The Little Bookshop: that tiny yellow room with walls made of books, layer upon layer of good quality literature, so well sorted that you don’t feel any lack of space, or any sense of clutter despite the large number of volumes contained in a small space. What you feel is as if you’ve entered a new universe weaved by a bookkeeper who’s sensible, intelligent, and kind. A universe with doorways to endless universes. Often, I’d go there with the intention of buying a book, and end up drowning in conversations with Adib, and the interesting customers drawn to this yellow marvel at the heart of a worn out city.
Last night, after setting up my instrument at Barzakh for a Jazz concert, I found that I had an hour before show time and decided to head down to The Little Bookshop to collect a book I had ordered. As I was walking down the badly lit streets of a once vibrant, now crumbling Hamra, my eyes picked up the yellow light seeping onto the alley where the bookshop was nestled. Adib was standing a few steps outside drinking his evening coffee in a red cup. We embraced, spoke a few words, and started to slowly walk back to the shop.
Right then, a middle aged stranger was walking up and down the street stealing curious glances at the shop. We stopped and watched him stand by the window then we walked towards him and Adib opened the door for the three of us. “Ah, it’s open?” the stranger asked, “Yes, come in!” answered the bookkeeper. We entered into the new world and at that instant, my eyes fell on a book placed on a low shelf: Fernando Pessoa The Book of Disquiet. Certain books always had the tendency to psst psst me in bookshops, but in this one more than others. I immediately took the book and placed it on the table between us.
The stranger spoke and said he was drawn by the guitar standing next to Adib’s desk. He asked if he could play it, neither of us objected. We sat down, and he began to play as Adib and I updated each other on our lives since our last meeting. After each song, in that music-less silence, our dialogue morphed into a trialogue. Adib asked our acquaintance whether he was a musician before introducing me as one. He answered that he wished he could dedicate all his time to music, and that he works for the International Red Cross. I noticed a familiar accent coming from him and asked whether he was Spanish, or Italian… he smiled, lowered his head and paused. Then with a gentle air of defiance he said “I am from Barcelona.” To which both Adib and I responded in choir like precision “Catalan!” which seemed to please our friend.
We asked him for his name, “Ton” he said and resumed playing, and we went on talking about books and life beneath the cover of music. My ear was drawn to a familiar melody unfolding from the guitar, “I know that song, that’s a Silvio Rodriguez song,” I said. Surprised, he raised his head and asked how I would know that song. I explained to him that when I was studying in Holland, I had a Mexican friend, Ricardo Rivas, who introduced me to it and translated the marvelous poem from Spanish to English. For many years, this song had become so dear to my heart. Ricardo also introduced me to perhaps my favorite book of all time: Pedro Paramo.
We, the trio, spoke about that song in particular, and expanded on other subjects until it was time for me to go to my concert. I invited them to come along. Ton accepted the invitation with excitement, Adib had to stay behind at work. Ton and I walked back to Barzakh and conversed on the way, we still retained some of the magic of the shop, though now in cold and empty streets. He said he found it strange and and interesting that I recognized that Silvio Rodriguez song. I said “imagine how Silvio would have felt if he was there…” I don’t think he understood me.
What I meant was: there are moments in life when a strange yet precise convergence of events takes place so visibly in front of our eyes, and it becomes hard to distinguish reality from dreaming. Here, a man from Barcelona was wandering the streets of Hamra after his shift with the International Red Cross had ended, he stumbles upon a little bookshop drawn by a guitar in the center of it, he plays a melody by a Cuban political singer which was instantly recognized by a Lebanese musician who had been introduced to the song, by his Mexican friend, while he was studying music in Holland.
Imagine what Silvio would have felt at the moment, and how it would have felt to know that his song united individuals from across the world in a little bookshop in Hamra, Beirut.
