When I’d told Abraham I was going for an advanced degree in the same field he’d worked his whole life, he’d sneered. I didn’t need a diploma to know how to bring a book back to life. But I’d gone ahead and obtained double master’s degrees in library science and fine art with an emphasis on conservation and restoration, along with a boatload of other certifications. Abraham, on the other hand, had learned the old-fashioned way, at his father’s knee in the family bookbindery in Toronto.
“Thank you for trusting me with your book,” I said. “But honestly, in spite of what you heard during that argument, Abraham was a consummate professional.”
“I still like you better,” he said, and winked at me. I knew he wasn’t really flirting, but it was a borderline “ew” moment, seeing as how he was Meredith’s father.
“Thanks,” I said weakly.
“Well now, I’ve overstayed my welcome,” he said genially.
“Not at all.”
He pulled out a business card. “I want you to call me if you have any problems.”
“Thanks. I will.”
He nodded. “I think you’ve got the right attitude about this whole ‘curse’ business, so I’ll get out of your way and let you get back to work.”
“I enjoyed talking to you,” I said, surprised to realize I meant it.
“Then you’ll do me another favor?”
I paused, wondering what bomb he might drop this time, but then nodded. “Of course.”
“Don’t put a pink cover on the damn thing,” he said with a wink. “It might make the ladies happy, but the book lovers will swallow their dentures.”
I laughed with relief. “No pink covers, I promise.”
“And one more thing.”
“Sure.”
“Be careful, my dear.”
The next time I looked up, it was five o’clock. I’d worked for four hours straight. I dropped the dry brush on the table and rolled and stretched my fingers to ease the cramping, then raised my arms up and rolled my shoulders to work out the tightness. It was already dark outside and I knew I was probably one of the last ones left in the building. I packed up my tools and found a security guard who took the Faust for safekeeping.
I stepped outside and felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. I glanced around warily, then pulled my jacket tight and ran to my car.
Rather than sit in traffic, I had the taxi driver drop me off at Larkin and Beach and I walked a block over to the Buena Vista. Cabbing it to Fisherman’s Wharf on a Friday night solved two problems for me. I wouldn’t have to fight for a parking place and I’d avoid the idiocy of drinking and driving.
But speaking of idiocy, I wondered if I was nuts for hoping to find the unknown Anandalla, based on a flimsy cocktail napkin note.
“Flimsy maybe, but intriguing nonetheless,” I maintained as I maneuvered my way along the crowded sidewalk, then had to cover my ears as a cable car rumbled down Hyde. It gained speed and clanged its bell loud enough to wake the dead and to alert the large crowd milling at the cable car turnaround a half block away.
Reaching the door of the Buena Vista, I stared in dismay at the standing-room-only crowd inside. Robin was going to kill me for bringing her into this madness. If I ever made it to the bar, I’d make sure to have a drink waiting for her when she showed up.
I forced my way inside and nudged people out of the way until I hit the bar. As the scents of chili and fried fish hit me, old memories poured in.
I was ten years old the first time I came here. My parents had brought our whole brood along to meet some Deadhead friends for breakfast. It was the Friday morning after Thanksgiving and we had so much fun, we insisted on making it a yearly tradition. Mom and Dad would perch at the bar, drinking Irish coffee and enjoying the fantastic view, while we six kids would pick a likely table and hover anxiously until the seated customers paid their tabs and left.
After a huge breakfast, we would pile into cars and drive out to the polo fields at Golden Gate Park where Dad and his friends and all the kids would play football for a few hours. After a few years of that, Mom and her girlfriends and my sisters and I got smart enough to pass on the football insanity and head instead to Union Square and the shopping insanity.
Within five minutes, I lucked out and grabbed a barstool. Two bartenders worked at each end of the long bar. They’d each lined up twenty Irish coffee glasses in the well of the bar. The show was about to begin.
I watched the tall, lanky bartender at my end grab a pot of hot water and move down the line, spilling hot water into each glass to warm them up. Then he quickly tossed the water out of one glass and dropped a sugar cube inside before passing to the next glass. His hands worked so fast, I could barely follow the action. After filling each glass with fresh coffee, he whisked a spoon into each one to dissolve the sugar, then added a healthy shot of Irish whiskey, followed by a large dollop of freshly whipped cream.
Classic.
There was some scattered applause. I calculated that it took both bartenders less than ninety seconds to make forty Irish coffees. Given the way the two men eyed each other, I had a feeling there was some competition involved.
I held up my hand and made eye contact with my guy. He grinned and placed an Irish on a napkin in front of me.