The Bookshop on Via del Moro by Julian Gallo

It is a dimly lit bookshop tucked away in a quiet corner of Via del Moro. Carlo just happened upon it. The window is dirty, and the shop doesn’t appear open. He presses his face to the glass, arcs his fingers over his eyes. It is open. There are no customers. Only a solitary figure, an old man with unruly grey hair, standing behind a large oak desk. Numerous books are piled atop the perimeter of the desk. He backs away from the window, wipes the grime from his hands. The books on display are weathered by age and sunlight. 

He opens the door. A bell chimes. The old man behind the desk doesn’t look up. He sorts through a stack of papers, placing each sheet onto its designated pile. The air is heavy with the odor of old paper, leather, and stale pipe tobacco. A cursory glance reveals the shop is not well organized. There are piles of books everywhere, waiting their turn to be sorted, to find a home on the dusty bookshelves. The old man doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to do so. 

As Carlo browses, it’s increasingly clear they will not have what he is looking for, an Italian translation of his old novel. He knows they once existed, but he no longer has any. He’d given them away. He doesn’t remember giving them away or to whom. That’s how things were in those days. 

The books in the shop are mostly Italian editions of old classics: Tolstoy, Dostoyevski, Dickens, and Italians such as Giovanni Verga and Luigi Pirandello, along with Italian editions of Hemingway and Faulkner. Everything else is unknown to him. He finds no contemporary authors. 

Other than books, there are various other curios, as well as a bin full of old maps and prints. He’s overwhelmed by the sensation that he’d been there before. He looks around the shop. A soft ballet of dust pirouettes around the exposed incandescent lightbulbs. Then comes the odor of pipe tobacco. The old man behind the desk watches him over the flame of the wooden match he uses to light his pipe. A suspicious gaze. Carlo approaches the old man. The old man watches him. The old man shakes out the flame of the match and drops it in the ashtray. He puffs on his pipe, watches Carlo. 

Carlo browses the books stacked along the perimeter of the old man’s desk. They have no dust covers. They are mostly Italian books by authors he’d never heard of. Old editions. Long forgotten. He glances at the old man. The old man continues to watch him, puffing on his pipe. He momentarily holds the old man’s gaze. He’s a rather sickly man with a gaunt face, tattered clothing, and a milky white cataract in one eye. His patchy grey beard looks as if it hadn’t been trimmed since he last changed the window display. 

The old man looks away and continues to sort his papers with a trembling hand, the lip of his pipe now clenched between his nicotine-stained teeth. There is an air of bitterness about the old man. As Carlo continues to browse, he becomes increasingly uncomfortable. He can’t shake the feeling that he’d been in this shop before. He’s been to many like it. Perhaps that’s why. These dusty temples to literature are not uncommon. 

The old man watches him. To avoid the old man’s gaze, Carlo wanders towards the rear of the shop. More unsorted piles of books are stacked alongside the worm-eaten shelves. He looks at a few. They are primarily history books, published at the end of the nineteenth century. Rather expensive editions to be piled in stacks along the floor. He peers over his shoulder to see the old man puffing on his pipe, the smoke enveloping his gaunt face, only now he’s talking on the phone. 

Carlo continues to browse, seeing a section with more contemporary literature. If his old book is here, that’s where he’d find it. 

It was hard to remember those days. Wrong choices and bad decisions assured that. Only flashes, subliminal images, and vague feelings remain. He looks around the shop again. Had he been here before? He’d only been to Rome once, when the translation of his novel was published. He’d come to promote it. He doesn’t remember much. 

He looks back at the old man. The old man is no longer paying attention to him and is again focused on sorting his papers. There’s something familiar about the old man. His cataract. It triggers a vague memory, an image that refuses to come into focus. 

Unable to find his book, he considers just leaving the shop and going about his business, but something holds him there. An invisible force has taken hold of him, preventing him from leaving. He peers at the old man again. The old man puffs on his pipe, watching him. They hold one antler’s gaze for a long moment. The old man returns to sorting his papers, and just like that, the invisible force releases Carlo from its grip. 

‘Scuse,’ Carlo says to the old man. ‘Forse puoi aiutarmi.’ 

The old man looks at him, puffing on his pipe, a questioning look in his eyes. He removes the pipe from his mouth and says, ‘Americano?’

Carlo tells him he is. 

‘I speak English,’ the old man says. ‘But you should know that.’ 

‘How would I know that?’ 

The old man smiles, places the lip of the pipe back in his mouth. 

‘I’m looking for a particular book,’ Carlo says. ‘Autumn Interlude by Carlo Mazzetti.’ 

‘We don’t have it.’ The old man takes a long pull from his pipe, exhales a plume of smoke. ‘You should know that, too.’ 

The old man averts his gaze and returns to sorting his papers. Carlo looks at him, not knowing what to say.

A long, awkward moment ensues. Then the old man says, ‘We don’t carry recent books. This is an antiquarian bookshop. But sometimes we make exceptions. You should know that, too.’ 

The old man keeps glaring at Carlo as he continues to sort his papers, as if waiting for a response. Again, Carlo is overwhelmed with the feeling that he had seen the old man before. He looks around the shop, searching for anything that might trigger a memory. He looks at the old man again. The cataract. What was it that seemed so familiar? 

Without looking up from his papers, the old man says, ‘You can try the bookshop on Via della Pelliccia. They sell used books. More current. You know the place.’ 

‘Do I?’ 

‘You should.’ 

The old man says nothing more, continues to sort his papers. 

Carlo wants to leave, but again, something prevents him. There is a tension in the air, bordering on violence, as if the old man were ready to strike him. 

The bell over the door chimes. 

‘Ciao, Zio Corrado!’ comes a young woman’s voice. 

‘Pía, principessa!’ 

The young woman embraces the old man and gives him a loving kiss on the cheek. She hasn’t yet noticed Carlo standing there. She and the old man make small talk in Italian. They ignore Carlo’s presence. Carlo looks at the young woman. She’s attractive. Half his height with long curly hair, the color of chestnut, and an athletic figure. Her large dark eyes never once leave the old man’s face. One can see the deep admiration and love she has for him. They continue to make small talk until the old man suddenly pitches his head in Carlo’s direction. Pía looks at Carlo, her expression grave. Her eyes dance about his face, searching, probing, questioning, until a moment of recognition takes hold. There’s something about the young woman that Carlo finds familiar as well, though he is certain he’d never seen her before. 

She looks at the old man. The old man looks at her. They both look at Carlo. 

‘Ha un bel coraggio, non è vero?’ Pía says. 

‘Infati,’ the old man replies. 

The old man stares at Carlo, puffs on his pipe. 

‘What do you want?’ Pía asks. 

‘Just looking for a book,’ Carlo says. ‘Is there a problem?’ 

Pía turns to the old man and says, ‘C’e un problem, dice. Sta scherzando?’ 

‘Non si recorda,’ the old man says. 

‘Look, whatever is going on here, I…’

‘What book are you looking for?’ 

‘I was told you don’t have it.’ 

‘There’s another bookstore nearby.’ 

‘Your uncle already told me that.’ 

‘What makes you think he’s my uncle?’ 

‘You called him Zio.’ 

She turns to look at the old man. ‘Non recorda davvero,’ she says. ‘Ha delle palle, vero?’ 

‘Enormi,’ the old man says. 

Pía gestures towards the rear of the shop. ‘That’s where the lecture used to be,’ she says. 

‘Yeah? And?’ 

‘You really don’t remember…’ 

‘I’ve never seen you before. Never been here before.’ 

‘Non mi ha mai visto prima, dice!’ Pía says. ‘Dice su serio?’ 

‘È fortunato che non gli taglio le palle,’ the old man says, his brown teeth biting into the lip of the pipe, glaring at Carlo. 

‘Maybe I should go,’ Carlo says. 

‘It’s fate,’ the old man says, still glaring at him. ‘Everything comes in cycles. Everything returns.’ 

Pía pulls her hair back, allowing Carlo to fully see her face. She says nothing, waits for a response, or perhaps recognition. There is something familiar about her. Nothing registers. 

The old man steps out from behind his desk and pats the pocket of Carlo’s sports coat. 

‘Oggi è asciutto,’ he says, laughing.

‘Non ne sono così sicuro,’ Pía says bitterly. 

She’s still holding her hair back. 

‘Piazza di Renzi,’ she says. ‘The restaurant? The table under the tree?’ 

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ 

She studies Carlo’s face for a long moment. 

‘Are you sure you’re not confusing me with someone else?’ 

A momentary doubt reveals itself. 

‘Carlo, eh? The American writer?’ 

‘Sta cercando il suo libro’, the old man says. Sarcastic. 

Pía scoffs. ‘No, not here,’ she says. ‘Are you serious?’ 

‘Look, I don’t know what…’ 

‘You really don’t remember, do you?’

‘Era un ubriacone trasandato,’ the old man says, laughing. 

‘Non è divertente, Zio,’ Pía says. 

Carlo looks around the shop again, trying to remember. Despite the familiarity of the shop, he’s certain he had never been there before. He looks at the old man. The old man keeps watching him with his one good eye and one milky cataract. It’s the cataract that seems to want to invoke a memory. Nothing materializes. He doesn’t remember much from those days. He looks at Pía, her beautiful dark eyes full of daggers. Surely he’d remember an encounter with someone like her, yet she’s a total stranger. 

‘Look, I’m sorry,’ Carlo says, ‘but I have no idea what either of you are talking about. All I wanted was to find a copy of my book. That’s all. I don’t understand what any of this is all about.’ 

‘Look online,’ the old man says. 

‘I did.’ 

The old man scoffs. 

‘Now if you’ll excuse me…’ 

‘Intermezzo Autunnale,’ Pía says. ‘That’s the book you’re looking for?’ 

‘That’s the Italian title, yes.’ 

She looks at the old man, shakes her head. She turns to Carlo again and says, ‘Winter. Five years ago. The restaurant in Piazza di Renzi.’ 

He waits for her to continue. 

“Mostragli semplicemente la foto,’ the old man says with an air of weariness. 

‘Ho qualcosa di meglio di quello,’ Pía says in response. 

Pía looks at her watch, then at the door. ‘Dove sono,’ she mutters under her breath. Then to Carlo— ‘Wait a few moments. Just wait.’ 

The old man puffs on his pipe, glaring at Carlo with his milky eye. Carlo decides it’s best to stay put. Pía walks to the door and looks out the window. She looks at her watch. She saunters back to the old man’s desk. There’s a noticeable shift in her demeanor. The fiery defiance is gone. In its place emerges a melancholy resignation. The old man returns to sorting his papers. 

An uncomfortable silence pervades the shop. 

She knows his name. Knows his book. 

He considers pushing past Pía and making a run for it. She, or the old man, for that matter, could do nothing to prevent it. Again, something holds him there. The invisible force has returned. 

It was five years ago when his novel was published in Italy. He had gone there to promote it. It was a heady time. Drunk on success, drunk on ego, he’d gotten a little carried away. He remembers very little. It’s all a blur. Ancient history, as if all that happened to someone else. That man, the author, no longer exists. 

Pía keeps pacing around, looking at her watch, then at the door. The old man continues to sort his papers and puff on his pipe. The silence is excruciating. Pía glances at Carlo, her eyes searching his face. Carlo looks at her. Her expression now reflects sadness, resignation, melancholy. He wants to say something. What is there to say? 

Images, sensations. Only flashes. A room full of people. Books. The weight of the bottle in the left pocket of his sports coat. A red and white checkerboard tablecloth. A bare tree. A bottle of Chianti. 

The bell over the door disturbs the silence. 

They all look towards the door. 

In walks an older woman, smartly dressed, with a young boy in tow. Pía squats down before the boy and embraces him. While in his mother’s embrace, the boy’s large brown eyes look up at Carlo from under a shock of chestnut-colored curls. Carlo knows that Pía is the boy’s mother. He resembles her, especially the eyes. Pía plants multiple kisses on the boy’s cheeks, embarrassing him. The boy pulls away, his eyes never once leaving Carlo’s face. The old man loudly clears his throat. Carlo looks at him. There’s a smile tugging at the corners of the old man’s lips, his face enveloped in smoke. Pía stands up behind the boy, her hands on the boy’s shoulders. 

‘Vedi? Lui non lo sa,’ the old man says. 

‘You’re right, Zio,’ Pía says. ‘He doesn’t remember—or he’s pretending he doesn’t.’ She turns to face her uncle. ‘Ma ci darà che meritiamo.’ She runs her fingers through the boy’s hair. ‘You will keep your promise. One way or the other.’ 

Carlo looks into the boy’s eyes. The boy looks into his. He has his mother’s eyes. Big and dark. It’s his most dominating feature, and like his mother, his eyes search, probe, and dance. There is something familiar about the boy, too, but he knows he’d never seen him before. Carlo turns his gaze to Pía. She looks at him with those same big, dark searching and probing eyes, only hers are now partially obscured by the loose curls of her hair. Both Pía’s and her son’s eyes reveal what their facial expressions do not. The boy reaches out to Carlo, his fingertips smudged with dried chocolate. He pauses midway, as if waiting for Carlo to do the same. When Carlo does, the boy pulls his hand back and turns away, burying his face in his mother’s breast. Pía tries to comfort him, cradling the boy in her arms as her eyes continue to play about Carlo’s face. 

‘If you’ll excuse me,’ Carlo says and pushes past Pía, the boy, and the au pair. 

He reaches the door and hears Pía say, ‘Carlo, wait…’ 

‘Ah, lascialo andare,’ the old man says. ‘Stai meglio senza di lui.’ 

Carlo opens the door. The bell chimes. It seems louder than it had previously. He walks down Via del Moro, his pace quickening with each step. He just wants to get as far away from the bookshop as possible. Pía does not go after him. He doesn’t look back. 

He finds himself in the Piazza di Renzi. He stops walking and looks around the small plaza. A restaurant, with its table set up in the plaza, just like Pía said. He eyes the table under the tree, near the waiter’s lecture. It does not look familiar. He’s not sure how he even wound up there. A young man and woman exit the restaurant and walk towards the line of scooters parked along the piazza. They climb aboard one of the scooters, the man in front, the young woman behind him, her arms wrapped around the young man’s waist. There’s something familiar about that, too. He looks at the table under the bare tree. There’s a bottle of Chianti on the red and white checkered tablecloth. A sense memory invades. The taste of wine. How long has it been? Five years. Other than the line of scooters, nothing about the piazza is familiar to him.