Unless it was a matter of a banknote, which Jon was allowed to keep, all the bookmarks were collected in a wooden box under the counter. When he was a child and couldn't find anything else to do, Jon would pull out the box and place the bookmarks on the floor like playing cards, making up stories about them.
The bells over the door rang and Iversen came in with a red pizza box in his hands. When he caught sight of Jon he broke into a big smile and offered a vociferous greeting as he hurried to close the door behind him.
'It's good to see you,' he said, setting the pizza box on the counter and stretching out his hand.
'Hello, Iversen.' Jon shook his hand. 'I hope I'm not interrupting you?' He nodded towards the pizza. The pronounced aroma of pepperoni and melted cheese momentarily drove out the smell of parchment and leather.
'Not in the least,' exclaimed Iversen. 'But I hope you won't mind if I eat. It's best when it's hot.'
'Not at all. Go right ahead.'
Iversen smiled gratefully. 'Let's go downstairs so we can talk without being disturbed,' he said and grabbed the box.
'Katherina?' called Iversen as they made their way along the corridor towards the winding stairs at the back of the shop.
The red-haired woman popped up at the end of the bookshelf, as if she'd been waiting to be summoned. She was only slightly shorter than Jon, and her body was slender without being lanky. Her red hair framed a narrow, pale face with thin lips pursed into a stern expression. Her green eyes looked at Jon as if he were in the wrong place.
'We're going down to the kitchen,' said Iversen. 'Could you watch the shop in the meantime?' The woman nodded in reply and once again withdrew from sight.
'Your daughter?' asked Jon on the way down the spiral staircase, whose worn steps creaked loudly under the weight of the two men.
'Katherina?' Iversen laughed. 'No, no, she's one of the friends of the bookshop. Lately she's been an invaluable help to the two of us old men. She mostly takes care of practical matters such as cleaning and things like that.' Iversen stopped at the bottom of the stairs. 'She's not exactly the best bookshop clerk,' he added in a low voice.
Jon nodded. 'She seems a bit shy, doesn't she?'
Iversen shrugged. 'That's not really it. She's dyslexic.'
'A dyslexic clerk in a bookshop?' exclaimed Jon in surprise, speaking a little too loudly, which prompted him to lower his voice to a whisper. 'How can she possibly be useful to you?'
'I haven't got a single bad thing to say about Katherina,' replied Iversen solemnly. 'She's smarter than most people. You'll soon find that out.'
They stood at the foot of the stairs in a narrow, whitewashed hallway illuminated by two bare bulbs. On either side of the hall were doorways, one leading to the kitchen, which was where Iversen headed. The room across from it was cloaked in darkness, but Jon knew that Luca used to use it as a workshop where he bound and restored books. At the end of the corridor was a heavy oak door.
The kitchen was small but functional. A stainless-steel sink, a cupboard, two hotplates, a fridge and a table with three folding chairs. On the walls and the cupboard doors hung discarded book jackets interspersed with illustrations, wherever there was space.
Iversen set the pizza on the table, took off his jacket, and hung it on a hook by the door. Jon followed his example.
'I love pizza,' said Iversen as he sat down at the table. 'I know it's supposed to be food for youngsters like yourself, but I can't help it. And it's not even the fault of your father's influence. He hated Danish pizzas.' Iversen laughed. "They have nothing to do with real pizza," he used to say. Too much topping, in his opinion. "Piled up like an open sandwich."'
Jon sat down across from Iversen.
'Would you like some?' muttered Iversen, his mouth already full of food.
Jon shook his head. 'No thanks. On that point I share Luca's opinion.'
Iversen shrugged his shoulders as he continued to chew. 'So tell me a little about what you've been doing while I eat.'
'Hmm,' said Jon. 'Well, I ended up living with a family in Hillerшd back then. It was okay, but a little too far from the city, so I moved to a dorm in Copenhagen when I started at the university. In the middle of my studies I took a couple of years off and worked as a legal assistant in Brussels – I was more or less an intern. Back in Denmark I finished my law degree near the top of my class, which led to a position as barrister with the firm of Hanning, Jensen & Halbech, where I still work.'
Jon fell silent, discovering that he actually didn't have anything else to add. Not because there was nothing to tell – he could always talk about his travels, his difficulties at the university, the jockeying for position at the firm or the Remer case. But why involve Iversen now, after so many years of separation, and with Luca's death about to bring their connection to a definite end?
'As you can hear, I haven't had much to do with literature,' he added.
'Maybe not with literature, per se,' admitted Iversen between pieces of pizza. 'But the written word is of great importance in both of our worlds. Each of us in his own way is dependent onbooks. '
Jon nodded. 'More and more is becoming available electronically, but you're right. Everyone in my field has a set of Karnov law books somewhere or other. In some sense it's still more impressive to have a stack of thick reference books than a single CD-ROM.' He threw out his hands. 'So I assume there's still some use for antiquarian bookshops like this?'
Iversen gulped down the last of his pizza. 'I'm positive there is.'
'Which brings us to why I'm here,' said Jon in a businesslike tone. 'There was something you wanted to tell me?'
'Let's go into the library,' said Iversen, pointing to the door. 'There's more… atmosphere.'
They got up and walked down the hall. As a child, Jon was never allowed to be downstairs unless accompanied by Luca or Iversen, and he'd never been inside the room behind the oak door, which they were now approaching. The room had always been part of his games about a treasure chamber or a prison cell, but no matter how much he pleaded, he had never been allowed inside. The door had always been kept locked, and after a while he gave up asking. At the door Iversen pulled a key ring from his trouser pocket and selected a black iron key, which he stuck in the lock. The door groaned impressively when he opened it, and Jon noticed that the hairs on the back of his neck quivered.
'This is the Campelli collection,' said Iversen as he vanished into the darkness beyond the door. A moment later the lights went on and Jon stepped inside. The low-ceilinged room was approximately 30 square metres, and the floor was covered with a thick, dark carpet. In the middle of the room stood four comfortable-looking leather chairs around a low table made of dark wood. The walls were covered with bookshelves and glass cabinets filled with books in various bindings. Most of them had leather spines, and the indirect light from the top of the shelves bathed the books and the rest of the room in a soft, golden glow.
Jon whistled softly. 'Impressive.' He let his hand slide over the books on the nearest shelf. 'Not that I know much about it, but I have to admit it's an amazing sight.'
'I can assure you that for those in the know, the sight is no less impressive,' added Iversen. He smiled proudly as he let his gaze roam from shelf to shelf. 'The collection was put together over the centuries by your father and your ancestors. Many of the works have travelled around most of Europe before ending up here.' With great care he pulled out a volume and caressed the darkened leather with his fingertips. 'If only I could hear it speak,' he said to himself. 'A story within a story.'
'Is it valuable?'
'Very,' replied Iversen. 'Maybe not in terms of cash, but it has a high sentimental and bibliographic value.'