The Connoisseur

Chapter 24 - Indexed

They left the coffee shop, but the door did not open onto the street.  Instead, Sophia found herself stepping into the dusky light of Alexander’s library.  For a moment the transition unnerved her, so jarring was the contrast.  She had only previously visited Alexander’s halls when dressed for the occasion; now, in her coat and scarf, she felt as though she had stumbled from the cafe into a solemn church service.  The dark books looked at her disapprovingly.

“Please, come,” said Alexander, waiting for her on the spiral staircase.  His own casual dress reassured her and she followed him upward to the top floor.  When he turned towards the small study at the top, she realised what was about to happen.

“Alex, you don’t have to.”

“Yes I do.”

He stood by the lectern.  The great red book lay closed upon it.  The initials ‘A.H.’, embossed in gold, glinted in the late sunlight.  Sophia stared at it, her eyes wide.

“You may read it,” said Alexander haltingly.  “Everything I’ve said is in there.  There are entries for our nights in Prague and Ctesiphon, and others besides from the time since we met.  There’s even one for London.”

“You wrote about that?” said Sophia.  “Why?  I thought you only wrote about beautiful experiences.”

“Tragedies are beautiful, aren’t they?” said Alexander.  “How many thousands of stories have been told of lost love?  Oh!” He cried out in frustration and slumped over the rail, looking down at his library.  “There I go again, turning this, us, into some damned detached story.  That’s not what I think of it.  I didn’t go looking for this.  It’s real.  It’s damnably real.  Please, just read the book.  It will ease my mind.  Please read it.”

Sophia stood between the book and the man.  She wanted to comfort Alexander, to hold him and reassure him, not necessarily out of affection, but sympathy.  He looked gaunt and hollow, suddenly small amidst the splendour of his house.

But the book called to her.  He wanted her to read it.  She should definitely read it.  What sort of secrets might it hold?  What did he think of her, what did he write about her, what might he do for her? 

She walked to the book and gently opened it, using both hands to steady the huge, antique binding.  Black ink sprawled across each page.  She caught a glimpse of a few chapter headings – “Deckchairs at Ilium”; “Holbein At Work”; “Fauré Requiem, La Madeleine, 1888” – and names from history tripped across every page.  She turned to the back of the great tome and found an immense index.  There were Thaïs and Imperia La Divina, each referenced many times, but other names with equal mention in the text sprang out, some men, but mostly women: Catherine de’ Medici, Ada Lovelace, Wu Zetian, Ella Fitzgerald.  Sophia shook her head in amazement.  She hadn’t heard of all of them, but those she did know were astonishing.  She had some of Ella’s songs on the phone in her pocket, for goodness’ sake.  How could she, a random girl from a small village, keep company with them?  Dreams of a grand future and nightmares of a terrible one flitted across her mind.

Then she saw it.

Deveaux, Sophia: 124, 228, 486-513, 516-545, 549-

She wrenched her eyes away from the page, took a breath, and gently closed the book.  She looked at Alexander: he still stood at the rail, his head lowered.

She stood beside him and put an arm around him, gently stroking his back.  He turned to her and smiled.

“So?  What do you think?” he said.

“I didn’t read anything.”

His face fell.  “What?  Why not?”

“I don’t need to.”