Venal Love

Whispers of the Present

"After my beautiful gazelle fled, I felt compelled to leave the bookstore in an attempt to catch up with her on the street. However, once outside, there was not a trace of her silhouette. The traffic was sparser, and a dove gracefully hovered above the building. Confronted by this scene, I was rendered helpless. It seemed as if the evening was not in my favor, as nothing appeared to be working in my benefit. A sigh escaped me, a testament to the desolation I felt witnessing the disappearance of the enigmatic New York stranger.

I chose to reenter the bookstore when a sound caught my attention. It was the soft cooing of a dove, perched in a corner above the sign. Its posture suggested it was attempting to nest there, or perhaps it had a habit of doing so every evening. This reminded me that for the past few days, I, too, had resigned myself to spending my nights in my Toyota Carina III for shelter. Speaking of shelter, where could I find refuge this particular night?

Suddenly, a question invaded my mind and left me perturbed. I cast one last glance at the dove before stepping back inside. It was then that a certain phrase seized my attention on the sign. I immediately focused on the inscription beneath the name of the bookstore. It seemed like a commentary, for it read: “The past is a story, the future is a mystery, but the present is a gift.”

"The comment provoked contemplation within me and elicited a wry, questioning smile. I fully concur that my past constitutes a narrative, for I possess a multitude of tales recounting my hardships and those of my close associates. However, to embrace the notion that this present, which seemingly strips away numerous advantages, is a gift, would amount to sheer hypocrisy. I cannot bring myself to endorse such sentiments. I engaged in a mental debate regarding the inscription on the establishment's sign when my recollection was prompted by Mr. Joe Goldberg's final remarks.

With a sense of urgency, I hastened my steps to reenter the confines of the bookstore, driven by the desire to gain insight into the contents of the purported letter alluded to by my predecessor, Mr. Joe Goldberg. Indeed, little effort was required to locate it, owing to the detailed description provided by Mr. Joe Goldberg. The letter was situated precisely as he had indicated, nestled within a drawer that I pulled open to catch a glimpse of its contents. Alongside the letter, I also discovered a room key bearing the label 'Shark.' I found myself perplexed by the curious purpose this key might serve, prompting a series of questions.

Having repositioned the key to its original place, I opted to retain the letter in hand; after all, it was the letter to which Mr. Joe Goldberg had referred, rather than the key. I chose to postpone the perusal of this missive until a later time, opting instead to partake in a nourishing, warm repast utilizing the scant coins that remained at my disposal. My physical well-being demanded such sustenance, as I had abstained from nourishment since assuming control of the wheel at the early hour of 4 a.m. Moreover, the need for a restful slumber was palpable, as the exertion of navigating the wheel for twelve hours proved more draining than competing in a marathon. I discreetly stowed the letter within the rear pocket of my pentathlon attire before proceeding to secure the premises of the bookstore. My subsequent trajectory led me to the parking facility where I had previously abandoned my vehicle, my intent centered on retrieving the meager sum of remaining dollars. A security personnel stood sentinel within the parking domain on this occasion, his communication enlightening me to the exemption of parking fees during daylight hours, while adopting a paid structure during evening hours. This revelation, however, could only elicit a sigh of vexation and disillusionment."

-On the other side of the building, the West facade has an entrance that provides access to a parking on the second level. This one is for residents; perhaps you could find a spot there for the night.

-Thank you very much.

Well before leaving the parking lot, I noticed the guard looking at me with a sympathetic expression. I wasn't aware that I appeared so pitiful, to the extent that a kind yet helpless soul could alleviate my predicament. As I maneuvered to exit my vehicle, I recalled the letter left to me by Mr. Joe Goldberg. Immediately upon leaving the parking area, I parked my car on the side of the street at an angle, eager to peruse the intriguing letter.

Upon opening the letter, I could already sense that my troubles would be alleviated for some time. The contents of the letter revealed that I had an apartment on the second floor, previously occupied by the former manager, and it was now my turn to inhabit it. The key to this apartment bore the label 'Shark.' Additionally, it mentioned that I had received a quarter of my first paycheck in advance to start off.

I promptly drove for about ten minutes through the city's narrow alleys, my mind consumed by the contents of the letter. Eventually, I found myself back at the garage after having dinner at a local restaurant.

This time around, the security guard's demeanor was different from earlier, as he appeared immediately as soon as he could.

-Sir, I did inform you that parking is no longer free. If you insist, I'll have to call the police.

-Please accept my apologies for the disturbance, but I believe I'm now residing here.

-Oh, really? Well... That's a good joke. Nice try.

-Ooh...

-Kindly leave the premises before I call the police.

Reflexively, he grabbed his walkie-talkie.

-Uh... Wait a moment!

I handed him the letter.

-What's this for? he asked.

-I am the new librarian. And it's explained in this letter that I should have access to an apartment in the building on the second floor.

He took a moment to carefully inspect the contents of the letter.

-Here you go, you can park in the right-wing. The stairs are at the end of the right-wing. As for the elevator, it's right in front of you.

A moment later, he assisted me in dragging my belongings towards the elevator, and we bid each other a good evening.

Several days passed without me seeing my beautiful delivery woman from my first night in New York. Likewise, I didn't see Mr. Joe Goldberg to return his package. It had been just four peaceful days despite the bustling crowd of customers.

I took the opportunity to slip it into a copy of Dee Shulman's "Parallon," when the door slammed shut. Immediately upon entering, he was already uttering words.

"Take out the package and open it," he ordered!

"Here you go," he said, handing me a sheet of paper pulled from the delivered box. "Check this. It's last month's accounting. It's quite simple. We receive all the books from the parent company ROBERT LAFFONT. You just need to keep track of the inflows and outflows in triplicate. They come to collect the money every fifteen days. You'll be paid by check, with a small percentage."

"Pass that to me," I said.

I took the sheet and sat at a low counter, cluttered with books taken off the shelves by customers, which he probably hadn't had time to put back in place.

-What is there to do in this country? I asked him again.

-Nothing, he said. There are girls at the gaming hall across the street, and bourbon at McDonald's, two blocks away. He wasn't unpleasant, with his abrupt manners.

-How long have you been here?

-Fifteen years, he said.

-Another five years to go near the regional headquarters.

-And then?

-You're curious.

-It's your fault. Why do you say five more years? I didn't ask you anything.

His mouth softened a bit, and his eyes narrowed.

-You're right. Well, another five, and I retire from this job even if there's a better offer in France with the parent company.

-Why risk such a good catch after years of work?

-Writing, he said. Writing best-sellers. Nothing but best-sellers. Historical novels, fantasy novels (werewolves, Billionaire Romance, Shifter Romance, Mafia Romance, Dark Romance, Reverse, anything that can be popular),

He finished and chuckled.

-Best-sellers, huh! And then extremely daring and original novels. It's easy to be bold in this country; you just have to say what everyone can see with a little effort.

-You'll succeed, I said to give him a boost.

-Surely, I will. I already have a dozen ready.

-Uh... I had wide eyes.

Haven't you tried placing them?

-I'm not friends with the editor, and I don't have enough money to invest.

-So?

-So, in five years, I'll have enough money.

-You'll definitely make it, I concluded sincerely.

-Uh... By the way, will the delivery girl deliver every week or just every fortnight?

-Ah... This time it's a girl, a new one, otherwise he delivers every fortnight. Most of the time, it's Ted who delivers.

I could see that it's not a sure thing. The prospect of seeing my beautiful New York delivery girl again suddenly hung in the balance.

During the following two days, work was not lacking, despite the store's simple operation. I had to update the order lists, and Mr. Joe Goldberg was present throughout that time. He gave me various tips about the customers, many of whom came to visit regularly to discuss literature. Their knowledge was limited to what they could learn from the literary press reviews in the local newspaper, which still cost quite a bit. For now, I contented myself with listening to them converse with Mr. Joe, trying to remember their names and faces, because, in a bookstore, more than anywhere else, it matters a lot to address the buyer by their name as soon as they step into the shop.

As for accommodation, I had worked something out with him. He explained to me that leaving it before the new bookseller could reclaim it would be more expensive, as he was certain the landlord would raise the price given his plan to modernize the apartment further. He also mentioned that he had advanced me some dollars to help me get by in the meantime, allowing me to survive as my uncle had asked of him, and he kindly invited me to share his meals two out of three times, thus preventing me from increasing my debt to him. He was a good guy. I felt sorry for him in this best-seller business; you don't just write a best-seller like that, even with money. He might have talent. I hoped for his sake that he did.

On the third day, he took me to Barbalu Brooklyn, an Italian restaurant, for a drink before lunch. It was ten in the morning; he had to leave in the afternoon.

It was the last meal we would have together. Afterward, I would be on my own facing the customers, facing the city. I had to hold on. Already, what a stroke of luck to have found Mr. Joe. I was starting off on the right foot. But I was a little troubled by the stranger from my first night in the city. I didn't even have a small clue to hope to see her again; even just a name would have been enough, and I would have searched for her on the internet to send her a friend request. But nothing, I only had Mr. Joe and the bookstore's customers. Perhaps she would come by one of these days, as a customer as well? Many thoughts crossed my mind.

At Barbalu Brooklyn, it was the usual place, clean, modern, and with a variety of menus at affordable prices. It smelled of fried onion and donuts. A random guy behind the counter was casually reading a newspaper.

"What can I get you?" he asked. "Two bourbons," Mr. Joe ordered, looking at me.

I nodded. It was apparently the quickest reflex I could have, as my mind was too deep in thoughts about my mysterious friend.

The waiter served us our bourbons in tall glasses, with ice and straws.

"I always take it like this," Mr. Joe explained. "Don't feel obliged..."

"I'm fine," I said.

"If you've never had chilled bourbon with a straw, you can't know the effect it has. It's like a burst of fire hitting your palate. Gentle fire, a terrific sensation, both sharp and pleasant."

"Fantastic!" I agreed.

My eyes fell on my reflection in a mirror. I looked completely dazed and weathered. I hadn't been drinking for quite some time. Mr. Joe burst into laughter.

"Don't worry about it," he said. "You get used to it quickly, unfortunately. Come on," he continued, "I'll have to teach the waiter at the next bar where I'll be drinking..."

Mr. Joe is quite a character, already jumping into the future. Maybe I should do the same. Start by teleporting myself into the future by experiencing it even while being in the present. Nevertheless, it reminded me of my goal, which is to reach the upper class at all costs.