Rose of Fire

read my thoughts.
    I kept my eyes on him, following his inspection tour through the bookshop, suspecting where he was going to drop anchor. Just as I’d imagined, he stopped in front of the ebony and glass cabinet, a relic dating back to the shop’s origin in 1888 when Great-grandfather Sempere, then a young man recently arrived from his fortune-seeking adventures in the Americas, had borrowed some money to buy an old glove shop and turn it into a bookshop. That cabinet, crown jewel of the shop, was reserved for the most valuable items.
    The visitor drew close enough to the cabinet for his breath to leave a trail on the glass. He pulled out a pair of spectacles, put them on and proceeded to study the contents. His expression made me think of a weasel examining freshly laid eggs in a chicken coop.
    ‘Beautiful piece,’ he murmured. ‘Looks pricey.’
    ‘A family heirloom. Its value is mostly sentimental,’ I replied, feeling uncomfortable at the assessments of that peculiar customer whose gaze seemed bent on costing even the air we were breathing.
    After a while he put his spectacles away and spoke in a measured tone.
    ‘I understand that a gentleman, well known for his wit, works for you.’
    When I didn’t reply immediately, he turned round and threw me a withering look.
    ‘As you can see, I’m on my own. Perhaps, sir, if you would kindly tell me what book you’re after, I could try to find you a copy, with pleasure.’
    The stranger granted me a smile that was anything but friendly and then nodded.
    ‘I see you have a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo in that cabinet.’
    He wasn’t the first customer to notice the book. I gave him the official sales patter we reserved for such occasions.
    ‘The gentleman has a very good eye. It’s a magnificent edition, numbered and with illustrations by Arthur Rackham. It belonged to the private library of an important collector in Madrid. A unique piece, and catalogued.’
    The visitor listened without interest, focusing his attention on the consistency of the ebony shelves and making it clear that my words bored him.
    ‘All books look the same to me, but I like the blue on that cover,’ he replied in a scornful tone. ‘I’ll take it.’
    Under other circumstances I would have jumped for joy at the thought of being able to sell what was probably the most expensive book in the entire shop, but the thought that it should end up in the hands of that character made my stomach turn. Something told me that if that volume left the bookshop, nobody would ever bother to read even the first paragraph.
    ‘It’s a very costly edition. If you like, sir, I can show you other editions of the same work in perfect condition and at much more reasonable prices.’
    People with a meagre soul always try to make others feel small too, and the stranger, who could probably conceal his on the head of a pin, gave me his most disdainful look.
    ‘And with blue covers too,’ I added.
    He ignored the impertinence of my irony.
    ‘No, thank you. This is the one I want. I don’t care about the price.’
    I agreed reluctantly and walked over to the cabinet. As I pulled out the key and opened the glass door, I could feel the stranger’s eyes piercing my back.
    ‘Good things are always under lock and key,’ he muttered under his breath.
    I took the book and sighed.
    ‘Is the gentleman a collector?’
    ‘I suppose you could call me that. But not of books.’
    I turned round with the book in my hand.
    ‘And what do you collect, sir?’
    Once again, the stranger ignored my question and stretched a hand out for the book. I had to resist the urge to put the volume back in the cabinet and turn the key. My father would never forgive me if I let such a sale go by when business was so bad.
    ‘The price is three hundred and fifty pesetas,’ I said before handing it to him, hoping the figure would make him change his mind.
    He nodded without batting an eyelid and pulled out a one-thousand-peseta note from the pocket of a suit that cannot have been worth a duro . I wondered whether the note was forged.
    ‘I’m afraid I don’t have change for such a large note, sir.’
    I would have asked him to wait a moment while I ran down to the nearest bank for change and, at the same time, to make sure it wasn’t a fake, but I didn’t want to leave him alone in the bookshop.
    ‘Don’t worry. It’s genuine. Do you know how you can tell?’
    The stranger raised the note against the light.
    ‘Look