I met him at the marketplace. It was a fine April day.
I generally took my time at shopping. I lived alone with my father. Mama was dead, and my older sisters and brother had long since married and moved out. I was seventeen, not yet a wife, so it was I who bore the brunt of all the housekeeping and chores, the cooking and baking, which I quite enjoyed, and the cleaning and laundry, which I did not. Monday, I washed the clothes. Tuesday, I baked bread and cookies and churned butter. Wednesday, I swept the house from top to bottom (or, rather, bottom to top, for I did not want to track dirt back in). But Thursday—oh, Thursday—I got to go to the marketplace. I went every Thursday unless it poured. It was one of the few opportunities for something approaching fun. So I dawdled, watching the children at the maypole in the entrance, smelling the aroma of strudel and the odor of fish, gazing at the flowers, trying on the lavish fabrics in the fabric seller’s stall (it was on Fridays that I sewed), and imagining I had someplace to wear the peacock-blue satin that brought out my eyes or the royal purple velvet, imagining also that I might go to a grand ball at the palace, which I often walked past, just to look, or even a dance at church. But my favorite stall was the bookseller’s, for though my late mother had taught me to read, my father viewed books as frivolous. We had few at home, and those we did have, I hid in the cupboards or under pillows to read after I finished my chores. At that stall the stories curled around me as surely as the satins and velvets, and I always stayed until the bookseller chased me off.
The bookseller was a strange lady, seeming at once young and old, dressed in costumes of black lace, periwinkle tulle, or once, green leather, like a fairy princess, a witch, and a dragon, all rolled into one. Sometimes, she allowed me to dawdle among the tables for an hour or more, reading the mythology of Greece, the plays of England, the history of the entire world, or the fairy tales of my own country. Other days, she asked me if I had any money and chased me away when I admitted I had none.
On the day I met Karl, she was nowhere to be found, and there were few customers. I was reading a book about European history, taking particular interest in the fall of the French monarchy, which had happened some twenty years earlier, when I felt eyes staring at me.
I looked up.
“Is that an interesting book?” someone asked.
It took me a moment to see the man. Even though I looked toward him, he was rather short, no taller than I was, so initially, I looked above his head. But finally, my eyes met another pair, close set and gray as cobblestones. I started, then recognized the bookseller’s employee, a young man my own age, but, like the bookseller, with a countenance which seemed beyond his years. I had seen him before. I always smiled at him when I came in, and he hovered nearby, likely in an attempt to intimidate me so I would not tarry too long over the books (it worked!), but we had never before spoken.
I said, “I will put it away. I know I have stayed too long.”
“No.” He shook his head, his brow furrowed. He carried a broom and swept a bit of imaginary dirt out of the way. “I didn’t mean that at all. I like to see you . . . I mean . . . I like to see people enjoy the books. I mean, so few young ladies read. I mean . . . I do not know what I mean.” He stopped, flustered.
“It would be better if I could buy them but, alas, I have no money. I have been saving my pennies each week, but I haven’t enough yet.” I would not have enough for a year. “The bookseller is inclined to chase me off.”
“Not today. She went off to run errands.” He grinned. “She will not be back for half an hour, at least. I will not chase you off.”
It was too much to hope for. I hugged the book to my chest, then held it out, lest I harm its spine. “You are so lucky to work here.” I wished I was a boy and could have a job at the market.
He seemed surprised but then nodded. “Why, yes. I’m not used to thinking of myself as lucky, but I suppose I am. I have read most of these books.” He flung his arm out, encompassing the little stall, and seemed very proud. “And hundreds more.”
I nodded, wanting to get back to my own reading. “Lucky.”
“Sometimes, when it rains and there are few customers, I read all day. Kendra—that’s the proprietress—says it is good to be familiar with the merchandise. I mean to read them all, and I hope to have a stall of my own someday.” He walked closer, adjusting his glasses, which had slipped to the tip of his nose. “Which book will you buy, when you have enough money?”
I nodded toward the one in my hand. “This one.”
“Why do you like that book so much?”
“Because nothing ever happens in my life. It is the same, week after week. So I like to read about more interesting people.” I inhaled the scent of the book. It smelled of other places.