The Book of Air and Shadows

necessitie. But he gave me the lie saying I had gamed or drunk it up & hoped to gull hym with this tayle of papistes: in short, we fought, me not able I feare to keep Christian forebearance as I should nor honor my maistre as I should, for I could not beare his cantings hym being hymselfe a greate liar & keeping a whore besydes. Which I tolde oute to the whole house & his wyfe there too & was greate dissensioun in that house after. Next day I was dismissed with but the clothes on my backe & no ticket of leave neither.
    Titchfield being 65 Englishe myles from London it ben some tyme for me to walk back, slaepyng under hedges & stealing fruit & egges may God forgive my sinne. Arrivyng late at the Iron Man I found my mother well enow being kept goode compagnie by a faire young mayde the master’s daughter of the house, which wase you my Nan from what connexion we first met & afterward loved, as thou knowest. But mayhap oure sonne grown to a knowinge age, which may the good Lord allow, knows it not so I tell it heere.
    Now had I to earn oure bread & keepe, mee a lad not 16 years & I thought mee of the Tower & those I had met there & would they give me werke & so I repaired there straightway & asked for Mr Hastynges: he cometh, I tell him alle oure lamentable plight as I have heere tolde & he scries me close saying, well, lad, we can have no papistes nor yet puritans in the Tower, one it would be my head to doe & the other I cannot beare to have around mee, for I sit but one sermon in the weeke & that o’ Sunday & need not prayeres & canting other daies. Where-upon I sayde I too was done with them. Then Mr Keane hearing this sayeth Hastynges we must trye him like a gonne, ho to Southwark. So over-bridge went wee, & drank much sacke (which I never did before) & saw bear-baytes & dogge-baytes, lewde shews, &c.: and they carried me to the stewes & bought me a punk but God be thanked I spewed & was soe sick I mounted her but scarce enow to count a sinne & they laughed much & made bawdry jestes upon me, but Mr Keane sware I wase no puritan withal but a mere two-pounder falconet, could spew little shotte well enow but did not burst my breech & so wast proved.

6
    C rosetti, bearing the rolled and wrapped maybe-invaluable manuscript under his arm, waited out on the deserted street for nearly half an hour, which he thought excessive. What was she doing in there? Although he had occasionally waited as long for women to get ready to go out. Although they weren’t going to the prom. He looked at his watch and paced and felt the craziness pluck at his mind.
    She emerged wearing one of her black outfits, as if going to Glaser’s to work, and he wondered why. Maybe Bulstrode insisted on a certain formality, in which case he would be disappointed in Crosetti, who needed a bath and a shave and was wearing a T-shirt from a Springsteen concert, grubby jeans, and Nikes. He did not, however, complain to her about the waiting.
    Nor did she apologize. Instead, she nodded at him casually and started off. He did not ask any questions about their destination, resolving to play it cool. He could be an international man of mystery too. They walked to Van Dyke and took the 77 bus to the Smith Street station, where they boarded the F train and rode noisily in silence to Manhattan. At Houston Street she got up and trotted from the car, and when he caught up with her he could not resist asking her about where they were going. Crosetti was not at heart cool.
    “Mermelstein’s,” she answered. “They’re the last wholesaler of fine binding leather in the city.”
    “They’ll sell you retail?”
    “Mr. Mermelstein likes me.”
    “Really. Does he…?” Crosetti made a pawing gesture. They were walking on the station steps, and she stopped abruptly and said, “He does not. You know, I’m really sorry I told you that about Sidney. Are you going to trot it out every time I mention a business connection with a man?”
    “It’s erased from my mind as of this very minute,” said Crosetti, genuinely abashed, but also feeling a little manipulated. He also wondered why she was going to a wholesaler. Everyone in the old book trade in New York knew that the center of the bookbinding business was in Brooklyn, in Borough Park. He was about to ask her that but then stopped and figured it out for himself. Book dealers and major collectors had contacts among the regular bookbinders. If one of them were offered a Churchill
Voyages
at a fire-sale price,