The Bookshop
Up on Highstreet where the sidewalks bustle with the people of the city, there is a quiet little shop so small that it is left unnoticed by most pedestrians. From the outside it does look rather dull, hunched between tall buildings, with a bleak, crackling façade and dirty windows. If anyone cared to stop in front of it to peer through the smudged glass, they would see very little, and would soon lose interest. They would take a step back, shake their heads and continue on their way. They would never know what they are missing.
For behind the unattractive wall, past the handwritten sign that bids all readers welcome, a strange world of letters and wonders awaits the true bibliophile.
Over the years The Bookshop has become a gathering palce for booklovers of all kinds, and apart from the occasional mythic creature of literature that has somehow strayed into this most unusual place and decided to stay, every guest has found their way into the shop in much the same fashion:
Walking the streets of the city, thinking pleasant thoughts or pondering over a question of great importance, the customer is inexorably drawn towards the little shop. Suddenly, they find themselves at the creaking wooden door and before they know how or why, they reach out for the knob and the door opens to the sound of tinkling bells. A short, brown-skinned young lady with long dark hair looks up from a sheaf of papers on which she has been writing another chapter of her never-ending novel, and smiles at the new guests – for, to her, all customers are guests – and she welcomes them and bids them come in. The door closes with another tinkling of bells, and the shopkeeper introduces herself as Silwen, and is there anything she can help them with?
The guest is surprised by the magnitude of the place and the strong bookish smell that comes from the storage of old papers. The keeper’s desk is situated on the left side almost underneath the stairs to the upper stories. It is full of old books in various stages of aging, loose papers, a number of pens and quills and inkpots. At one end a yellowing globe and the cash register mark the end of the large desk. Around the room, the walls are lined with shelves all the way up to the ceiling. Cupboards and chests spill over with even more books that join the piles on almost every inch of the wooden floor.
The guest finds it difficult to make his way through the piles without upsetting them, but Silwen reassures them, they will soon get used to it, and she weaves her way easily through the shop. Before they know it, they are being led up the creaking, crooked stairs to the upper floor. They are shown through each of the rooms, one as full as the other and no different from the ground floor. Then, another storey and more books. Each floor and almost every room is dedicated to a different category: travel, history, cooking; novels, plays, poetry; English, American, New Literatures; Latin American, Skandinavian, African; all languages, all centuries and all ages. Everything the heart desires. All that has ever been written can be found among these treasures.
“Make yourself at home,†the shopkeeper says. “I’ll make us some tea.†And off she goes through another small door that, just a moment ago, had been a shelf before the unwitting customer can voice a single word of protest.
And this is how they have found this place, this haven in a separate time and space. And few who have ventured here have ever left again, but enjoy the company of like-minded friends. Every so often they are joined by Jane Eyre for a little bit of feminist discussion, or by Pi Patel who tells the most amazing stories of animals, and who is equally conversant in matters of religion and science. In unexpected moments, there are visits from gods and goddesses of myth and other creatures of legend who mingle with the guests and are regarded as very pleasant conversationists.