Quixote

I once knew a girl with whom I often spoke to about stories. We discussed film, books, and short stories mainly but eventually delved into everything. Comic books, television, or plays: nothing was out of reach for conversation and opinion. We shared our likes and dislikes and made recommendations to each other. After recommending a favorite author never read or a film unseen, we both waited anxiously for the other to finish reading or viewing so we could talk about it. I’m sure our conversations had the naiveté of an undergrad literature class or, worse, the pretension of an MFA thesis paper. But we didn’t care.

One day, I was in this girl’s apartment looking over her book collection, which was contained within a medium sized bookcase in an otherwise spartan bedroom. I was sitting on the floor with my legs crossed Indian-style poking around the shelves and yelling comments and questions into the other room where she was occupied. Eventually she came in and sat on the floor leaving me between her and the bookcase. While discussing what she enjoyed and asking if I could borrow this or that I began talking about some recent books I had read. I just went through a phase where I was reading classics such as The Count of Monte Cristo and Ivanhoe and I was prone to bore people with how great they are. Sensing I wasn’t going to stop prattling on about the superior storytelling prowess of Dumas and Scott any time soon, she hurriedly pointed out a classic she had on the bottom shelf.

I don’t know how I hadn’t noticed this oversized book. It was an all-together impressive, splendid tome. She explained that it was Don Quixote by Cervantes. It really was a piece of work. For all I knew monks in Spain hand-printed this copy. Not since my days as an altar boy have I held something so ornate.

As I lifted it out of its shelf I sensed from her a reluctant excitement in sharing this book with me. While I was busy admiring the handiwork of the binding and gold edged pages she quietly explained how she had always wanted a book like this and mentioned painted illustrations on the pages. I took some time exploring the outside of the book, turning it over in my hands. I felt the aged brown leather, which covered it in entirety, the exquisitely raised gold bands along the spine and gold old-style lettering indicating title and author on the front. It was compellingly beautiful. I could only wonder what the actual pages and illustrations must look like. Just as I was about to crack it open I looked up at her and caught her eyes.

She had the most expressive chestnut brown eyes. They sparkled like stars, lighting up her surroundings, especially when she smiled. And she often smiled. There was no smile or sparkle then. Her downturned mouth elongated her face disconsolately and her eyes reflected a distant sadness. I paused. She told me not to open the book. I looked back at her puzzled. She provided a defense of her “don’t open the book” policy of which the particulars escape me. I do remember it involved a childhood fondness of a Don Quixote cartoon, some family troubles, receiving this book as a surprise gift from her mother and not having read it yet. By the time she was finished it was no longer an explanation but a plea. I looked again in her eyes and was reminded of a grainy photograph of a seldom-used dirt road after a rainstorm.

I suppressed any further comment on the matter. I thought of asking a question or two about this mandate when I realized I would never understand the meaning of this to her. I let the weight of the book sink into my lap. I wondered how much this book weighed to her. I glided my fingers over the spine readying to fill the empty space it had left behind on the shelf. Even though I was seated closer to the bookshelf, as I lifted the book, I found myself handing it over to her. It was her burden, after all.