the counter leaned back and waved to the shelves. “Hey, I sell copies of
The Caged Virgin.
I sell the Koran, and I also sell Salman Rushdie. In fact, I sold
The Satanic Verses
when the whole shit storm started years ago. Disgusted the hell out of me when the other bookstores pulled their copies. And you know what? Not one threat. I had people filing in here asking for it like a teenager trying to buy a skin mag. I made a nice tidy profit that year. I’ll be damned if someone’s going to tell me what books I can’t sell.”
“So you’re the owner?” I asked needlessly. “You’re the one I’m impressed with.”
“I guess that’s me,” he laughed.
“What are you reading?”
He lifted up the cover so I could see. It was
Arrow of God
by Chinua Achebe.
“Ah. One of the sequels.”
“Well, you impress me,” he said. “Most people only know
Things Fall Apart.
” He extended his hand for me to shake. “I’m Oliver Anyanike. How ya doin’?”
“Teresa Knight. Must be great to have your own bookshop.”
He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Why do people always say that? Distributors are
ruthless
in keeping my discount as thin as they can make it. I’m up against Brentano’s and Barnes and Amazon. The wolf
parks
at my door, girl!”
“And you love it,” I said.
“Yeah. Yeah, I do. My store, my rules, my time. So you on holiday over here or what?”
I smiled back. “Kind of—a working holiday. I saw your store, and this is going to sound silly, but I wondered if you’d be interested in carrying my books?”
“You’re a writer.”
“Well, I’m an
author,
” I said sheepishly.
And I slipped out a couple of my books from the Dean & Deluca bag I was dragging around. On a strange whim, I had started writing a series of children’s books about a girl detective—only the little girl, Nura, was a resident of a refugee camp in an African country I never did identify. In her first book, she foiled a ring of petty black marketeers. In the second volume, she helped warn everybody about poisoned wells. The books sold okay, but I was stumped for what I was going to write for a second encore. Not that I would tell Oliver Anyanike that.
“Hey, these are nice,” he said with genuine enthusiasm. “The art’s good. I got to tell you, we don’t carry much children’s stuff. And I really need to go through whoever your distributor is. Plus any UK book that gets sold here usually has a hefty price on it to cover the shipping. I barely get any discount on imports, you know what I’m saying?”
“I know, I know,” I said quickly, though I didn’t really know at all. “I’m just, you know, trying to drum up interest. I’m thinking maybe if I bug my publisher, tell them that a few New York bookshops have shown interest, then they might get more aggressive with the overseas sales.”
His eyebrows jumped, and he said patiently, “It’s an
interesting
approach. Huh…Tell you what. Have you had lunch? I’d really like to know what them British bookstores are like, how things are done over there.”
“Well, I just had in mind giving away a freebie copy as a taster…” Can’t make it too easy for him.
“I’m buying.”
“Oh, well, if you’re buying, how about dinner?”
“Get a load of you! Difficult. I usually stay open ’til around nine o’ clock, you understand.”
“Hey, I thought you were the boss of you,” I argued.
“Uh-huh.” He leaned forward, dropped his voice an octave, and touched my hand resting on the counter. It was pretty obvious, but it sure was effective. “How about,” he said slowly, “you swing back here at around quarter after eight, eight-thirty. If it’s dead, I’ll close up early.”
“What if it’s not dead?”
“I will personally organize your own impromptu book signing,” he replied. “Your first in New York.”
“It’ll be bloody quick with only two copies!” I laughed.
“Great! So we’ll still get out early for
The Caged Virgin.
I sell the Koran, and I also sell Salman Rushdie. In fact, I sold
The Satanic Verses
when the whole shit storm started years ago. Disgusted the hell out of me when the other bookstores pulled their copies. And you know what? Not one threat. I had people filing in here asking for it like a teenager trying to buy a skin mag. I made a nice tidy profit that year. I’ll be damned if someone’s going to tell me what books I can’t sell.”
“So you’re the owner?” I asked needlessly. “You’re the one I’m impressed with.”
“I guess that’s me,” he laughed.
“What are you reading?”
He lifted up the cover so I could see. It was
Arrow of God
by Chinua Achebe.
“Ah. One of the sequels.”
“Well, you impress me,” he said. “Most people only know
Things Fall Apart.
” He extended his hand for me to shake. “I’m Oliver Anyanike. How ya doin’?”
“Teresa Knight. Must be great to have your own bookshop.”
He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Why do people always say that? Distributors are
ruthless
in keeping my discount as thin as they can make it. I’m up against Brentano’s and Barnes and Amazon. The wolf
parks
at my door, girl!”
“And you love it,” I said.
“Yeah. Yeah, I do. My store, my rules, my time. So you on holiday over here or what?”
I smiled back. “Kind of—a working holiday. I saw your store, and this is going to sound silly, but I wondered if you’d be interested in carrying my books?”
“You’re a writer.”
“Well, I’m an
author,
” I said sheepishly.
And I slipped out a couple of my books from the Dean & Deluca bag I was dragging around. On a strange whim, I had started writing a series of children’s books about a girl detective—only the little girl, Nura, was a resident of a refugee camp in an African country I never did identify. In her first book, she foiled a ring of petty black marketeers. In the second volume, she helped warn everybody about poisoned wells. The books sold okay, but I was stumped for what I was going to write for a second encore. Not that I would tell Oliver Anyanike that.
“Hey, these are nice,” he said with genuine enthusiasm. “The art’s good. I got to tell you, we don’t carry much children’s stuff. And I really need to go through whoever your distributor is. Plus any UK book that gets sold here usually has a hefty price on it to cover the shipping. I barely get any discount on imports, you know what I’m saying?”
“I know, I know,” I said quickly, though I didn’t really know at all. “I’m just, you know, trying to drum up interest. I’m thinking maybe if I bug my publisher, tell them that a few New York bookshops have shown interest, then they might get more aggressive with the overseas sales.”
His eyebrows jumped, and he said patiently, “It’s an
interesting
approach. Huh…Tell you what. Have you had lunch? I’d really like to know what them British bookstores are like, how things are done over there.”
“Well, I just had in mind giving away a freebie copy as a taster…” Can’t make it too easy for him.
“I’m buying.”
“Oh, well, if you’re buying, how about dinner?”
“Get a load of you! Difficult. I usually stay open ’til around nine o’ clock, you understand.”
“Hey, I thought you were the boss of you,” I argued.
“Uh-huh.” He leaned forward, dropped his voice an octave, and touched my hand resting on the counter. It was pretty obvious, but it sure was effective. “How about,” he said slowly, “you swing back here at around quarter after eight, eight-thirty. If it’s dead, I’ll close up early.”
“What if it’s not dead?”
“I will personally organize your own impromptu book signing,” he replied. “Your first in New York.”
“It’ll be bloody quick with only two copies!” I laughed.
“Great! So we’ll still get out early for
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