, sometime! I'd like to meet him."
She smiled weakly
at George as he turned back toward the kitchen. So James was
still seeing Magda. There were any number of reasons he could
have for doing so, she told herself. Legitimate ones that didn't
involve their sleeping together. But she felt far from certain.
14.A Very
Satisfactory Transaction
The next day, she
stopped in at Sotheby's and learned that George Patterson, Esq.,
deceased in late 1979, had indeed been a relation of the Martha
Blount who inherited sixty of Alexander Pope's books and most of
his estate. But without a catalog of Pope's library, and without
an ownership inscription in the Horace, she was left in doubt.
She obtained a copy of the Patterson sale catalog, reasoning
that if the Pine had belonged to Pope, then other books in the
sale probably had as well. The next three days were spent
isolating the volumes in the catalog that could have been owned
by Pope, based on publishing dates and other information in the
descriptions. Notices of auction records from old book-trade
periodicals were her next avenue of inquiry. She discovered that
two large lots containing her likely quarry were purchased by an
antiquarian bookseller, J. Roworth, whose store was still in
operation. It was a longshot that anyone there remembered the
Patterson sale, but good researchers left no loose threads. And
besides, thought Laura, it's time I treated myself to a book or
two.
J. Roworth was in
Islington, east of Kings Cross near Barnard Park. Entering the
high-ceilinged shop, she breathed in the familiar scent of old
paper and leather bindings, and feasted her eyes on the laden,
towering shelves, some fitted with sliding glass doors and some
not. There was a jumble of separate, smaller cabinets holding
various bibliophilic treasures, and several cardboard boxes of
books, strategically placed in spots that seemed calculated to
induce stubbed toes or herniated discs. Any wall space not
filled with books held an old print in a dusty gilt frame, and a
heavy, dark library table dominated the center of the long,
narrow room. To the side, at a cluttered desk with a squat
green-shaded reading lamp, sat a man with a mostly bald head,
thick glasses, and a slightly unkempt grey beard. He studiously
ignored her.
This was standard
behavior for booksellers, so she wasn't dismayed in the least.
She browsed about, spending extra time in
Similar Books
