INTERNATIONAL LITERARY COMPETITION

european feuilleton
2002

visegrad feuilleton
2002

collection of awarded works
sborník oceněných prací
zbiór nagrodzonych prac
zborník ocenených prác
díjazott munkák gyüjteménye


László Borbély
An antiquarian bookseller
(main prize)


Our antiquarian bookseller hates mobile phones. I know, because many times I have seen how he asked people who tried to use their phone in his shop to leave. "Ideal customers come often, spend a lot and don't use their phones in my shop", he once told me in a deep voice that is not to be argued with. "Talking on the phone disturbs both me and my customers. We are not interested in other people's business. Urgent calls should be dealt with briefly and other calls should be made outside, on the street." He is a middle-aged man, strict, but fair. A mere look at his bow tie confirms that, surrounded by old books and prints, he has survived from a world that has vanished a long time ago. If Sindbad, the hero of Gyula Krúdy's novels, were still here with us, he could, walking down Ludvik street in Budapest, pop into the shop. After all, Church Street, where Sindbad's creator wrote his last stories seventy years ago, is within a sto-ne's throw from here. Man needs a quiet corner, surrounded with books, where he can rest with a bottle of white wine, when all of the old friends, waiters, pub owners, bookmakers and dealers of all kinds have turned their backs on him. He needs a rest to gather strength for another day. Sindbad could have a word with the shopkeeper, tell him about everything he used to like: village dance parties, little inns in the country, blood red leaves in an autumn park, abandoned wind mills, melancholic journeys by coach, the smile of a circus-rider, lies told to young students at a convent, declaration of love to mothers of children, immersing into the dreams of beautiful girls, hands of the clock, relentlessly guarding young ladies of Old Budapest. One afternoon, Sindbad could give our gentleman shop keeper a name. Because here is where my abilities end. Hard as I try, I cannot come up with a suitable name for him. Anytime I have errands to do near Kolosy Square, I make sure to visit the shop and look around. Being a regular customer, I know exactly what to expect in each corner of the shop. I'm looking around, while the shopkeeper is serving customers. The customer traffic varies; sometimes they come in droves, sometimes the bell above the door is silent for long periods of time. The shopkeeper is not exactly a talkative person. Once he revealed to me that his father was a sculptor. However, he himself was not attracted to sculpting because, as a child, he could closely observe how difficult a living it was. He was originally trained as a graphic artist and stuck to this trade for some time, till he got fed up. At that time he had already been collecting books. Later he started dealing in old prints, buying them and selling through ads in newspapers. He learnt a lot and became an assistant in the shop he owns today. He became a partner in the firm, so that he could claim the ownership of the shop in the process of privatisation. Now he's been his own boss for years. He is satisfied with his life. As an old graphic artist he would run around between offices of editors and publishing houses; as an old second hand bookshop keeper he is "a fish in water". I used to see a German shepherd lying by the counter. I don't see it now so I ask what's happened to it. — "Our old Max doesn't like these heat waves", says the shopkeeper, "so in summer my wife looks after him. She works in Népliget, you see, and a big park is a much better place for a dog than a stuffy bookshop. But in autumn and winter he is here with me. It's a calm animal, used to people. He doesn't like postmen, though.." — "… or mobile phones," say I. — "Not at all," says the shopkeeper, "I'm the one who is always growling at them. Well, sometimes." He straightens his bow tie. A true gentleman, no doubt about it. New customers come and I go on looking around the bookshelves. I browse through the books by Gyula Krúdy. There is a copy of his "Sindbad" on one of the shelves. If I didn't hear the regular sound of a pendulum clock, I would think that time had stopped. Listening to the quiet tones of classical music, leafing through old books,one can easily lose sense of time here. To spend a few moments in this harmonious place is a cure for all the pains of the outside world. And outside there, in the streets, mobile phones can ring again and annoy us.