2013/05/13 12:44
I turned around and grabbed a book off the shelf behind me. It was the Modern Library edition of Nostromo, by Joseph Conrad, with slight foxing and the binding shaky.
わたしは振り返って後ろの棚から本を一冊抜き出した。それは
I checked the flyleaf, where I’d priced it reasonably enough at $4.50. I picked up a pencil, casually added a two to the left of the 4, and smiled at him. “It’s twenty-four fifty,” I said, “but your discount brings it down to twenty dollars even. And of course there’s no sales tax, since you’re in the trade.”
He went into his pocket again, but it was the other pocket this time, and he came out with a money clip instead of a gun, which struck me as a vast improvement. He peeled off a twenty while I wrote out a receipt, carefully copying his name from his card. I took his money, slipped his receipt inside the book’s loose front cover, and slid the book into a paper bag. He took it, gave me a look, gave Ray a look, started to say something, changed his mind, and scuttled past Ray and out the door.
“Odd-lookin’ bird,” Ray said, reaching for the card. “‘Tiglath Rasmoulian.’ What kind of name is Tiglath?”
“An unusual one,” I said. “At least in my experience.”
“No address, no phone number. Just his name.”
“It’s what they call a calling card, Ray.”
“Now why in the hell would they call it that? You want to try callin’ him, I’d say you’re shit out of luck, bein’ as there’s no number to call. He in the book business?”
“So he says.”
“An’ that’s his business card? No phone, no address? An’ on the strength of that you gave him a discount and didn’t charge him the tax?”
“I guess I’m a soft touch, Ray.”
“It’s good you’re closin’ early,” he said, “before you give away the store.”
Twenty minutes later I was standing in a gray-green corridor looking through a pane of glass at someone who couldn’t look back. “I hate this,” I said to Ray. “Remember? I told you I hated this.”
“You’re not gonna puke, are you, Bernie?”
“No,” I said firmly. “I’m not. Can we leave now?”
“You seen enough?”
“More than enough, thank you.”
“Well?”
“Well what? Oh, you mean-”
“Yeah. It’s him, right?”
I hesitated. “You know,” I said, “how many times did I actually set eyes on the man? Two, three times?”
“He was a customer of yours, Bernie.”
“Not a very frequent one. And you don’t really look at a person in a bookstore, at least I don’t.”
“You don’t?”
“Not really. What usually happens is we both wind up looking at the book we’re discussing. And if he’s paying by check I’ll look at the check, and at his ID, if I ask him for ID. Of course Candlemas paid me in cash, so I never had any reason to ask to see his driver’s license.”
“So instead you looked at his face, like you just did a minute ago, and that’s how you’re able to tell it’s him.”
“But did I really look at his face?” I frowned. “Sometimes we look without seeing, Ray. I looked at his clothes. I could swear he was a sharp dresser. But now all he’s wearing is a sheet, and I never saw him on his way to a toga party.”
“Bernie…”
“Think about the man you just met in my store. That was no more than half an hour ago, Ray, and you looked right at him, but did you really see him? If you had to do it, could you furnish a description of him?”
“Sure,” he said. “Name, Tignatz Rasmoolihan. Height, five foot two. Weight, a hundred an’ five. Color of hair, black. Color of eyes, green.”
“Really? He had green eyes?”
“Sure, matched his shirt. Probably why he picked it, the vain little bastard. Complexion, pale. Spots of rouge here an’ here, only it ain’t rouge, it’s natural. Shape of face, narrow.”
