chapter 1 preview

It was the sound in between a trumpet and a dying horse. In intervals. Their repeated calls beckoned for me to one simple thing. And that was to wake up.

I resist because I often feel like there is little difference to getting up now and getting up later. Was it going to make a difference? We don’t get much business, seeing how the emergence of the latest giant bookstores has stolen all the customers. No one really comes anymore.

But my duty stands firm. I had signed a clear contract some four years ago, stating that I will pledge to dedicate my time and energy for the bookstore, arriving to the store early to set up and staying late to clean up. Such a pledge was signed and agreed with the vision of a growing movement to readership, and a store hustling and bustling with customers. For people who search for rare books for interest or for research. I saw men and women, boys and girls, coming to the store to ask for books about Aztec Indians, apple picking, ant farms and asparagus. And it would be my glorious duty to direct them to our collection. Our collection, fierce and relentless.

Its ferocity was defanged by the coming of large corporation bookstores.
The alarm clock screamed. I couldn’t bear it anymore and turned it off. 7:30. I got out of bed.

As I headed to the washroom outside my room, I couldn’t hear my parents downstairs. I guess that they are already gone. My parents are early risers, and would usually be out of the house by then. Gray walls stare at me. I stare back.

I let myself starve this morning because I had let myself sleep more. 7:45. The bus normally stops by my house at 7:51, which meant I had a bit of time to turn on the television. I put on clothes and left the door.

I was greeted by wetness. The skies were gray as well. It rained hard and I didn’t find the weather channel in time to tell me that it was raining. My sweatshirt began to soak up rain as I fumbled in my pockets for keys. My wallet was in the way. I reached in my right jean pocket to find it empty. I must have left my keys in the house and locked myself in the house. I checked my watch. It also wasn’t there. It was turning to be a good start of the day, but I walked down the steps of my house and went to the side door, hoping that it was carelessly left unlocked. I pulled the handle but it wouldn’t give. It felt like my six minutes were almost up, so I was left to decide whether it was important to even get an umbrella by now. Sweatshirt soaked to the skin, my hair began to mat against my head. I shrugged and ran to the bus shelter covering.

“You’re soaking wet, Roger.”
“Morning to you too, Eileen.” Eileen was a lady that takes the same morning bus as me. I’ve seen her almost every day for the past four years. But I’m not much of a talker and neither was she, so it’s not like we’ve become best friends. But Eileen works in some big company downtown and takes the bus all the way to the subway. Of course, she was always dressed professionally. Today she was in a black dress suit with a long gray raincoat over it. She was not soaking wet. In fact, water beaded and fell effortlessly over her gray raincoat. Did she pick this raincoat to match with the sky? I didn’t ask her.

“I forgot to check the weather on the news, and then I forgot my keys in the house.”
She laughed. The bus came and we went on the bus.

My bookstore is located in a small mall. It’s more of a local mall, with many apartments and condominiums across from it. So the mall serves a large population, but some of the apartments are quite old, and I’m pretty sure down the street is an old folks home. The people shopping around the mall end up being old people or immigrants. So the problem with a lot of our customers is either they can’t see the words or they can’t understand words. Our collection of foreign books is actually sparse. As I walked through the mall I realized that my clothes were still quite wet, and I hoped that I had an extra sweater or something left at the back of the bookstore. My jeans were wet too but there was nothing I could do about that.

BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS was the name of our bookstore. I’m the one in charge of opening up the bookstore. My separate bookstore keys were in my backpack, so that I would never leave those keys at home. I turned the key into the glass panel locks and slid them into the slot. I flicked the switches to give life to the white fluorescent tubes in the ceiling. There was no denying that the bookstore was a mess. It takes a seasoned employee like me to know the location of a book. If a customer tried to find something, it may take them an hour. But it would take me seconds. So our book organization may need some work. It’s because some of our books have been here since the beginning of this bookstore, but no one has bought those books. And as we received newer books, they would take places around the older ones and eventually get buried. I had always tried to think of a clever way to organize the books but couldn’t figure out the best way. Is alphabetical the best way?

Mornings always start slow. After flicking on the lights, turning on the computer at the cashier and the back room, set up was more or less done. Every other Friday new books are sent in. Apart from some sweeping and organizing, my main job is then to stand there and hold the fort. Mornings are slow because there aren’t really that many people up this early. Seniors.

I made it a goal to reach 1000 wins on Freecell. The mornings give me a good chance to get a head start on it. Right now I have 572 wins. It takes hard work and perseverance to achieve this goal.

The morning went on with no customers for two hours until my boss showed up. Engle Tannenbaum is the owner of the store and generally shows up at around 10:30. It’s his store, so he shows up whenever he wants. He usually shows up without fatigue in his eyes, and his large gut protruded from his pants looking satisfied with itself. I suspect that he has a big breakfast each morning after sleeping plenty.
“Hey Engle. Quiet morning so far,” I said.

“Yeah, I can tell. It’s because I’m not here yet.” I admit that Engle did have a knack for livening up the store. He has a bit of charm that can entice customers to stay for conversation. Engle says that building relationships are the best way to bring in customers. I personally didn’t think so. I think prices are the best way to entice customers. People will always have reading needs, and as I mentioned will always need a good book at some point. Good prices will draw customers to buy our books. If we had bad prices, no one will buy our books.

But Engle says build relationships. I don’t usually do that.
I surrendered my place at the cashier while Engle took its place. I headed to the back to sort books. I got 11 wins and 4 losses in Freecell. It was good but not amazing. As I left the counter, Engle sneered.

“Freecell again. What if a customer sees this? I don’t want to see you and your ridiculous goal.”
“Comon, it helps with the quiet times.”
“There are no quiet times, you’re hired to do work here.”

I was reminded about my duty again, and headed to the back without protest. Before I closed the door behind me, I heard Engle’s boisterous European voice greeting people coming into the store. Coming into the store.

The back room was even messier than the front, as there was a multitude books stacked all over the tables and floors. My job is to sort them into categories and then alphabetize them by author. But there are a lot of books. I usually do this for one or two hours until lunch. Steinbeck, Steele, Stepanak.

The food court today was quiet. I ordered a beef fried rice from the Oriental Food Court, like I usually order. There isn’t much selection in this mall, so I’ve narrowed it down to a number of selections, and I would generally rotate every so often. Today was beef fried rice. I watched at the table in front of me as Engle ate and talked loudly with other store owners. A third employee named Kyle would come at noon to watch the store, so that I could have lunch. Sometimes Engle would watch the store during my lunch, but usually he would much rather come out to talk with his friends and let Kyle watch the store himself. I guess Kyle eats lunch before he gets here. The rest of the day runs a lot smoother with Kyle, because I would have someone to talk to. The three of us would each have someone to talk to. Myself with Kyle and Engle with customers. And Kyle. Kyle’s only worked at the store for a year, but he is good at what he does. Having known him for this year, we’ve also become friends instead of coworkers. We would talk about things other than books at the bookstore. At the end of the work day, we would leave together and I would wave goodbye to him while he gets inside his car and I walk to the bus stop to go home. But I ate in silence while Engle talked about the latest going ons of the bookstore and compared stories with his owner friends. I think employees just aren’t privy to this knowledge. He never tells me any of these stories. Of course I see most of the stories happen, but not everything. I don’t have access to everything at the bookstore, even though I’ve worked here for four years. But what little knowledge that I didn’t know about the bookstore, I would sometimes hear about it here in the cafeteria when Engle shares stories with his friends. But they aren’t always here, and when they are here, I sometimes get the feeling that they aren’t fully open about stories because people can hear them. God knows what they say when people aren’t there to hear them.

I finish my lunch quickly and head back to the store. Kyle is already there attending to some customers. I waved at him but he didn’t look up while he was cashing someone through. The customers were an older couple buying what I would call “junkie fiction”. Fiction written not for its art but its plot easily crafted through conventionally attractive themes. Such as violence, mystery, sex. But otherwise serve no purpose. But junkie fiction keeps the bookstore afloat. As the couple took their books and left, I chatted with Kyle.

“How was the morning Roger?”
“Nothing much. How was your night?”
“Quiet. Stayed home.”
“Of course. Work day next day right? Save it for the weekend.”
“Yeah sure.”

I headed back to the back room while Kyle stayed in the front. The rest of the afternoon usually involves a bit of book sorting until a wave of customers start to come in. When that happens, Kyle and I take turns addressing customers and manning the cashier. Around this time, Engle strolls back into the store to talk with customers. Usually he wasn’t talking about books. He would be talking about anything but books. I think Kyle agrees with Engle’s idea of building relationships with customers. Sometimes he talks to customers about things too. Things that have nothing to do with books. Usually I sort books and watch and listen. Most of the time there is laughing, because Kyle is a humorous guy.

By 5 my day would be done. Kyle and Engle stay back for a few more hours before they close up shop. I never really knew why we don’t all just start at the same time and leave at the same time.

The mall is still quiet at 5. I walk through the foyers looking at other struggling businesses like ours. Comic book stores. Light fixtures. Out-dated cell phone accessories. Dollar stores. Sometimes there are good buys but usually there aren’t. I feel sorry for them sometimes and buy something that I know is of lower quality and higher price than I can buy elsewhere. But I want to support them as much as I want to support the bookstore.

The rain has stopped now, which is good news for my sweatshirt which has dried after I changed back into it for the ride home. I don’t usually see Eileen. She tends to work late. When I reach my door I remember that I didn’t have my keys so I pressed the doorbell, hoping my parents would be back by now. Mom opens the door. “Did you forget your keys again?”

“Yeah I was in a rush,” I replied.
“I noticed. The TV was still on when I got home,”
I wasn’t tired but I plopped myself on the couch like I was. My mom and I don’t talk much. We watched the news in silence and commented on outrageous events. Mom makes dinner when the news is over and I sit there flipping through channels for sitcoms to watch.
“Amy is coming this weekend,”
“Oh. What’s the occasion?”
“Nothing, she just wanted to spend time with the family. And Nathan wants to get to know the family.”

Nathan was my younger sister’s husband. She married two years ago and moved to the suburbs with him. Very occasionally they would come into town to visit. Because of that, our exposure to Nathan wasn’t high. I still don’t really know what kind of a person he is, but I haven’t seen what Amy loved about him. He seemed like a very average guy. But Amy wasn’t average. Amy was pretty and smart and popular among her friends. I am five years older than her but she easily knows more people than me, because of her charm. I could see everything that people would like about her.
Often it seems like their marriage is on the rocks, though it’s only been two years. Mom would report during dinner of their latest struggles. A lot of times the issues appear menial and easily worked through, but their fights are consistent, which leads us to worry. And sometimes we would laugh about it with the security that she is not here to listen.

Whenever they do come to visit, I suspect that there is an ulterior motive. Are they out of money or out of love? What are they replenishing here? My parents accept them positively, because they manage to keep their conflict hidden during our family dinners. Days before they come here, I get a building sense of dread in my heart for the dinner, from not knowing what to expect and wary of high emotional fluctuations that may occur. Amy, being an emotional being, would often start the mishaps. Amy and Nathan would talk about something but Amy would find some way to complain about Nathan. Then Nathan would get defensive and blame her back. Then it would escalate, and we would watch them snap at each other. Mom would fight to change the topic, but it does not always work because Amy would say “Don’t change the topic!”

What I know of Nathan is little. I know that he works at an engineering firm having something to do with solar panels. So Nathan is an environmentalist. He would do some outlandish thing to save energy and save the environment. Having been their home, it is apparent that he applies those principles there. Sometimes that is a subject of argument for Amy because it causes her inconveniences. Judging from that, I believe Nathan does his job well. He gives off the impression that he is both smart and detail-oriented. But other than that, I know very little about Nathan. We haven’t talked much.

Dinner was almost ready when Dad came home. He said hi to me and proceeded to the kitchen to chat with Mom. Dad works as a manager in a large engineering company. Maybe that’s why he likes Nathan. They would often chat about things that I don’t understand for long periods of time when he is here to visit. Maybe Nathan is closest with Dad in the family. I heard him go upstairs to change. Mom called me for dinner. It was beef fried rice.

I tasted the repeated irony. It was luckily better than this morning’s version. More flavour and sauce. I ate in silence as my mom and dad chatted about the dealings of the world. News and politics. Dad darted a glance at me but I was looking at my food.
“How’s the bookstore, son?”
“it’s alright. Quiet day today.” Pause.
“Have you found something else yet?”
“No I haven’t, Dad. I like it there.”
“You don’t do anything there. You sort books.”
“I run a bookstore. A business.” I felt the heat build in my chest.
“You can’t sort books for the rest of your life.”

I flipped rice over itself with my spoon. Swirls of rice at the center of the plate. Little bits of beef and peas climbed up the ridge of the hill and rolled gently inside the vortex. I smooth the mountainside with the back of my spoon and then flipped it over. I put some in my mouth. I could feel my mom’s glaring eyes touch me for about a second and then leave. Dad sighed loudly. The rest of the dinner was in silence.

My room has four large bookshelves, which hold an elaborate book collection. Sometimes after dinner I would read a book. Or I would watch TV or a movie. Or write in my notebook.

nanowrimo

november is national novel writing month. the purpose is to write a 50,000 word fiction novel from november 1-30. it is already november 9.

can i do it?
horace will have to wait this month.

the story of the illusionist, part four

the past month has been a roller coaster of ups and downs. there's been a number of changes that have had some influence on my mind and thinking. this past month has made myself the question: what is perseverance? they say perseverance increases after going through tough times, and you would get stronger and stronger after each victory. and once you pad up your perseverance meter to max, you will then be able to deal with anything that comes your way.

but what if the drop from the up to the down is just greater than your total gauge? is it the total displacement of roller coaster, or the absolute value? so much for being able to deal with everything.

sigh. either way, it's a relief that i'm seeing horace again. i want to stop him from running away so fast, sit him down, and just talk to him directly. maybe part of me just wants to go to someone that is willing to listen, and ask them those questions, and have them tell me exactly what i want to hear! some naive part of me.

i pull open the door of the coffee shop, and my eyes squinted a bit from the lighting. it wasn't really the lighting: it was more like straining my eyes to look because being frustrated makes it harder to see. i strained my eyes to look for horace in his familiar black jacket, but to my surprise i could not find him. i rubbed my eyes a bit and gave another look. i still didn't see him.

then i felt a bit awkward, standing around and feeling stood up. as i looked around, i caught a glimpse of eye contact from the barista, so i looked in her direction. she looked at me, smiled, and gestured me over.

"hey you've been here a couple times before. are you looking for horace?"
"you know horace? i'm supposed to meet with him right now."
"i've worked here long enough to see you guys meet every month or so. horace came by the store before we even opened and asked me to leave you this letter." i was surprised.
"how did you know it was me? did he describe me to you?"
"it seemed like he already knew that i knew. somehow. he's not much of a talker, is he?"
"not at all. but thanks for the letter."

she gave me the letter and i ordered a small coffee. i'm a bit dissapointed that he didn't sat down and opened it up.


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dear victor,

i am not at the coffee shop today because i am visiting a number of locations to find good illusionist venues. the process of finding a good venus is painstaking, and the perfect illusion requires perfect background. i am travelling all over the city and out of the city in search of venues. so i gave my letter to the coffee girl and nothing will change from a normal day.

what is the perfect venue, you ask? a building is an empty shell until you fill it, but you must be able to envision the building filled. last time i told you that humans are addicted to the story. can the building provide the scene for an exciting story? that is what you look for. but there is more. what i'm telling you now can take advantage of petty human behaviour. humans are also addicted to mysticism. they resist what they have the ability to know but do not know, but are strangely drawn to what they do not know nor have the ability to know. it is the strange, the unproven and the unknowable. you try to grasp it, but it slips through your fingers as you reach. is it because we can never attain it that we want it so much? because when we finally find the way to grab what we cannot, we realize it isn't so special, and we discard it promptly.

religion is the drug of humanity because it is so ungraspable. it is like reaching for formless air, visible in the mind but physically impossible. and it is only because of the element of mysticism that attracts humans to it. think about the flux of general human belief in history: was judeo-christianity not the dominant religion? but what about now? the mystery has passed, we've heard it all from them. there is a new age of religious belief now, but not because those religions are more true than the others. but it is the mysticism that has been replaced. the human no longer knows again. give it another generation, and christianity will become mysterious and prosperous again.

that is how you make an illusion. you never want your audience to find out what you are doing. you want to engage your audience, but envelope them with mystery. you must shock their mental worldview, and not let it get back up. then they will desire to know more, want more and eat it all up. but you cannot deprive them completely. tease them. drop a morsel. one drop on their ravenous tongues and they will crave it all the more, licking their lips, savouring the taste that lasts only for a second. then the night will be over, and they can only get their fill at the next show. they won't know it, but their behaviour will make me the perfect illusionist, who creates the illusion for enjoyment but the real illusion is to control their behaviour to give me money.

you have a girl problem. doesn't everyone? maybe the true problem is that you are in an illusion. maybe you like this girl because you really know her. there is a mystery among her that she will not let you know, and that frustrates you, but you still want to know it. you don't know what you're doing. once you find out what you don't know, will you swiftly discard what you've finally acquired?


horace.

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a shocking letter. a twisted sense of religion, and a sick idea of manipulating people like they were commodities. as weird as all the stuff he talks about i always find myself wondering whether he's got a point. the imagery was heavy. the moment of craving shifted to refuse. i didn't want it to be that way.

i pull out my cell phone to find my friend's number.

i call.

the story of the illusionist, part three

there are people that you are friends with because you are sharing life with them, and then there are people that you are friends with because they allow you to share your life with them. do you see the difference?

the first one is out of convenience. we share the same school, workplace, yoga class. so we become friends through the things we have in common. but the second one supercedes these petty commonalities. you don't have to eat at the same restaurant.

every time i think about that party, i laugh when i think about what he said about looking around while i talked with people. it makes me wonder if there is some characteristic deep inside of us that has brought us together. a petty commonality? i don't think so.

horace is the second kind of person.

i always have plenty of time to wonder that because the month to the next meeting can sometimes drag on. many things can happen in a month, and in time i start to find that i don't want to discuss the deeper issues in my life with the first kind of person, but the second kind. and there are so many firsts that the seconds get lost in the crowd. i close my eyes and search through the multitudes of faces, but so many of them read first that i cannot find second. there is horace.

you see, lately i discovered a problem. there's this girl that i met that...


"a girl eh? so who's the lucky lady, victor?"



even interrupted in my thoughts expected in a world of firsts. spare me, subconscious.

anyway, i just met this girl, but we seemed to hit it off quite well. but i don't know whether i should go for it. horace is a studier of human behaviour, so i thought i'd ask him for his opinion, but i'm worried that by the end of the month, i'll run out of courage.

the coffee shop. i entered, and he's already there. he always beats me there, some other obsession of his.

"horace."

he reaches into his jacket pocket, a simple black jacket showing off no flair.

"can i ask you about something? it's about a girl."
"you don't have to. here." he hands me the letter. he picks up his coffee and heads for the exit.

i signal to him in silent protest but i could think of no words that would have kept him. a bit of resignation on my face, i open the letter.


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dear victor,

this is my second letter to you. i dedicate my time exploring the mysteries of the world, but never do i get the rewards for my discoveries. i will take advantage of the world by exploiting its needs and weaknesses. the world will fight back, but you must stand against him with no weaknesses.

does anyone have no weaknesses? i am not conceited enough to claim that i have no weaknesses. but i do know who knows how to hide their weaknesses. illusionists. illusionists have the ability to veil their weakness with their power. and i have that power.

part of that is understanding humans. people never bother to observe themselves. they miss out on a wealth of knowledge about our species. how we can exploit. but people are sensitive. they defend when they discover they are exploited. maybe it is the despondent path to defense that leads them not to observe.

what do humans desire? look around and it is obvious. what is a movie, what is a book, what is a relationship? what is student or a worker? very simply, humans desire a good story. we all look for an opportunity to write our own story with the happy ending. every moment is the happy ending. the illusionist won't tell you, "reality check, not every moment is going to be amazing". the illusionist will agree with you. why shouldn't every moment be the happy ending? why else would you watch a movie, read a book? it is your right to grasp that happy moment for yourself.

the human is addicted to the story. and when you understand what characteristics in a person makes for a good story, then you can massage your way to creating the perfect story for the people around you. not yourself, the people around you. you cannot create your own perfect story. but you can charge the people a premium for what you give them.

the perfect illusion.

horace.


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i can't decide whether this idea was genius or diabolic. i also can't decide whether it was a fluke or his premonition that the letter did answer my question about the girl. what is the good story to her? a question more complicated than it seemed. i began to see my mind forming and reforming known stories, overlapping with more stories, creating new stories for myself and for other people. it is the magic of story that life moves forward. the magic of story that makes the illusionist.

but i sure don't want to charge her money for it all.

the story of the illusionist, part two

it only takes me minutes to read the entire letter, but as i leave the coffee shop, there was already no sign of horace. i check every time, but he always manages to run faster than i read. if his letters weren't so cryptic, i would skim the letter and then rush out the door to watch him flee from nothing.

horace tries to keep a routine to our meetings, and whenever he feels the need (or desire) to meet up, he would set the meeting to the upcoming first sunday night of the month. if i was busy that night, i would have to wait until the next month. it feels like he is training me to clear every first sunday night of the month. and it's definitely working, because i'm no longer missing our meetings. our next meeting is a month from now, so i have more than enough time to think about his letter and what i want to say to him next time.

since there is such a long break between the next time i see him, that gives me some time to tell you how i met horace. judging from what you know about horace, you would never guess where i met him.

i met him at a party.

it was at a place of socializing where i met the reserved horace. a friend of mine had invited me over to his place for his farewell party. he was preparing to leave the country to work, and wanted to have one last party with all his friends before he had to leave. there were some people that i knew, but a lot that i didn't. i said my fake hi's to people passing by while looking for a familiar face to talk to. i found my friend mike and started some menial small talk. but even when i'm talking to people i know, i tend not to give them my full attention. instead, i give direct eye contact to the person periodically, while looking around the person for other interesting things.

so while i alternated between the face and the food table, the house decor, the unknown people talking and laughing and yelling, what was on TV, the grey striped cat trying to get its head under the sofa, i noticed the only person sitting on the sofa not talking to anyone. i continued to spy on him while discussing the complexities of the green energy industry. he looked both comfortable and out of place at the same time. he fiddled with his empty plate of food not with discontentment nor satisfaction. he didn't look for potential people to talk to because i saw that he didn't care. did he not care to talk, or did he not care about the people? i couldn't tell. but whichever it was, i saw at least that he couldn't decide between sitting and standing by the way he fidgeted in his seat.

another thing i also noticed was that he too was looking around. his head wasn't darting around like a parrot, so it took me some time to see his eyes resting on various parts of the room (also relieved that assuming i look around the same way, that i don't look like an idiot). the fact that he was doing the exact same thing as i was astounded me. it was at that moment when he made eye contact with me. if i wasn't looking directly at him already i would have missed it. but the way he looked at me felt like he just said something to me, but i didn't know what. i wanted to know what.

i excused myself from my current conversation and began to walk to him. immediately my tongue dried up and my mind raced for suitable small talk to start off. but seeing we had the one thing in common, i decided to take a risk and see if we had one thing more: hating small talk.

"you see anything interesting?" i asked.
"i haven't, but you apparently have," his voice smooth but monotone.
"you noticed me looking around?" i was a bit surprised.
"like how you noticed me looking around." he was terse. he was to the point. he made sure his words said more than they appeared, as if more words would cost him.

no one has ever noticed me look around before. i did it so well.

"do you look around all the time?"
"i listen too. from listening to you talk, i knew you would come over." he listened to me talk to mike.
"how did you know that?"
"because i think you and i are the same kind of person. we are both people that only talk about important things, only to the people that are important. i can hear that that guy wasn't important to you." he was right and i was embarassed.

"my name is victor."
"horace."

we talked some more, but i started getting the feeling that even with me, he did want to talk for long. i got the message and we exchanged contact information. his willingness to exchange information meant that he had a lot he wanted to say. but we did not talk for the rest of the night.

some weeks later, i gave him a call. he demanded a place and a time. and he said he wanted to meet the first sunday of next month. it was the middle of january. i was confused as heck but i didn't argue. and we've been meeting ever since. of course we also started doing the letter thing.

i can't wait to ask him what's the deal with him being an illusionist.