With all my love, I am your own
Esther Chapman
P. S. Have you opened the package yet? Remember, a book is always a gift.
George Pike was not a demonstrative man. As he worked on his platform in a reverie of pricing, his gestures were reverential, ritualistic. His intention was that he remain inaccessible, above us all. Geist was his foil and henchman. Pike had a deep love of books, but his motivation for maintaining the Arcade was not esoteric. His chief inducement was evident: Pike loved money.
In slow moments—when gathered together awaiting a shipment, or lining up on Fridays to receive our meager pay from Geist—the staff liked to pick over rumors of Pike’s legendary wealth, his frugality, his stinginess. Each secondhand book passed through his elegant hands because he trusted no one but himself to assess its value. No one else could, the value being weighed not only against some actual market notion but against his very personal assessment of the book’s worth to him: what it cost him to acquire, and what the volume’s sale would put in his pocket. The margins and his profit were tabulated instantly, the result of years of obsessive deliberation, an abacus in his head shifting beads back and forth in a silent, urgent reconciliation.
That Pike was exceedingly rational didn’t mean that his notion of value wasn’t arbitrary. It was particular and absolute, almost adolescent in its despotic insistence.
At intervals throughout the day and at closing time, Pike would momentarily replace Pearl, the Arcade’s rather arresting cashier, then a preoperative transsexual, at the single register. Pike would remove larger bills, checks, and credit-card receipts, then disappear up the broken wooden stairs to the office at the back, reappearing (as in a conjurer’s trick) moments later upon his platform, behind his table, a book in his hand, a pencil behind his left ear, his meditative pricing resumed. Pike shrunk considerably whenever he left his platform, only to attain his previous consequence once he returned to the stage.
That there was a single cash register was an instance of the Arcade’s antiquated operation and evidence of Pike’s apprehensions with regard to money, with regard to theft. Contradiction was key, and efficiency mattered not at all.
Although there were lulls in customer purchases, for most of the Arcade’s business hours a queue snaked single file through and past the tables of paperbacks. Customers would become impatient and occasionally abusive while waiting. It was something of a sport among the staff to inflame already angry customers while they waited in line, a game that shocked me at first, unfamiliar as I was with that sort of impoliteness, schooled as I had been by Mother and Chaps to treat customers obeisantly.
“I’ve been standing here for thirty minutes!” a disgruntled customer would complain.
“Today’s your fucking lucky day then,” Bruno Gurvich, a burly Ukrainian who sorted paperbacks at the front tables, would shoot back.
“Pearl must be picking up the pace a bit! Yesterday you’d have been here an hour at least.”
Bruno was a musician with the temperament of an anarchist and the breath of a bartender’s dishrag. He gave the lie to bookselling as a genteel occupation, to Chaps’s ideal.
Bruno winked at me when he noticed my horror at this sort of exchange.
“Don’t look so shocked, girlie,” he said, dumping paperbacks in front of me. “Pike doesn’t care how you talk to the regulars so long as they’re buying. I got two separate assault charges pending for roughing up customers over Christmas last year, when we were really busy. This is nothing.”
No doubt he was trying to impress me.
“I wouldn’t be boasting about that, Bruno, if I were interested in keeping my job.”
Geist had appeared behind me; he was always sneaking around, his sibilant voice making the hair on my neck stand up, his whiteness like a visible reproach.
“That’s Pike concern, not yours,” Bruno said contemptuously, and stalked off.
“I’d keep away from that one,” Geist warned, standing uncomfortably close to me. “An-nasty P-piece of work,” he stuttered slightly. “Come to me if he gives you any trouble.”
I watched him bump into a table as he headed back to the basement, and I imagined he was returning to the bottom of the sea.
Pearl Baird, the cashier, was, apart from Geist, Pike’s most trusted staff member on the main floor. I loved her. She had taken the name Pearl after the biblical parable, and indeed she gave everything she had to become her female self, to become Pearl. Sitting behind the register, the no-nonsense slash of her lips a brilliant vermilion, she was unconcerned by the repetitive nature of her task.
Life had taught her patience.
Although she had a loving nature, Pearl was steely in her contempt for restless customers who often hurled down the books they had been holding for far too long, belligerently tossing cash or credit cards at her. Pearl took her time to open each cover, look for the price and punch it into the register, her extended finger tipped with a long nail. (She took pride in her nails and frequently changed the vivid polish). She muttered things like “Swine before Pearl!” at the most unpleasant types, but her air of superiority was mostly comment enough.
“It’s just us girls among all these weird men,” Peal first said to me by way of introduction in the ladies’ bathroom. She was aggressively applying lipstick as I washed my hands. Our eyes met in the mirror above the sink, and we smiled simultaneously.
“We girls got to stick together, you and me,” she said. “We’re friends already, I can tell.”
Pearl was large, with enormous hands and feet, a beautiful long, brown face, and a singing voice that rang in the bathroom like a fleshy bell. She was an aspiring opera singer, and spent most of her two fifteen-minute breaks sitting on a ruined vinyl couch in the anteroom of the ladies’ bathroom, rifling through a large bag of sheet music or humming to a tape played on a portable player. She took rehearsal very seriously and would repeat a difficult phrase, working on her diction and pitch, over and over again. She took lessons from a professional opera teacher after work, paid for by her Italian boyfriend, Mario. He was mad about Pearl, and had promised to pay for her operation after she’d lived the requisite year as a woman.
Pearl earned the reluctant respect of George Pike through her diligence and consistency, but chiefly through her willingness to perform a job that no one else could tolerate for more than a day. Only Pike or Walter Geist relieved Pearl on her breaks. She could detect any attempts to alter Pike’s scribbled prices, and was merciless on the few occasions when fraud was suspected. At her command, customers suspected of shoplifting had been sent sprawling on the sidewalk outside the Arcade by Bruno, ejected like drunks from a bar.
I understand now that Pearl’s ferocious honesty derived in part from her mutable sexuality. Truth was crucial to her; she knew her own veracity and had no choice but to live it.
Oscar knew the odd details and sad stories of many of the Arcade’s staff. He elicited confidences, chiefly through silence, and sometimes flattery. With the Reference section at his disposal, he looked up details that might further his understanding of an individual’s personal history. A gifted researcher, curious to the point of voyeurism, Oscar like to say that the world existed to end up in a book, and that it might as well be his notebook.
He told me, for example, that Pearl’s dream was to sing the role of Cherubino, the adolescent boy in Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro, a role usually performed by a woman playing a man; but she knew that at thirty-five, she was perhaps too old, and that the hormones she took were wreaking havoc with her voice and her body. Oscar had implied that if Pearl thought she had a chance at opera, then it was her mind the medication had affected. It took me rather a long time to understand he could be vicious.
I imagined that, unlike my own poor