The Travelling Companion Read online

  The Travelling Companion

  Ian Rankin

  “My French isn’t very good,” I told him.

  “The seller’s English. You’ll be fine.” Mr. Whitman thrust the postcard towards me again. He had insisted I call him George, but I couldn’t do that. He was my employer, sort of. Moreover, if the stories were to be believed, he was a descendant of Walt Whitman, and that mattered to me. I had graduated with First Class Honors from the University of Edinburgh that same summer. My focus had been on Scottish rather than American Literature, but still—Whitman was Whitman. And now my employer (of sorts) was asking me to do him a favor. How could I refuse?

  I watched as my fingers plucked the postcard from his grip. It was one of the bookstore’s own promotional cards. On one side were drawings of Shakespeare and Rue De La Bucherie, on the other my handwritten destination.

  “A five-minute walk,” Mr. Whitman assured me. His accent was an American drawl. He was tall, his silver hair swept back from his forehead, his eyes deep-set, cheekbones prominent. The first time we’d met, he had demanded a cigarette. On hearing that I didn’t smoke, he had shaken his head as if in general weariness at my generation. This meeting had taken place outside a nearby cous-cous restaurant, where I had been staring at the menu in the window, wondering if I dared go inside. Money wasn’t the main issue. I had been rehearsing my few French phrases and considering the possibility that the staff, seeing me for a lone traveler, might mug me for my pocketful of francs before selling the contents of my heavy rucksack at some street market in the vicinity.

  “Passing through?” the stranger next to me had inquired, before demanding that I give him one of my “smokes.”

  A little later, as we shared a table and the menu’s cheapest options, he had told me about his bookstore.

  “I know it,” I’d stammered. “It’s rightly famous.”

  He had offered a tired smile, and, when we’d filled our bellies, had produced an empty thermos flask, into which he poured the leftover food before screwing the lid back on.

  “No point wasting it,” he had explained. “The store doesn’t pay, you know, but there’s the offer of a bed. A bed’s all you get.”

  “I was going to look for a hotel.”

  “You work the till for a few hours, and mop the floor at closing time. Rest of the day’s your own, and we do have some interesting books on the shelves …”

  Which is how I came to work at Shakespeare and Company, 37 Rue De La Bucherie, Paris 5. On the postcard we boasted “the largest stock of antiquarian English books on the continent,” and added Henry Miller’s comment that we were “a wonderland of books.”

  It wasn’t the original shop, of course—not that we trumpeted the fact. Sylvia Beach’s Shakespeare and Company had opened in the year 1919 on Rue Dupuytren, before moving to larger premises on Rue de l’Odeon. This was where Joyce, Pound and Hemingway could be found. Mr. Whitman had called his own bookstore Le Mistral, before renaming it in Beach’s honor—her own Shakespeare and Co. having closed for good during the German occupation of Paris. The new Shakespeare and Company had been a magnet for Beat writers in the 1950s, and writers (of a sort) still visited. I would lie on my hard narrow bed in a curtained-off alcove and listen as poems were workshopped by ex-pats whose names meant nothing to me. Contemporary writing was not my period, however, so I tried hard not to judge.

  “You’re from Scotland, right?” Mr. Whitman had said to me one day.

  “Edinburgh, specifically.”

  “Walter Scott and Robbie Burns, eh?”

  “And Robert Louis Stevenson.”

  “Not forgetting that reprobate Trocchi …” He had chuckled to himself.

  “Stevenson is my passion. I’m starting my PhD on him in the autumn.”

  “Back into academe so soon?”

  “I like it there.”

  “I can’t imagine why.” And he had fixed me with one of his looks, before opening the till to examine the evening’s scant takings. It was August, and still hot outside. The tourists were sitting at café tables, fanning themselves with menus and ordering cold drinks. Only one or two people my own age were browsing the shelves of our airless shop. There was an original copy of Ulysses in the window, a siren to draw them inside. But this night it was proving ineffectual.

  “Was Paris always your destination?” he asked, sliding the drawer closed again.

  “I wanted to travel. Stevenson visited France several times.”

  “Is that the subject of your PhD?”

  “I’m looking at how his health may have affected his writing.”

  “Sounds fascinating. But it’s hardly living, is it?” I watched him as he turned away and headed for the stairs. Three more hours and I could lock up before heading for bed and the various biting insects who seemed to feast nightly on my ankles and the backs of my knees.

  I had sent postcards—Shakespeare and Company postcards—to friends and family, making sure to add a few centimes to the till in payment. I didn’t mention the bites, but did make sure that my ongoing adventure sounded as exotic as possible. I had actually sent a first postcard home soon after disembarking from the overnight bus at London’s Victoria Coach Station. Another had been purchased and sent from the ferry terminal in Dover. I knew my parents would prefer written communication to an expensive phone call. My father was a Church of Scotland minister, my mother an invaluable member of our local community. I was a rarity of sorts in having stayed at home during the four years of my undergraduate degree. My parents had offered financial assistance towards rent, but my arguments about wasted money had swayed them. Besides, my childhood bedroom suited me, and my mother was the finest cook in the city.

  Before leaving, however, I had promised to phone Charlotte every two days, just so she would know I was safe. There was a public phonebox just along the Seine from the store, with a view towards Notre Dame which made up for its general lack of hygiene. With the receiver wrapped in a clean paper serviette from a café, I would spend a few francs telling Charlotte of any new experiences, in-between listening to her tell me that she loved me and missed me and couldn’t wait until I found a place of my own in time for the start of term back in Edinburgh.

  “Absolutely,” I would agree, my mouth suddenly dry.

  “Oh, Ronnie,” she would sigh, and I would swallow back the inclination to correct her, since my preference (as she well knew) was for Ronald rather than Ronnie.

  My name is Ronald Hastie. I was born in 1960, making me twenty-two. Twenty-two and three months as I stood on the banks of the Seine, surrounded by heat and traffic fumes and a sense that there was another world being kept hidden from me. A series of worlds, actually, only one of them represented by Charlotte and her cropped red hair and freckled complexion. Cous-cous and a famous bookshop and morning espressos (consumed standing at the bar—the cheapest option)—these were all wonders to me that summer. And, yes, the original plan had been to drift much further south, but plans could change, as could people.

  “The seller’s English,” my employer said, waking me from my reverie. “You’ll be fine, trust me. A five-minute walk …”

  His name was Benjamin Turk and he lived in a sprawling apartment at the top of five winding flights of stairs. When he opened his door to me, I stood there breathless, staring past him at a long hallway filled with groaning bookshelves. I felt light-headed, and it seemed in that moment that the shelves were endless, stretching to infinity. Turk slid an arm around my shoulders and guided me into the gloom.

  “Whitman sent you but he didn’t mention the climb. That’s the reason he wouldn’t drag his own sorry rump over here, you know.” Laughter boomed from his chest. He was stocky and bald and probably in his fifties or early
sixties, with dark bushy eyebrows above eyes filled with sly humor. His voluminous white shirt and crimson waistcoat could have come from a different century, as could their owner. I’d read enough Dickens to see that Mr. Turk would have slotted right into one of those comedic episodes from Copperfield or Pickwick.

  “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.

  “Careful you don’t faint again,” Turk cautioned as I started to rebutton my shirt.

  “I just need some air,” I muttered.

  “Of cours
e. Can I help you negotiate the stairs?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it—I had the devil’s own job bringing you this far …”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant until I grabbed my jacket and pulled open the door. We were just inside the front door of the apartment. I must have missed the bedroom on arrival. I stared at Turk, who shrugged.

  “It wasn’t easy—those steps from the attic are treacherous.” He was holding something out for me to take. I unfolded the piece of paper. “A list of the books,” he explained, “so that your employer can be kept in blissful ignorance—if that’s what you would like.”

  “Thank you,” I said, pocketing the note. He had unlocked the door. The stairwell was a few degrees cooler, but I could still feel sweat clinging to my hair.

  “Safe descent,” Benjamin Turk said, giving a little wave of one hand before disappearing behind the closing door. Holding on to the banister, I made my way slowly to the street, pausing outside and filling my lungs with air. A young woman on the pavement opposite seemed to be watching me. She wore a full-length floral-print dress, almost identical to one Charlotte owned. I did a double-take and my jacket slid to the ground. By the time I’d picked it up, she had gone. I began walking back to the shop, aware that my headache was going nowhere. Passing a bar, I headed in and ordered a Perrier with plenty of ice and lemon. Having finished it in two long draughts, I ordered another. I doubted the place would sell painkillers, but then remembered the old saying about the hair of the dog. Kill or cure, I thought to myself, adding a glass of red wine to my order.

  And it worked—I could feel the pain easing after just one small measure. It was thin, vinegary stuff, too, the very antithesis of the contents of Turk’s decanter, but I felt better for it, and ordered one final glass. While sipping this, I removed the list of books from my pocket and went through it. A solid line had been drawn across the sheet two thirds of the way down. Underneath was a message from Turk:

  Not for sale, but possibly of interest: The Travelling Companion

  I blinked a few times and furrowed my brow. I knew that title, but couldn’t immediately place it. The books listed above it could probably find buyers. Historical non-fiction and philosophy titles mostly, with Balzac, Zola and Mann thrown in. Turk omitted to say whether they were first editions, or what condition they were in, and I had only the most fleeting memory of opening the first box. I felt I had let Mr. Whitman down somehow—not that he need ever know, unless Turk decided to tell him. But that didn’t stop me feeling bad. Preoccupied, I was halfway to the doorway before the barman reminded me I hadn’t yet paid. I mumbled an apology and rooted in my pockets for change. Curiously, there seemed a couple of hundred-franc notes there that I thought I’d spent earlier in the week. There would be cous-cous again that evening, rather than a tin of cheap tuna from the supermarket. Heartened, I added a small tip to the bill.