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Even with Zen’s considerable aptitude for sitting silently in one spot, the strain was beginning to wear on him. Perhaps if he made no noise at all, RA would let him explore the fascinating room.
He laid one sock on the thick carpet, then the other. The chair creaked lightly as he rose. His soft breaths rasped in his ears. Almost unconsciously, he found himself trying to align his movements with the quick tick-tick of RA’s clock, as if the faint clockworks would mask his noise.
Zen crept to the far side of the room and began perusing a display of intricate pocket watches. After a few minutes, his attention turned to the bookshelves. Journals of neuropsychology and behavioral theory and economics. Retro sci-fi. Zen particularly noted a complete near-mint collection of Tom Swift. That would be worth coming back to. Bible commentaries. Dozens of books in Italian and Greek and Latin and Hebrew, though these were scattered through the other shelves as if the language was an irrelevance. The shelves were a work of art, in selection and arrangement.
Then some animal instinct froze him. Fear jerked through him as he looked up to find RA watching him.
“Could I– borrow one of your books?”
“Sure!” The old man said, his bright voice incongruous against a storm-cloud face. “Nothing I like more than some kid touching my books. Pull a few off the shelves. Rustle them around a little. They’re not in any particular order, right? ”
Zen swallowed, uncertain.
“On second thought,” RA’s face darkened. “Pick one.”
“What?”
The old man settled back in his chair, arms folded. “A book. Pick one. Let’s see what you’re made of, since you’re so keen on nosing around.”
Heart pounding, Zen searched the shelves, not knowing the nature of the test or its purpose. He passed over the scientific journals with hardly a glance. And the Tom Swift. Those would be fun, but–
“Be honest, now,” RA advised, almost taunting. “No good trying to impress me with how smart you are. Or quirky. I know your type. Pick the book you want, like nobody’s looking.”
Zen barely stifled a laugh. No pressure at all. Then one book caught his eye, and he knew. The Royal Road to Romance, by Richard Halliburton. He’d seen it once or twice, in used bookstores, paged through some of its real-life tales of one man’s rapscallion adventures, of Bali and the Alhambra. It was the right book. He pulled it off the shelf.
“This one. Can I read this?”
RA’s eyebrows twitched in disbelief.
“Etta,” murmured the old man, his face heavy with years. To Zen it felt as if a sudden plunging chasm of time separated them. He peeked inside the front cover, saw a few lines of browning ink in elegant old-fashioned script.
Dearest Angstrom,
You have been my escape and oasis, a true brother. Never stop seeking.
Etta Petrioli
He looked up. RA’s wide, sad eyes met his. The chasm snapped shut. The old man nodded.
“Yes. Take it. But bring it with you when you come back, one of these times.”
