We stood outside the bookstore as he inspected the facade. The Pen Is Mightier was a half-width storefront, glass above salt-eaten brick, with signage reminiscent of a Grateful Dead poster. Most of the blackened window was papered with flyers and announcements. Tonight’s reading was heralded by a sheet of paper headlined “Prof. George I. Qumdis Reveals The Truth Behind Zionist Imperialism.” Next to that was the sticker of a boutique coffee brand, the legend “Java Inside!” and a B rating from the health department.
“B,” said Milo, “means a permissible level of rodent droppings. I’d stay away from the muffins.”
No coffee or muffin smells inside, just the must of old, wet news pulp. Where the walls weren’t hidden by rough pine bookshelves, they were exposed block. Bookcases on wheels were arranged haphazardly at the center. Pocked vinyl floors were the color of too-old custard. A twenty-foot ceiling was spaghettied by ductwork and ladders—not library rollers on rails, just foldable, aluminum ladders—supplied for those willing to climb their way to erudition.
A heavyset, long-haired Asian kid sat behind the register, nose buried in something bound in plain brown wrappers. A sign behind him said NO SMOKING, but he puffed on an Indian herbal stick. Another sign said READING IN BACK over a pointing hand. The clerk ignored us as we filed past and began squeezing through the choppy maze created by the portable cases.
The book spines I could make out covered a host of isms. Titles shouted back in the hoarse adolescence of dime-store revolution. Milo scanned and frowned a lot. We ended up in a small, dark clearing at the rear of the store, set with thirty or so red plastic folding chairs that faced a lectern. Empty chairs. On the rear wall was a sign that said BATHROOMS (UNISEX).
No one but us.
For all his talk of good seats, Milo remained on his feet, retreating until he was back in the bookcase maze, positioning himself at a slant.
Perfect vantage spot. We could watch and remain out of view.
“It’s good we’re early,” I whispered. “Big crush and all that.”
He glanced over at the seats. “All those folding chairs. You could do group therapy.”
*
For the next ten minutes no one showed up, and we passed the time browsing. Milo seemed distracted, then his face loosened and took on a meditative cast. I browsed and by the time the first people began trickling in, I’d received a quick education on 1. How to build homemade bombs, 2. How to farm hydroponically, 3. Vandalism in the service of the greater good, and 4. The ethical virtues of Leon Trotsky.
The audience dispersed itself among the chairs. A dozen or so people, divided into what seemed to be two groups: twentyish, pierced-and-branded, dreadlocked rage hobbyists in expensive shredded duds, and sixtyish couples swathed in earth tones, the women helmeted by severe gray bobs, the men frizzy-bearded and shadowed by cloth caps.
The exception was a thickset, wavy-haired guy in his fifties, wearing a navy pea coat buttoned to the neck and crumpled houndstooth pants, who positioned himself front row center. His jaw was a stubbled shelf. He wore black-rimmed glasses, had wide shoulders and serious thighs, and looked as if he’d just finished organizing dockworkers. He sat stiffly, folded his arms across a barrel chest, scowled at the lectern.
Milo studied him, and his eyes slitted.
“What?” I whispered.
“Angry fellow up in front.”
“Probably not unusual for this crowd.”
“Sure,” he said. “Lots to be angry about. It’s comfier and cozier in fucking North Korea.”
*
Seven-forty, forty-five, fifty. No sign of Albin Larsen or the speaker or a bookstore staffer. Quiet audience. Everyone just sitting and waiting.
Just before eight, Larsen entered the room with a tall, dignified-looking man wearing a glen plaid, suede-elbowed hacking jacket, brown flannel trousers, and shiny peanut-butter-colored demiboots. I’d expected someone Mideastern, but Professor George Issa Qumdis had the ruddy complexion and magesterial bearing of an Oxford don. I put him at fifty-five to sixty, a comfortably lived middle age. His longish salt-and-pepper hair curled over the collar of a crisp white shirt. His rep tie probably meant something. Haughty nose, hollow cheeks, thin lips. He half turned his back on the audience and glanced at an index card.