grinning face, dyed to a bluish swarthiness with ink. The sheen of sweat on his brow. His neck and arms, muscled like a bullock-driver’s from years of heaving the bar. His stained apron and holey stockings.
Look at yourself
.
The days and months and years of apprenticing, the fluid dexterity he’d had to develop as he moved from one step in the process to another, the gallons of ink that he’d no doubt absorbed into his skin, all of it had turned him into a sinuous, oily creature best suited to the dank dungeon of a print shop. People came to him for what they needed, they bantered with him, exchanged jokes and gossip, politely ignored the reek ofthe urine he used to soften the leather ink bats overnight. He was a good listener. People had always confided in him, told him family stories. Secrets.
They would haggle amiably over the price until they saw he would not budge an inch, and then they left, with or without their commissions engaged but always with a smile, usually not to be seen again, unless he caught a glimpse of them frequenting some other printer’s shop.
Unlike the handsome Abbé, he had never been pursued by any woman, let alone a continent of them. He was almost thirty, and the one amatory interlude that had embellished his life thus far had been with the woman who came into his shop early one morning and asked him what he sold besides books. As he began to run through the stock
— prints & mariners’ charts; journals & pocketbooks; embroidered letter-pouches; bills of lading & shipping paper —
she slipped off one glove and ran a slender white finger along the surface of a ribboned stack of envelopes –
best gilt, black-edged, post & plain writing paper; sealing wax & wafers –
she unpinned her hat, shook her hair out, and began to tug at the strings of her bodice …
ink & ink powder … scissors & penknives … bookmarks & booksnakes…
. He never found out the woman’s name or anything about her other than the obvious fact that her passion was aroused less by his charms than by stationery. He looked at his trade with new eyes after that day, aware of just how many solitary women frequented his shop. But after that one frantic encounter, half-clothed atop his desk amid spilling paper, life went on as before.
He was a printer’s son, a printer’s grandson and great-grandson. Despite the notoriety of his creations he was simply a tradesman. The wealthy were the only people who could afford his books, and yet he did not know them. He was appreciatedbest when unseen, like one of the cogs that moved the hands of the immense clock. Or the pumps and gears down in the crypts where Irena had said she’d seen salamanders.
He wound up Ludwig and got him started on a fresh batch of sheets. The printing platform appeared in another mirror, one with a flaw in the glass that caused his reflection to elongate and ripple slightly, as if he had turned to water.
It was as if she were still there before him. The air stirred faintly by the sweep of her gown as she turned. Her slender neck as she reached up to light the candelabra. He saw himself drawn towards a fountain of white flame. Crawling out of cold muck, his hands reaching into the light, to replenish himself in that fire.
– Salamander, he said in a louder voice.
–
Alam
, came the buzzing echo from Ludwig. Djinn’s head shot up from his tray of type.
–
Alam
. Does that mean anything? Flood asked the boy. Djinn nodded. He had learned a little English by this time, but out of shyness or some other motive Flood could not discern, preferred to speak to the printer by way of his craft. His insect fingers scuttled across a tray of italic type and in a moment he handed over his composing stick. Flood spelled out the backwards English phrases.
Flood thrust the composing stick back into the boy’s hand.
– I am not your lord, he said.
Love is always a conspiracy against some part of the world. In the end, Flood could not doubt what had
Look at yourself
.
The days and months and years of apprenticing, the fluid dexterity he’d had to develop as he moved from one step in the process to another, the gallons of ink that he’d no doubt absorbed into his skin, all of it had turned him into a sinuous, oily creature best suited to the dank dungeon of a print shop. People came to him for what they needed, they bantered with him, exchanged jokes and gossip, politely ignored the reek ofthe urine he used to soften the leather ink bats overnight. He was a good listener. People had always confided in him, told him family stories. Secrets.
They would haggle amiably over the price until they saw he would not budge an inch, and then they left, with or without their commissions engaged but always with a smile, usually not to be seen again, unless he caught a glimpse of them frequenting some other printer’s shop.
Unlike the handsome Abbé, he had never been pursued by any woman, let alone a continent of them. He was almost thirty, and the one amatory interlude that had embellished his life thus far had been with the woman who came into his shop early one morning and asked him what he sold besides books. As he began to run through the stock
— prints & mariners’ charts; journals & pocketbooks; embroidered letter-pouches; bills of lading & shipping paper —
she slipped off one glove and ran a slender white finger along the surface of a ribboned stack of envelopes –
best gilt, black-edged, post & plain writing paper; sealing wax & wafers –
she unpinned her hat, shook her hair out, and began to tug at the strings of her bodice …
ink & ink powder … scissors & penknives … bookmarks & booksnakes…
. He never found out the woman’s name or anything about her other than the obvious fact that her passion was aroused less by his charms than by stationery. He looked at his trade with new eyes after that day, aware of just how many solitary women frequented his shop. But after that one frantic encounter, half-clothed atop his desk amid spilling paper, life went on as before.
He was a printer’s son, a printer’s grandson and great-grandson. Despite the notoriety of his creations he was simply a tradesman. The wealthy were the only people who could afford his books, and yet he did not know them. He was appreciatedbest when unseen, like one of the cogs that moved the hands of the immense clock. Or the pumps and gears down in the crypts where Irena had said she’d seen salamanders.
He wound up Ludwig and got him started on a fresh batch of sheets. The printing platform appeared in another mirror, one with a flaw in the glass that caused his reflection to elongate and ripple slightly, as if he had turned to water.
It was as if she were still there before him. The air stirred faintly by the sweep of her gown as she turned. Her slender neck as she reached up to light the candelabra. He saw himself drawn towards a fountain of white flame. Crawling out of cold muck, his hands reaching into the light, to replenish himself in that fire.
– Salamander, he said in a louder voice.
–
Alam
, came the buzzing echo from Ludwig. Djinn’s head shot up from his tray of type.
–
Alam
. Does that mean anything? Flood asked the boy. Djinn nodded. He had learned a little English by this time, but out of shyness or some other motive Flood could not discern, preferred to speak to the printer by way of his craft. His insect fingers scuttled across a tray of italic type and in a moment he handed over his composing stick. Flood spelled out the backwards English phrases.
Flood thrust the composing stick back into the boy’s hand.
– I am not your lord, he said.
Love is always a conspiracy against some part of the world. In the end, Flood could not doubt what had
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