“I expect you're right, but I know someone who would love it.”
Max grinned. “Someone who might love you for giving it, you mean.”
“Maybe so.” Hugo turned the novel over in his hands. He wasn't quite an expert on rare books but he knew as much as many of the bouquinistes who peddled their wares along the river. This one was a beauty, a 1935 first edition of Death in the Clouds, one of the Hercule Poirot mysteries. It was bound in full maroon Morocco leather, banded, and lettered in gilt with marbled endpapers, and it looked to Hugo like it had the original cloth backstrip. He spotted a short tear to the gutter of the final advertisement leaf, but overall he was impressed. It was clearly a fine copy. Hugo held it up. “How much?”
“For you, four hundred Euros.”
“And for everyone else?”
“Three hundred, of course.”
“In America we cheat strangers,” Hugo said, “not our friends.”
“You're not in America.” Max's eyes twinkled. “You are a big man, Hugo, big enough to throw me in the river. I would not dare cheat you.”
Hugo grunted and pulled another old book out of the bag. Covered in dark blue cloth, it exuded antiquity, and a quick check inside confirmed that: 1873. Gold lettering on a red panel on the spine read On War, then the word Clausewitz. “The first English translation?”
“Merde!” Max hurried over and snatched the book from Hugo's hand. “This one isn't for sale.”
“Why not?”
“Because.” He clutched the book to his chest, then held up a hand in apology. “Je m'excuse, it's important. I just have to look at it more closely, before I decide.”
“Let me look at it for you, be happy to advise,” Hugo said, his tone intentionally light to mask his curiosity. It wasn't like his friend to be obscure, to guard his words.
“Non.” Max held the book tight. “It's not about the book, its value. Look, if I decide to sell it, I'll hold it for you. D'accord?”
“Sure.” Hugo nodded. “Thanks.”
“Bon.” Max smiled and pointed to the cowboy boots on Hugo's feet. “You are the only Texan who knows books, mon ami. But you haven't lived in France long enough to find a good pair of shoes?”
“No compliment without an insult. Sometimes I think you're an Englishman.”
Max spat in disgust and muttered something unintelligible.
“Let's see,” Hugo went on. “What else do you have?” He dug back into the case and pulled up a slim volume encased in a protective plastic envelope. Hugo inspected the book, which appeared to have its original paper cover. It was off-white, slightly pink perhaps, with a thin black line in the shape of a rectangle about an inch in from the edges, within which the book's information was presented. The name of the author and publisher were also in black type, but the title was in block letters that would once have been blood red.
“Une Saison En Enfer,” Max said, looking over his shoulder. A Season in Hell. “By Arthur Rimbaud. That is not a first edition.”
“No? The only collector's copy of this I've seen is an early edition of Zelda Fitzgerald's translation,” Hugo said. He also remembered reading about Rimbaud on a train to Paris from London, a couple of years back. “Can I open the plastic?”
“Have I ever let you?”
“I know, I know. I can open it when I buy it. Can't blame a man for trying.”
“If you say so,” Max said. “The friend who gave it to me said it is in good shape, which you can see, but that it has some scribble in the front.” Max waved a hand. “But he is almost blind, so maybe you'll be lucky and find the author's signature.”
Hugo thought for a moment. It was an important book, in the literary world if not the reading one. An extended poem first published in 1873, it was as influenced by the author's choice of drug as it was by his passionate homosexuality. “Christine does have a thing for Oscar Wilde,” he said. “This is close enough. How much?”
Max looked at him and shrugged. “Hard to say. I haven't looked it over, it may be worth a lot or nothing.”
“Very helpful. How about I give you five hundred Euros for both books?”
“How about you just pull out that gun and rob me, eh?”
“Then you tell me.” Hugo smiled. “You negotiate like a fox, Max.”
“A thousand for both. First you pay and then you thank me for the privilege of paying.”
“I'm on vacation,” Hugo said, digging into a pocket and pulling out his wallet. “I was thinking about a trip to the states, deliver these in person, but you're taking all my travel money. If I decide to go, I'll have to walk from the airport.”
“Ah, but you will have something to read when you rest along the way.”
“People don't read rare books, Max, you know that.” Hugo handed the old man a wad of cash. “This is all I have on me. I'll bring you the rest later?”
“The ones who don't realize they are rare are the ones who read them.” Max took the money but didn't count it. “We have banks in France, you know.”
“Then if you can wait thirty minutes, I'll go find one.”
Max spread his hands. “Where else would I be, but waiting for you?” He paused, eyeing Hugo. “You really think you're going to America?”
“Why not? The mad romantic dash isn't really my style, but nor is sitting on my ass for two weeks.”
“You don't want time off from work?”
“Use it or lose it, they tell me. Not that I mind losing it, but the State Department is convinced my mental health will suffer if I go to work because I want to, not because I have to.”
“You Americans.” Max shook his head. “How you came to rule the world, I have no idea.”
“We have big guns,” Hugo said. “And we don't surrender every time the Germans invade.”
“Touché,” Max guffawed, then pointed again to Hugo's feet. “Alors, if you decide to go, bring me a pair of those cowboy boots, and next time I'll give you an even better deal. Size forty-one, s'il vous plait.”
“Bien.” Hugo looked at his watch. “I'll go rob a bank, make a phone call, and hopefully be back in less than an hour.”
“You are welcome to pay me another time. To consider those books a gift, Monsieur Hugo, for now anyway. If I change my mind, I know where to find you.”
“No, you might disappear to some beach somewhere, and I don't like owing people money. I'll be right back.”
They shook hands and for the second time Hugo saw something in Max's eyes. But the old man looked quickly away, up at the clouds. “I think it will snow soon,” Max said, his voice flat.
Hugo glanced at the sky, gray and heavy, and started back the way he'd come, books in hand. Thirty yards later he looked back at Max. The old man was shuffling along the quai toward his neighbor and, as he crossed the street, Max glanced over his shoulder as if someone might be following him, or watching.
The wind tugged at Hugo's hat, seeming to rise around him and shift direction, placing its cold hands on his back, propelling him along the quai. He walked slowly at first, then his footsteps quickened and he shivered as a chill settled around his neck, cold fingers spreading down his spine. He approached a middle-aged couple dressed in identical blue ski jackets, the man holding a camera and looking hopefully around him. On any other day Hugo would have stopped, offered to take the photo, but he strode past without catching their eye. Their need to capture a moment in time for their kids or grandkids was no match for the disquiet that crowded in on Hugo, the cold wind at his back, the leaden sky above, and a rising fear that he should have pressed Max harder, made sure that everything really was all right.