Vera did not ask him who Eugene Debs was. She believed she could guess what general category he fit into.
Vera found herself telling Stanley about her work at the theatre, spicing her story with anecdotes about Mr. Buckle. She liked Stanley Miller for the ironic laughter that greeted her tales about the manager. She filled him in on her woeful experiences with Thomas. She liked him for not laughing at these. Several times she interrupted herself, saying, “But you must be tired…” He always dismissed the suggestion. “Remember, I’m the all-night reader. The regular night owl.”
Vera noted how thin he was. That he smoked too much. That he drank too much coffee. That he was at least forty-five, maybe older.
Some time after four o’clock, Stanley ran out of coffee and they switched to tea. He brewed it in a thing he called a samovar, the way his parents had. Both of them were dead. He had no brothers or sisters.
Stanley demonstrated how his father had drunk his tea, sipping it through a sugar cube clenched in his front teeth. He urged Vera to try. She was game. It wasn’t the whisky either, she hadn’t had enough.
Even though she kept consulting her watch and saying she must go, she didn’t. It was nearly eight o’clock in the morning before she left; Stanley had to open his doors in an hour. Then came the only awkwardness of the entire night, when they shook hands and said goodbye, Vera hesitating, waiting so that he would have the opportunity to suggest they meet again. He didn’t.
But Vera had no intention of letting it fizzle out and end so lamely. She reasoned that an old bachelor like Stanley probably lacked confidence with women, that’s why he hadn’t dared to ask her for a date. A little nudging might be required, to show him he was on safe ground. And the smashed window provided an excuse, a plausible reason, for her to make amends for bringing this misfortune down on his head.
During the course of the evening, Vera had asked Stanley who his favourite writer was. When he had told her it was someone whose name sounded like Mountain to Vera, she had nodded her head and done her best to appear knowledgeable. Setting out two days later to buy a thank-you present for Stanley, she went in search of a book by that particular author.
“Mountain?” the lady who clerked in the snooty bookstore with all the tall bookcases had said. There were four female clerks in the store and Vera could scarcely differentiate one from the other. They all appeared to have been stamped out by the same cookie cutter. Tightly waved grey hair, tweed skirts, sweaters, brown oxfords, and glasses which hung on thin chains, dangling against insignificant bosoms, were common to all four. “Mountain?” said the woman again, eyeing Vera up and down as if to suggest she had her nerve, wasting a person’s time. “And what does Mr. Mountain write?”
“I’m not sure,” Vera had replied tentatively, beginning to feel more and more wasteful of time and patience. “All I know is that it isn’t novels.”
“Not very helpful, I’m afraid,” said the woman, “seeing as there are so many authors who don’t write novels. Really, I’m sure we don’t have it. I’m quite familiar with all our stock and for the life of me I don’t recollect any Mountain.”
Vera, however, was stubborn. When she wanted something, she wanted it. Besides, she didn’t have much time; she was expected at the theatre where she had a matinee to work. “You have to have it!” she blurted out. “He’s a famous writer!”
She had been too loud. Several patrons had turned from the study of their books to see what the commotion was about. “I’m sure I don’t know what to suggest, miss,” said the clerk coldly, “except that you search our shelves. All our books are arranged alphabetically by author within categories. Just possibly you may find what you are looking for.”
“Thank you very much,” said Vera. “I’ll just do that little thing, if it doesn’t inconvenience.”
After forty-five minutes of hunting Vera thought she might have found what she was looking for in the section labelled Philosophy. The name wasn’t Mountain but it was close. Vera opened the book. The frontispiece was an etching of a grave, sombre man bristling with a huge ruffed collar. He looked exactly like someone who might interest Stanley Miller.
Vera decided to take a chance and buy the book, gamble that she had guessed right, even though the price was steep. She held it up to her nose and smelled it. Real leather. The price alone proved it.
Vera couldn’t help registering the superior smile of the old dragon who had first helped or hadn’t helped her when she rang up the sale. The smirking continued while she wrapped the book in brown paper and tied it in strong cord. Passing it across the counter to Vera, she said, “Just so you know, dear. It isn’t Mountain. It’s Montaigne. In case you’re ever looking again. Saying the name correctly will save you time.”
At that moment it didn’t matter to Vera that the old piece of starch and her biddy friends would be laughing and shaking their heads over her mistake all day long. What mattered was that as soon as she heard the name pronounced she knew she had the right one. That’s what Stanley had said the other night. Montaigne, not Mountain.
She couldn’t wait to see his face. Although the doors of the theatre would soon be opening to the public, Vera flew off in the opposite direction, coat open and billowing behind her as she ran down the sidewalk on her long, strong, young legs.
Stanley was alone in an empty store. He looked different dressed in a navy blue double-breasted suit. Vera judged it could do with a dry-cleaning.
“What’s this?” he said, when she thrust her package into his hands.
“Open it,” she said eagerly. “It’s a little something to make up for the other night.”
It took him forever to pick apart the knot. When the book was finally unwrapped he turned it over, examining it carefully.
Vera could not stand his silence. “Do you have it?” she inquired, doing her best not to sound overly anxious.
“Not this. Not the Florio translation.”
“Then it’s all right?”
“It’s beautiful,” he declared. “A beautiful book.” Then he did exactly as she had done earlier, held the book up to his nose and sniffed the binding. Regretfully, he laid it back down on the counter. “But I can’t accept it,” he said.
Vera was hurt. “Why? Why can’t you?”
“It’s much too expensive a present. Especially for a working girl to give.”
“Nowhere near as expensive as a window,” she said pointing to the sheet of plywood now nailed into the window-frame. “And I can’t help feeling responsible.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. In any case, insurance pays for the window.”
“I want you to have it,” Vera said. “To show my appreciation for your kindness.”
“No, I couldn’t,” he said, picking up the book and holding it out to her. “You know you can’t afford it. Return it and get your money back.”
Vera refused to touch the book. Like a stubborn child she actually hid her hands behind her back and violently shook her head no when Stanley leaned across the counter and tried to prevail upon her to take it back. “Don’t be foolish! Take it!”