Alice Munros Best

whims. But fortunately we have our gas stove. As long as we have a gas stove we can laugh at their whims. My only regret is that we cannot play any music. I was going to play some old political songs – ‘I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night,’” she sang in a mocking baritone. “Do you know that one?”
    I did know it. Donald used to sing it when he was a little drunk. Usually the people who sang “Joe Hill” had certain vague but discerniblepolitical sympathies, but with Charlotte I did not think this would be so. She would not operate from sympathies, from principles. She would be playful about what other people took seriously. I was not certain what I felt about her. It was not simple liking or respect. It was more like a wish to move in her element, unsurprised. To be buoyant, self-mocking, gently malicious, unquenchable.
    Gjurdhi, meanwhile, was showing me some of the books. How had this started? Probably from a comment I made – how many of them there were, something of that sort – when I stumbled over some on my way back from the toilet. He was bringing forward books with bindings of leather or imitation leather – how could I know the difference? – with marbled endpapers, watercolor frontispieces, steel engravings. At first, I believed admiration might be all that was required, and I admired everything. But close to my ear I heard the mention of money – was that the first distinct thing I had ever heard Gjurdhi say?
    “I only handle new books,” I said. “These are marvellous, but I don’t really know anything about them. It’s a completely different business, books like these.”
    Gjurdhi shook his head as if I had not understood and he would now try, firmly, to explain again. He repeated the price in a more insistent voice. Did he think I was trying to haggle with him? Or perhaps he was telling me what he had paid for the book? We might be having a speculative conversation about the price it might be sold for – not about whether I should buy it.
    I kept saying no, and yes, trying to juggle these responses appropriately.
No
, I cannot take them for my store.
Yes
, they are very fine.
No
, truly, I’m sorry, I am not the one to judge.
    “If we had been living in another country, Gjurdhi and I might have done something,” Charlotte was saying. “Or even if the movies in this country had ever got off the ground. That’s what I would love to have done. Got work in the movies. As extras. Or maybe we are not bland enough types to be extras, maybe they would have found bit parts for us. I believe extras have to be the sort that don’t stand out in a crowd, so you can use them over and over again. Gjurdhi and I are more memorable than that. Gjurdhi in particular – you could
use
that face.”
    She paid no attention to the second conversation that had developed, but continued talking to me, shaking her head indulgently at Gjurdhi now and then, to suggest that he was behaving in a way she found engaging, though perhaps importunate. I had to talk to him softly, sideways, nodding all the while in response to her.
    “Really you should take them to the Antiquarian Bookstore,” I said. “Yes, they are quite beautiful. Books like these are out of my range.”
    Gjurdhi did not whine, his manner was not ingratiating. Peremptory, rather. It seemed as if he would give me orders, and would be most disgusted if I did not capitulate. In my confusion I helped myself to more of the yellow wine, pouring it into my unwashed sherbet glass. This was probably a dire offense. Gjurdhi looked horridly displeased.
    “Can you imagine illustrations in modern novels?” said Charlotte, finally consenting to tie the two conversations together. “For instance, in Norman Mailer? They would have to be abstracts. Don’t you think? Sort of barbed wire and blotches?”
    I went home with a headache and a feeling of jangled inadequacy. I was a prude, that was all, when it came to mixing up buying and selling with hospitality. I had perhaps behaved clumsily, I had disappointed them. And they had disappointed me. Making me wonder why I had been asked.
    I was homesick for Donald, because of “Joe Hill.”
    I also had a longing for Nelson, because of an expression on Charlotte’s face as I was leaving. A savoring and contented look that I knew had to do with Gjurdhi, though I hardly wanted to believe that. It made me think that after I walked downstairs and left the building and went into the street, some hot and skinny,