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art； we are deep in our books。 “shall i make tea？” i ask； surfacing。 no answer。
i make tea all the same and put a cup next to him on the desk。 an hour later the untouched tea is cold。 i make a fresh pot and put mother steaming cup beside him on the desk。 he is oblivious to my ；very movement。
gently i tilt the volume in his hands so that i can see the cover。 it is the fourth vida winter。 i return the book to its original position and study my father’s face。 he cannot hear me。 he cannot see me。 he is in another world； and i am a ghost。
that was the first memory。
the second is an image。 in three…quarter profile； carved massively out of light and shade； a face towers over the muters who wait； stunted； beneath。 it is only an advertising photograph pasted on a bill…board in a railway station； but to my mind’s eye it has the impassive grandeur of long…forgotten queens and deities carved into rock faces by ancient civilizations。 to contemplate the exquisite arc of the eye； the road； smooth sweep of the cheekbones； the impeccable line and proportions of the nose； is to marvel that the randomness of human variation can produce something so supernaturally perfect as this。 such bones； discovered by the archaeologists of the future； would seem an artifact； a product not of blunt…tooled nature but of the very peak of artistic endeavor。 the skin that embellishes these remarkable bones has the opaque luminosity of alabaster； it appears paler still by contrast with the elaborate twists and coils of copper hair that are arranged with such precision about the fine temples and down the strong； elegant neck。
as if this extravagant beauty were not enough； there are the eyes。 intensified by some photographic sleight of hand to an inhuman green； the green of glass in a church window； or of emeralds or of boiled sweets； they gaze out over the heads of the muters with perfect in…expression。 i can’t say whether the other travelers that day felt the same way as i about the picture； they had read the books； so they may have had a different perspective on things。 but for me； looking into the large green eyes； i could not help being reminded of that monplace expression about the eyes being the gateway to the soul。 this woman； i remember thinking； as i gazed at her green； unseeing eyes； does not have a soul。
such was； on the night of the letter； the extent of my knowledge about vida winter。 it was not much。 though on reflection perhaps it was as much as anyone else might know。 for although everyone knew vida winter—knew her name； knew her face； knew her books—at the same time nobody knew her。 as famous for her secrets as for her stories； she was a perfect mystery。
now； if the letter was to be believed； vida winter wanted to tell the truth about herself。 this was curious enough in itself； but curiouser still was my next thought： why should she want to tell it to me？
。d 。
MARGARET’S STORY
．．．
rising from the stairs； i stepped into the darkness of the shop。 i didn’t need the light switch to find my way。 i know the shop the way you know the places of your childhood。 instantly the smell of leather and old paper was soothing。 i ran my fingertips along the spines； like a pianist along his keyboard。 each book has its own individual note： the grainy； linen…covered spine of daniels’s history of map making； the racked leather of lakunin’s minutes from the meetings of the st。 petersburg cartographic academy； a well…worn folder that contains his maps； and…drawn； hand…colored。 you could blindfold me and position me anywhere on the three floors of this shop； and i could tell you from the books under my fingertips where i was。
we see few customers in lea’s antiquarian booksellers； a scant half…dozen a day on average。 there is a flurry of activity in september when le students e to buy copies of the new year’s set texts； another in ay when they bring them back after the exams。 these books my father ills migratory。 at other times of the year we can go days without see…g a client。 every summer brings the odd tourist who； having wan…ted off the beaten track； is prompted by curiosity to step out of the sunshine and into the shop； where he pauses for an instant； blinking as his eyes adjust。 depending on how weary he is of eating ice cream and watching the punts on the river； he might stay for a bit of shade and tranquility or he might not。 more monly visitors to the shop are people who； having heard about us from a friend of a friend； and finding themselves near cambridge； have made a special detour。 they have anticipation on their faces as they step into the shop； and not infrequently apologize for disturbing us。 they are nice people； as quiet and as amiable as the books themselves。 but mostly it is just father； me and the books。
how do they make ends meet？ you might think； if you saw how few customers e and go。 but you see； the shop is； in financial terms； just a sideline。 the proper business takes place elsewhere。 we make our living on the basis of perhaps half a dozen transactions a year。 this is how it works： father knows all the world’s great collectors； and he knows the world’s great collections。 if you were to watch him at the auctions or book fairs that he attends frequently； you would notice how often he is approached by quietly spoken； quietly dressed individuals； who draw him aside for a quiet word。 their eyes are anything but quiet。 does he know of… they ask him； and has he ever heard whether… a book will be mentioned。 father answers vaguely。 it doesn’t do to build up hope。 these things usually lead nowhere。 but on the other hand； if he were to hear anything… and if he doesn’t already have it； he makes a note of the person’s address in a little green notebook。 then nothing happens for quite some time。 but later—a few months or many months； there is no knowing—at another auction or book fair； seeing a certain other person； he will inquire； very tentatively； whether… and again the book is mentioned。 more often than not； it ends there。 but sometimes； following the conversations； there may be an exchange of letters。 father spends a great deal of time posing letters。 in french； german； italian； even occasionally latin。 nine times out of ten the answer is a courteous two…line refusal。 but sometimes—half a dozen times a year—the reply is the prelude to a journey。 a journey in which father collects a book here； and delivers it there。 he is rarely gone for more than forty…eight hours。 six times a year。 this is our livelihood。
the shop itself makes next to no money。 it is a place to write and receive letters。 a place to while away the hours waiting for the next international bookfair。 in the opinion of our bank manager； it is an indulgence； one that my father’s success entitles him to。 yet in reality— my father’s reality and mine； i don’t pretend reality is the same for everyone—the shop is the very heart of the affair。 it is a repository of books； a place of safety for all the volumes； once so lovingly written； that at present no one seems to want。 and it is a place to read。
a is for austen； b is for bronte； c is for charles and d is for dickens。 i learned my alphabet in this shop。 my father walking