Chapter Four-- A Study in Contradictions

It is starting to drizzle lightly as I pull my old, dented Chrysler into the narrow parking spot before the antique book store. I fumble around beneath the passenger seat, looking for an umbrella, more out of fear of rain damage to the fragile item in my bag than for my own use. I then slide out of the car and step through the door of the shop, inhaling the musty scent of old paper and ink.

“Anton?” I call, peering around the labyrinthine shelves, trying to see the checkout desk. There is only one other customer in the store, a tall, slender man in a blue velvet suit with an almost Victorian cut, and a matching bowler hat. I can't see his face, as his back is to me. He is pouring over a yellowed, dusty volume. As I walk towards the desk, I glance his way again; his face is still hidden in the shadow of his hat, but I see his head tilt slightly and his lips upturn in what I can only call a sardonic smirk.

“I believe Anton is in the back... imbibing,” the man says in a clipped, Irish-sounding accent. I glance his way without responding, striding over to the counter and ringing the bell. “Anton?” I call. “You back there?”

I hear a shuffling and a harrumph, and a hawk-faced old man with shoulder-length white hair steps out of the back room. He sees me, and raises one eyebrow in mock outrage before breaking into a broad grin. “Evelyn! And for what purpose do you grace me with your presence today?”

“How are ya, Anton?” I say while pulling the book out of my bag. Anton pulls a pair of spectacles out of his pocket and puts them on, staring at the book in instantaneous rapt attention. This man loves old books, loves everything about them. He is also a cunning linguist, and has been a tremendous help to me as an information source when I am doing research for my books.

“I got my hands on this earlier today,” I say, carefully opening the book. “I was wondering if you could tell me what language it's written in.” I glance down at the writing and give a haphazard and somewhat joking guess. “It looks a bit like Arabic meets Tolkien Elvish.”

He chuckles. “It's not Arabic, though I suppose I could see the aesthetic similarity. And it isn't one of Tolkien's languages.” He glances at me over his spectacles. “And you just carry it around in your bag? You realize this book could be priceless? I do hope you're being careful with it.”

“I am,” I assure him. “I just picked it up at work and haven't gotten it home yet. I just wanted to see what you thought.”

He nods. “Picked it up at work. I see.” He harrumphs, and I chew my lower lip, wondering if he suspects I stole it. He studies the writing for a moment, then says, “Evelyn, I can honestly say that I have no idea what language this is written in. Would you consider sending it to the university for analysis?” Anton teaches a couple of classes over there in addition to running his bookstore, more because he enjoys it than because he needs to do so for the money. He was once a full time, tenured linguistics professor over there, but retired to the more leisurely business of bookselling.

I shake my head. “No, I'd rather not. I don't know. We'll see.” I return the book back to my bag. “Thank you for looking at it, Anton. I was just wondering what it might be.”

“You're quite welcome, Evelyn. If you do change your mind, let me know. I would love to look at it further.”

“I'll let you know,” I say. “I really ought to be going, though, before it really starts coming down out there.” He nods and waves me off.

I step onto the front sidewalk under the overhang and wrestle with my old umbrella-- it has indeed started truly raining. Someone steps up beside me; I see a flash of red from the corner of my eye. I turn to see the tall, slender man in the velvet suit and bowler hat, but his suit is now red. He looks at me and grins, flashing white teeth and intensely blue eyes. I stare at him for a moment, convinced I've seen him before, before I recognize him.

“Trick?” I venture.

“Got it in one,” he says, moving subtly towards me, close but not touching. His suit color shifts with him and

the play of light and shadow, blending itself slowly back into blue. His entire being resonates with song, the colors pulsing in my head so intensely that I quickly pull back. He raises an eyebrow at me. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“Such a thing as personal space,” I mumble. I've never actually met somebody who came to pay me a visit in my world before.

“Ah. Yes, of course.” He looks at me for a moment. “Evelyn Alvar. You should know that you won't find the language this book is written in. The language doesn't exist.”

“So, what, it's some sort of made up thing?”

“All languages are made up!” he laughs.

I shake my head. “No, I mean, it's a fictional language.

“It's not fictional.”

“But... you said it doesn't exist.”

“That is true.”

I'm getting tired of his cryptic responses. “Okay, then. It's a dead language? Something that was once spoken but no longer?”

“No. This language never existed.”

I sigh in exasperation. “You do like speaking in riddles.”

“Riddles are rather boring. One question, faceted descriptions all alluding to a single, lonely, overly simplistic answer. Carved in stone. So dreadfully dull. I speak in opposites. In contradictions.” He flicks a finger under the lapel of his suit. “You see? My suit is blue. It is also red. It is completely blue and completely red, both, at the same time.” He inclines his head slowly to one side, his eyes on my face. “You don't need a translator, Evelyn.”

And then he steps back and vanishes, but it isn't like a magic trick. It is like he was never there in the first place. My mind struggles to remember, to hold on to the encounter, but it fades until I am half convinced it was a dream I had once.

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