When my parents first got married, they lived in a tiny bedsit near the university to save money. My father taught part-time while my mother wrote letters to her father, begging his forgiveness. I felt like that now as I huddled near my little wood stove in the back of Mr. Gadot’s shop.
He was the son of Jewish immigrants who had come to America to make their fortune and knew the value of hard work. He was also compassionate and the most patient man I had ever known, immediately offering the spare room at the back of his bookshop when I told him I was looking for a place to rent.
“I’ve got a spare room,” he said as I filled out a job application. “I could let you have it for nothing if you agreed to mind the shop at night.” He went on to confide his shop had been broken into so many times, he was tempted to take his business elsewhere. “I thought about hiring a gentleman, but I think a young woman would be more—”
I held up my hand. “Say no more. What do I have to do?”
Though I appreciated Mr. Gadot’s generosity, I really wish he had installed a coal stove. I was never warm enough, never had enough blankets, and only had a sliding curtain for privacy. If I wanted to bathe, I had to go next door to the laundry and ask them if I could please use their tub. That was also when I’d do the wash.
So, I was killing two birds with one stone.
The lack of bathing facilities aside, I had more than enough to eat. Not that I needed much. The bakery was just across the street and the owner was more than eager to rid himself of his day-old bread and pastries that didn’t sell. I gladly took several loaves off his hands and had more lemon pies than I knew what to do with.
I no longer splurged on Darjeeling and drank good old-fashioned English tea. I also counted my pennies, knowing at some point I’d have to return to England. I had an empty tea tin that I used as a piggy bank. I didn’t know how much I’d need and accounted for every penny, only spending my hard-earned money on the necessities of life. If I needed a toothbrush and toothpowder, I’d wait until there was a sale and buy two of everything. I bought the cheapest soap I could find and used it to both bathe and wash my laundry. I saved leftovers and ate them the next day for lunch.
One might say I was a cheapskate.
Maybe I was.
I sold all my gold jewelry and learned how to sew. I knew the rudimentary basics, but nothing about inserting linings or cutting out sleeves. I had to learn the hard way that not all women could waltz into a dress shop and choose a gown that caught their fancy.
I never knew how much my parents indulged me until I saw the price of a machine-stitched gown. I remember walking past a shop with a red and blue one I liked and went in to inquire about paying on time. The shop owner politely informed me she did not do such transactions and money was required upfront. I knew I couldn’t possibly afford it, but glanced at the price tag, anyway.
Mr. Gadot chuckled at my frugality but neglected to give me a raise. He said he couldn’t afford it, which was probably true, but that didn’t make me feel any better when gnawing my way through stale cheese sandwiches. The bookshop was struggling to remain afloat, drowning amidst competition from newer, larger stores that catered to both students and the wealthy alike.
Our shop specialized in rare volumes that Mr. Gadot scoured the world over. As a result, our prices were high, and we did little business. On the days we did, Mr. Gadot was usually in the stockroom, dusting off his prized religious manuscript collection. So, I was usually the one at the till watching the world go by when we made a sale.
Today was no different as I gazed through the freshly scrubbed windows, going over a letter I received from Eileen. She was going to be eleven and considered herself quite the young lady. She had written me a long letter detailing her summer spent on the beaches of Martha’s Vineyard. My aunt and uncle had a summer house there but had never seen fit to invite my mother.
Reading Eileen’s letters through a teacher’s eye often made me wonder how much money my aunt was really spending on my sister’s education. Her letters were often riddled with spelling errors and inadequate grammar. I’d take a red pencil and correct every mistake I could find, gently correcting her but never having the heart to return the corrected letter. I’d recommend books to read or advise her to practice her spelling. Whether she took my advice remained to be seen.
I was in the midst of correcting a long paragraph when a faint cough drew my attention. I glanced up to see a tall gentleman with piercing blue eyes holding up a book. “Yes…?” I said, setting the letter aside. “May I help you, sir?”
He frowned. “Where is the owner?” he demanded in a very clipped English accent. I tried to guess where he was from. London? Too refined. Manchester? His clothing was immaculate. Perhaps Oxford or the Midlands. “Well?” he was saying. “Where is he?”
“Mr. Gadot is in the storeroom taking inventory, sir.” I nodded towards the book. “Do you wish to purchase that volume?”
“Well, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” he answered curtly, taking me aback with his churlish demeanor. He hurled the book on the counter. “Ring me up. And kindly refrain from wrapping it. Use one of those little paper bags you’ve got stashed under there.”
I took an immediate dislike to him, rang up his purchase, and retrieved the bag. I stood up with dust all over my skirt. “Will that be all, sir?” I inquired coldly. “That will be twenty dollars and fifteen cents.”
“Twenty dollars?” he choked. “Why that’s outrageous! I won’t pay!”
Shrugging, I slid the bag my way and stowed it under the counter. “Good day, sir,” I said, dismissing him from my sight. I turned, making a show of rearranging a set of Latin texts. I could still feel him behind the counter and turned slowly. “Was there something else you wanted, sir?”
“You are most impertinent, young lady!” he sniffed, glancing about as if looking for something. “Are you the only employee on the premises? Besides the owner, of course.”
“I am today.”
His mustache twitched. “Will you fetch him, please? I’d like to speak to him.”
“And this is in regards to…?”
“Never mind that,” he snapped, tapping his foot impatiently. “Just fetch the man. I haven’t all day!”
Oh, one of those. I hadn’t been the victim of such blatant hostility since I trimmed Colonel Havelock’s toenails. I darted from behind the counter and scuttled through the shop to the back.
Mr. Gadot was bent over, headfirst in a crate, and precariously close to joining whatever he’d ordered from Cairo. “Is that you, Anne?” he called, sounding as if he were deep within a Pharoah’s tomb. “I thought I told you I was not to be disturbed!”
“Mr. Gadot!” I huffed, still brushing dust off my skirt. “There is an unseemly gentleman who wishes to speak to you.”
“‘Unseemly’?”
“Yes,” I answered, my feathers still ruffled from the encounter. “He is most… uncouth. Said he wouldn’t pay the twenty dollars for that lovely volume you found in Athens.”
“Oh!” he cried, sticking out a hand. “Help me, Anne! I’m stuck!”
“Sir!” I tugged him back to the surface, brushing him off. He was a little man, barely reaching my shoulder. “He sounds British.”
“Is he?” Mr. Gadot handed me the crowbar. “See if you can open that one,” he said, pointing to a crate stuck in the corner. “It’s from Palestine.”
“Don’t you want to open it, sir?”
“Er… no. I can’t bring myself to touch it.” He slid past and dipped his head through the curtain.
I paused to see if I could hear what they were saying, but thought better of it.
I’d had enough of Englishmen to last me a lifetime.
* * *
“Well, my dear,” Mr. Gadot said one evening after we closed the shop for the night. “What will you do with yourself this weekend?”
It was a rainy Friday in March, and my plans were relegated to sleeping as late as I wanted and lingering in my nightgown until noon. “I thought I’d putter around the shop,” I said, not wishing to inform him I was the interim guardian of a cursed sari. When I first brought the trunk, I noticed Mr. Gadot's interest went beyond the intricate carvings. I lied and told him I kept my mother’s silver in there. “She made me swear never to sell it.”
“Oh,” he said, smiling. “I see.”
Not really. More than once had I seen him prodding the thing with his foot. I was unfamiliar with the Jewish faith and didn’t care to think what might happen to that kind little man if he so much as laid hands on it. I cared little about myself as the shadows confined their activities to me and my room at night.
Heaven help Mr. Gadot and his nascent curiosity.
“But what will you do, my dear? Don’t you get lonely all by yourself?”
“I’ll be fine,” I assured him. “I have been feeling unwell of late. Bedrest is just what I need.”
He nodded, promising to bring me some chicken soup.
After he departed for his mother’s house in Brooklyn, I was glad we weren’t open on weekends. I had the shop to myself, so I could indulge in my studies of the paranormal and Hindu spirituality. We had just received a shipment from Delhi and Mr. Gadot entrusted me to rifle through the crate to see if there was anything worth selling.
I had my entire weekend planned. I slept until noon, had my cup of tea while I cuddled a dog-eared copy of Wuthering Heights, and loafed about in my tattered robe I brought all the way from South Dakota. Yes, I was quite content to sit on the floor after prying open the lid and pull out musty books that had never seen the light of day.
I hummed to myself; a quaint tune Anjuli used to sing when she brushed her hair. We spoke little to each other since the sari was under lock and key. But I felt her presence just the same. She influenced how I wore my hair, the colors I wore, and whether I wanted a steaming bowl of mulligatawny soup from the Indian vendor down the street.
She was never insistent, but gently prodding.
I gave up resisting and simply went with the flow. It was no great hardship to do what she wanted if it made her happy. I liked mulligatawny soup. Enjoyed a spicy curry now and then. Maybe added a few drops of patchouli oil to my bathwater.
I felt if she was content, then she would keep the shadows at bay.
A fair exchange if you wanted my opinion.
Hours flew by until the shop darkened, and I turned down the lanterns. My search had yielded moldy prayer books donated by a local mission in Bombay and stacks of turmeric-stained pamphlets on the evils of the British Empire.
Propaganda in any language knew no bounds.
I abandoned my search until the next day and prepared a can of soup. I seldom felt like heavy meals, instead preferring slices of cheese on salted crackers. If I was lucky, there might be a can of clam chowder lurking on a bottom shelf of the local market. I’d be especially thrilled if I found oyster crackers to accompany the rare treat.
I sat down at the small desk I used as a table and ate my fill. Then I soaked my dishes, deciding to turn in early. I was happily snoring away when I heard it. The faint sound of glass breaking. Still half-asleep, my first thought was they were after the sari. I grabbed a pair of sewing shears from my sewing basket and crept through the curtain.
Whoever they were, they were determined to get inside Mr. Gadot’s bookshop. He had thousands of dollars’ worth of religious texts and rare volumes dating back to the Fall of the Roman Empire. He tried to get a library to take them off his hands, but for some reason, they were reluctant.
Mr. Gadot said no one wanted to deal with a Jew, which I found preposterous.
I rather thought it was because he drove a hard bargain and libraries were endowed with taxpayer dollars and wealthy donors who were only interested in what interested them and not preserving historical facts. I could be mistaken. Antisemitism was rife in some parts of the country, even more so in Europe. So, perhaps Mr. Gadot was not amiss in his assumptions.
Either way, he was determined to be treated fairly in his business dealings.
I admired him for that.
I wish I could say the same for my dealings with the intruder. He left a trail of broken glass from hell till breakfast. I was barefoot and did not relish picking out the large piece that impaled my sole. I limped through the shop for a broom and pan, trailing blood behind me. “That’s wonderful,” I muttered, dumping the last of it into a bin.
After wrapping my foot, I called the police. Then I called Mr. Gadot.
Neither was eager to ride to my rescue, with Mr. Gadot gruffly instructing me to take an inventory of everything to see what was stolen. “But they didn’t take anything!” I cried into the receiver. “They just broke the glass.”
He didn’t want to hear it and hung up on me.
The police made me wait until Monday to send someone over. A plump fellow, he proudly wore his stained uniform with pride and sullied my honor. Instead of showing concern for my welfare and Mr. Gadot’s shop, he wanted to know why I was alone that night. “Where is your family, girl?” he asked, insinuating the intruder had been a jilted lover. “Did you abandon your husband to be with this man?”
I was so offended I limped away and refused to assist in the investigation. Eventually, the culprit was revealed to be a young man who said others had put him up to it. “They paid me to do it!” he cried after his arrest. “They only wanted to scare her!”
“Scare her?” Mr. Gadot cried, alarmed. “Why?”
“They said she had something they wanted. They told me I was to break the window and nothing else.”
Mr. Gadot turned to me. “Do you understand any of that, child?”
I eyed the vagrant warily and said I didn’t know what he was talking about. It was only after another, more violent incident occurred did I begin to understand.
The sari wasn’t cursed.
I was.
