"Its the first Monsieur Bodoni. You recognize it?"
"No, I dont recognize anything, youll have to learn that, Sibilla. Its just that I know that the first Iamblichus translated by Ficino is from 1497."
"Forgive me, Im trying to get used to it. Its just that you were so proud of that copy, its really splendid. And you said that for now you werent going to sell it, there are so few around-wed wait for one to appear in some American catalogue, since theyre so good at jacking up prices, and then list ours."
"So Im a canny businessman, then."
"I always said it was an excuse, that you wanted to keep it to yourself awhile, so you could look at it now and then. But since you did decide to sacrifice the Ortelius, I have some good news."
"Ortelius? Which one?"
"The 1606 Plantin, with 166 color tables and the Parergon. Period binding. You were so pleased to have discovered it when you bought Commendatore Gambis entire library on the cheap. You finally decided to put it in the catalogue. And while you while you werent well, I managed to sell it to a client, a new one. He didnt seem like a real bibliophile to me, more like someone who buys as an investment because hes heard that antiquarian books appreciate quickly."
"Too bad, a wasted copy. And how much?"
She seemed afraid to say the amount; she got a form and showed it to me. "In the catalogue we put price on request, and you were prepared to deal. I immediately named the highest price, and he didnt even try to bargain, just signed a check and was off. On the nail, as they say in Milan."
"Weve reached these levels now" I didnt have a sense of current prices. "Well done, Sibilla. How much did it cost us?"
"Basically nothing. That is, with the rest of the books from the Gambi library well easily make back, little by little, the lump sum we paid for the whole lot. I took care of depositing the check in the bank. And since there was no price listed in the catalogue, I think that with Mr. Laivellis help well come out quite well on the financial side."
"So Im one of those who dont pay their taxes?"
"No, Monsieur Bodoni, you just do what your fellow dealers do. For the most part, you have to pay the full amount, but with certain fortunate deals you might, how do you say, round down. But youre ninety-five percent honest as a taxpayer."
"After this deal itll be fifty percent. I read somewhere that citizens should pay every penny of their taxes." She looked humiliated. "Dont worry about it, though," I said paternally. "Ill talk it over with Gianni." Paternally? Then I said, almost brusquely, "Now let me take a look at some of the other books." She turned around and went to sit at her computer, silent.
I looked at the books, flipped through their pages: Bernardino Benalis 1491 Commedia, a 1477 edition of Scots Liber Phisionomiae, a 1484 edition of Ptolemys Quadripartite, a 1482 Calendarium by Regiomontanus. Nor was I exactly lacking when it came to later centuries: there was a fine first edition of Zoncas Novo teatro, and a marvelous Ramelli I was familiar with each of these works, like every antiquarian who knows the great catalogues by heart. But I did not know I owned copies of them.
Paternally? I was pulling out books and putting them back, but in fact I was thinking about Sibilla. Gianni had given me that hint, clearly mischievous, and Paola had delayed telling me about her until the last minute, and had used certain phrases that were almost sarcastic, even if her tone was neutral-"maybe too sweet," "a little game between the two of you"-nothing particularly rancorous, but she seemed a hairsbreadth away from calling her a slyboots.
Could I have had an affair with Sibilla? The lost maiden newly arrived from the East, wide-eyed and curious, meets an older gentleman (though I was four years younger when she got here) and falls under his spell, after all he is the boss and knows more about books than she does, and she learns, hangs on his every word, admires him; and he has found his ideal pupil-beautiful, smart, with that hiccupped oui oui oui-and they begin working together, all day every day, alone in this studio, partners in so many trouvailles great and small; and one day they brush against each other by the door and in that instant the story of their affair begins. But me, at my age? Youre just a girl, go find a boy your own age for Gods sake, dont take me so seriously. And she: No, Ive never felt anything like this before, Yambo. Was I summarizing some movie everyone knows? And it goes on like a movie, or a romance noveclass="underline" I love you, Yambo, but I cant go on looking your wife in the eye, shes so dear and kind, and you have two daughters and youre a grandfather-Thanks for reminding me that theres a whiff of the corpse about me already-No, dont talk that way, youre more more more than any man Ive ever met, boys my age make me laugh, but maybe its right that I should leave-Wait, we can still be good friends, just seeing each other every day will be enough-But dont you see, thats just it, if we see each other every day we could never remain friends-Sibilla, dont say that, lets think this through One day she stops coming to the studio, I call her and say Im going to kill myself, and she says dont be infantile, tout passe, then later she is the one who comes back, unable to stay away. And it goes on like that for four years. Or does it end?
I seem to know all the clichs, but not how to put them together in a believable way. Or else these stories are terrible and grandiose precisely because all the clichs intertwine in an unrealistic way and you cant disentangle them. But when you actually live a clich, it feels brand-new, and you are unashamed.
Would it be a realistic story? In recent days I felt that I no longer had desires, but as soon as I saw her I learned what desire is. I mean, someone I just met for the first time. Imagine being around her every day, following her, seeing her glide around you as if she were walking on water. Of course this is mere speculation; I would never start something, in the state I am in now, something like that, and besides, with Paola, I would really be the prize swine. For me, this girl might as well be the Immaculate Virgin, I cannot even think it. Great. But for her?
She might still be in mid-affair, maybe she wanted to greet me with tu and my first name; fortunately in French you can use vous even when you are sleeping together. Maybe she wanted to throw her arms around my neck-who knows how much she too might have suffered in recent weeks-and here she sees me come along, pretty as you please, saying how do you do Mademoiselle Sibilla, and now wont you leave me to my books, very kind of you thanks. And she understands that she can never tell me the truth. Perhaps it is better like this, time she found herself a boy. And me?
That I am not quite all here is a matter of clinical record. What am I brooding on about? With me sharing my office with a beautiful girl, of course Paola would play the part of a jealous wife-that is just a game old married couples play. And Gianni? It was Gianni who spoke of the beautiful Sibilla, maybe he is the one who has fallen for her, maybe he drops by my office all the time with some tax excuse, then hangs around pretending to be enchanted by the squeaking pages. He is the one with the crush, I have nothing to do with it. It is Gianni, old enough to smell a little like a corpse himself, he is trying to steal away, has stolen away, the woman of my dreams. Here we go again: the woman of my dreams?
I thought I was going to be able to handle living with so many People I do not recognize, but this is the greatest hurdle yet, ever since those senile fantasies entered my head. What pains me is that I might cause her pain. So you see, then No, it is natural for a man not to want to hurt his own adoptive daughter. Daughter? The other day I felt like a pedophile and now I discover I am incestuous?