“A drink’s what’s needed,” he went on, steering me down the hall. Varnished parquet floor stretched its length, and it ended eventually at a wall furnished with a large mirror, in which I glimpsed my sweating face. Doorways to left and right, both open, showing a tidy kitchen and a cluttered living-room. We entered this last and Turk positioned me before an armchair, thumping it so hard dust rose into the air.
“Sit!” he commanded, before pouring red wine from a glass decanter. I noticed for the first time that he had a discernible limp.
“I don’t really...” I began to apologize.
“Nonsense, lad! This is Paris — you do realize that? Get it down you or I’ll have you deported for crimes against the state!”
He had poured himself a glass not quite as generous as mine, and raised his hand in a toast before filling his mouth.
I realized I really was thirsty, so took a sip. The stuff was nectar, unlike the cheap, weak compromises of Edinburgh lunches and dinners. Cherries and blackcurrants replaced the bitter memories, and Turk could tell I was in love. He beamed at me, nodding slowly.
“Delicious,” I said.
“Did you ever doubt it?” And he toasted me again with his glass before settling on the chaise longue opposite. “Do I detect a Scottish accent?”
“Edinburgh.”
“That most Presbyterian of cities, explaining your aversion to pleasure.”
“I’m not averse to pleasure.” As soon as the words were out, I regretted them, hoping they wouldn’t be misinterpreted. To cover my embarrassment, I took more sips of wine, causing Turk to spring to his feet in order to refill my glass.
“Mr. Whitman says you’re one of his oldest customers,” I stammered.
“We’ve known one another more years than I care to remember.”
“So you’ve lived in Paris a long time?”
He smiled, this time a little wistfully. “How about you?” he asked.
“This is my first visit. I’m taking a break from university.”
“Yes, George said as much — too short a break, he seems to think. Your hero Stevenson didn’t let college hold him back, did he?” He saw my surprise. “George again,” he explained.
“Stevenson completed his studies.”
“And passed the law exam,” Turk said airily. “But his family expected him to stick to that path, or one very like it, but the bold Louis had other ideas.” My host was swirling the wine in his glass. I found the motion hypnotic, and sensed I was not yet fully recovered from the climb. The room was stuffy, too, with the smell of leatherbound books, old curtains and faded rugs.
“You should take your jacket off,” Turk said. “Who the hell wears a black velvet jacket in Paris in the heat of summer?”
“It’s not velvet,” I mumbled, shrugging my arms out of the sleeves.
“But the nearest you could find?” Turk smiled to himself and I could tell that he knew — knew that Stevenson’s nickname at university had been “Velvet Jacket.”
I lay the jacket across my knees and cleared my throat. “Mr. Whitman says you have some books to sell.”
“A few boxes — mostly bought from George himself. He says you’ve memorized the stock so will know if they’re worth taking or not.”
“He’s exaggerating.”
“I think so, too. I know only too well how many books are in that shop of his.”
“You’re a collector.” I was looking around the room. Every inch of wall-space was filled with shelving, and those shelves groaned. The books all seemed very old — few had dust jackets. It was impossible to make out any of the titles, but they seemed to be in several languages. “Are you a professor? A writer?”
“I’ve been many things.” He paused, watching me above the rim of his glass. “I’m guessing you’d like to be both some day.”
“I’ve never thought about writing. I mean to say, I would hope to finish my thesis and try to get it published.”
“A thesis about Stevenson and his ailments?”
“And how they made him the writer he was. He was trying out an experimental drug called Ergotine when he got the idea for Jekyll and Hyde. It gave him hallucinations. And the Edinburgh he grew up in was all science and rationalism and men who did things, while he felt sickly, his only real strength his imagination...” I broke off, fearing I was beginning to lecture my host.
“Interesting,” Turk said, drawing the word out. He rose to fill my glass again, emptying the decanter. My mouth felt furred and sweat was trickling down my forehead. I took out a handkerchief and began to mop at my face. “He had a nursemaid, didn’t he?” Turk asked as he poured. “She told him ghost stories. Must have frightened the life out of him.”
“He called her ‘Cummy’ — her real name was Alison Cunningham. She told him about the wardrobe in his room.”
“The one made by William Brodie?”
And Turk nodded to himself again, because he knew this story too. Brodie, a respectable man by day but a criminal by night, the Deacon of Wrights who led a gang, breaking into houses, thieving and terrorizing, until caught, tried and hanged on a gibbet he had previously crafted by his own hand. The lazy theory was that Stevenson had plundered this story wholesale for Jekyll and Hyde, but it comprised only one part of the overall puzzle.
“Maybe we should look at these books,” I said, hoping I wasn’t slurring my words.
“Of course.” Turk rose slowly to his feet, and came over to help me up. I followed him into the kitchen. There was a narrow stairway I hadn’t noticed and we climbed into the eaves of the building. It was hotter, gloomier and stuffier up here. Two people, no matter how emaciated, could not have passed one another in the corridor. Several doors led off. One seemed to be a bathroom. I guessed there had to be a bedroom, but the room Turk led me into was the study. Three boxes sat on an antique desk. Piles of books lined the walls, threatening to topple as our weight shifted the bare floorboards beneath. I draped my jacket over the room’s only chair.
“Shall I leave you to it, then?” Turk inquired.
I looked in vain for a window to open. The sweat was stinging my eyes now and my handkerchief was drenched. Outside, bells were chiming. The scratching noises could have been pigeons on the roof-tiles immediately overhead or rats somewhere below the floor. My lips felt as if they had been glued together. More dust flew into my face as I peeled open the flaps of the first box.
“You don’t look well, my boy.” Turk’s words seemed to come from far off. Were we still in the attic, or had we somehow moved to that infinite entrance-hall with its books and mirror? I had a sudden vision: a cold drink, something non-alcoholic, in a tall glass filled with ice. I craved it without being able to say the words out loud. There was a book in my hand, but it seemed to weigh far more than its size would suggest, and the title on its spine seemed to be a jumble of letters or hieroglyphs of some kind.
“My boy?”
And then a darkening tunnel.
“Wait, let me...”
And then sleep.
I awoke laid out on a bed. My shirt had been unbuttoned and Benjamin Turk was dabbing at my chest with a damp towel. I sat bolt upright, a hangover pulsing behind my eyes.
It was quite obviously his bedroom. My jacket had been placed on a hook on the back of the door, but below it I could see a long red satin bath-robe. There was also a wardrobe whose doors wouldn’t quite shut and a bedside table bearing a basin half-filled with water. When I angled my feet off the bed on to the floor, I made contact with several hardcover books lying there.