He never felt like a lucky man. He didn’t remember having ever scored a goal while playing soccer in the schoolyard as a boy, although, if he really thought about it, that might have been because they never passed him the ball much in the first place. Things were no better with girls. As a teen, he liked one in particular who sat in the back row and had bright red nails. A few minutes after math class started, her eyes would drift away from the board and, with a faint smile, she’d stare at something only she could see. He never knew if it was just the sky. One day, the girl stopped coming to school; they said she was sick. Maybe she was, because a few months later he saw her in the park pushing a stroller. She was pale and walked along looking at the pigeons. Years later, he got married. His wife was a good woman and always had the house ready in case anyone dropped by, even though he never dared to ask who she was waiting for. At night, when he couldn’t sleep, he’d turn on the lamp on his nightstand and, while waiting for sleep to set in, he’d look at his wife’s hands. But she never painted her nails. Then he’d try to fall asleep thinking of that girl from class.
His father died when he was a teenager and he’d had to start working. He found a job as a cashier at a neighborhood bookshop. Since he wore glasses and knew how to listen—well, more than listen, what he did was stay quiet while others were talking—people started to trust him and ask his advice about books. One day, the owner of the bookshop, who was getting old, offered to sell him the business. His wife encouraged him to take her up on it. Well, more than encourage him, what she did was humiliate him, as if she were suggesting that if he let this opportunity slip, he wouldn’t have another. Maybe she was right and this would be his only chance to own a business, although what he really wanted was to run his own hardware store, a place where everything sold is exact: nails, screwdrivers, hammers, wire. Precise tools to fix specific things; one need only know the proper measurements. He adored that infinite world of tools and metal wires. Whenever he could, he’d spend a good, long while looking at the hardware store display just up the street from the bookshop. On days when he was sad, he’d walk in to buy something; afterward, on the way home, he’d press the little object against his palm and relish the feeling of security found in the thing so intimately connected to himself.
Once home, he’d pull out his toolbox, open it, and gaze trance-like at the screwdrivers assembled like scalpels, the nails of various lengths, the browned handles of the hammers. . . . He waited, motionless, until this scene settled inside him, and then he’d shut the box, satisfied—not from greed, but like a man conscious of the value of objects. If he could only own a tool store, then after dark he'd pull down the metal shutters and feel the true dignity of men, compressed into that one moment. But when the soul is empty, fear is far-echoing, and so he decided to take on the bookshop.
Despite all the years he’d worked there, he had never read a book; his only connection to them was taking them out of the box and displaying them in neat piles around the shop. When someone asked his opinion of some author, he always said they were good. What else could he say? He put his faith in the publishers’ yardstick. Besides, who was he to criticize? Those who came in to buy something without knowing what they needed had bad enough luck as it was.
When someone approached to have him recommend a good book, he’d lean in a bit like he’d (often) seen the Marist brother do at school and assess the danger, and, like the Marist, he’d respond by asking a question; that would buy enough time to make him appear to be thinking. Then he’d pick a title at random from one of the tallest piles and, imitating the fishmonger’s gesture of distinction, he’d show it to them. Moreover—and this he was indeed careful about—he tried to choose a pretty jacket in case the book had to spend time on a customer’s bedside table. Only if the book were for a child would he really make an effort; he knew the impact a story could have. A story wasn’t a toy; a story was an introduction to the whir of the world and it was important to choose the right tool. Only then, conscious of the danger, would he turn his back and walk up, gladiator-like, to the shelf of storybooks. When he was little, he got Capitán Trueno as a gift on Three Kings Day and, naturally, it had soured his existence. If only they had given him the one about the ugly duckling, perhaps his life would have turned out differently.
The days passed and everything went along more or less as always at the bookshop. It was toward the end of October, when the air was just beginning to chill, when, by mistake, they brought him the box of books. He opened it, and seeing poetry inside, he planned to return the box the very next day. It was a product that didn’t sell well. But that title, Strangely Happy, surprised him. Without knowing why, he took them out and placed them in a pile next to the counter. That afternoon, while buzzing around the shop, he’d turn his back from time to time to look at the books of poetry, and, in a low voice, as if speaking privately with the poet, he’d tell them about his clients and his wife. Little by little, he grew accustomed to their company, despite having resolved that if he didn’t sell any he’d return them the next month. On nights when he awoke in a startle, he’d think again about the poetry book, no longer needing to switch on the light to go find his mother like when he was little. Strangely, he’d fall back asleep as if someone were watching over him from somewhere inside the book. One day, a boy walked up to the stack of poetry books, took one, and proceeded to leaf through it; after a few minutes, the boy’s eyes lit up and when he came up to the register, the bookseller spotted—somewhere, in the glint of his eye—the hardware store.
Months went by and he still hadn’t returned the books. One day, a middle-aged woman picked up another one, and as she was paying for it, the bookseller noticed her red nails. After she left, he gazed at her through the shop window until she disappeared from view. Meanwhile, inside the bookshop, the angling afternoon sun began to cast long shadows over the wooden floor. He shot a knowing glance at the books of poetry and then, suddenly, all was calm. Solemnly calm.
The pile of books remained by his side, diminishing little by little, like water evaporating from a pond in winter. Until one day only one remained. Without thinking, he gave a quick glance around him and hid it under the cash register. When he felt lonely, he ran his hand under the register, touching the book with his fingertips, like one would feel for a revolver while walking through a neighborhood that’s dangerous at night.
That afternoon, his wife left him. She told him she didn’t love him and he didn’t ask why. On his first Sunday alone, he went for a walk far away from his neighborhood. He spent a long while walking alongside strange houses, until he suddenly remembered the book of poetry. It was already late by the time he made it to the bookshop. In the dark, not wanting to turn on any lights, he put his hands under the cash register until he felt it. He waited a few moments, motionless, feeling the charge of what only the soul can see. He removed it slowly, put it in his coat pocket, and walked home. Once home, he pulled it out of his pocket with one swift gesture, and, book in hand, he searched the house looking for the perfect spot for it. There weren’t any other books, and, all on its own, it would be too obvious a peephole for any busybodies that might drop in. Suddenly his toolbox came to mind, and with all the delight of one who has just found the perfect hiding place, he went to the living room cabinet, took out the tool box, and placed the book near the bottom, on top of the screwdrivers.
Now, every night after dinner, he sits down in the living room awhile, takes out the toolbox and puts it in his lap. With the earnest familiarity of an expert, he removes the book, opens it, and looks for a poem; not just any poem, but one in particular, because he knows every screw needs its bolt. He reads the poem, then closes his eyes and waits for her to appear; strangely, she doesn’t sweep and her nails are painted passion red.