7. The Book
It was old. It looked old. The binding had once been a custom leather job. It looked like books she’d ordered from Europe, books she’d seen in libraries in large cities. Like books that were published for wealthy, literate men of property and influence. The book looked, smelled and sounded old and rich. The smell was a sweet, tangy, mossy musk. It smelled of leather to be sure but there was something else there, the smells combined to form a word on the edge of her consciousness, an ancient word. Feardeath?
The book sounded like the breath of an old, infirm man who had once been a promising athlete but now had fallen on hard times. Flipping pages was like chasing an old man down an alley in a rich European neighborhood. All of these effects combined to produce a feeling that was not entirely pleasant and he most bothersome feature, by far, was the handwriting.
If the smell and sound of the book made a dark promise, the writing kept it. The letters were written in a purplish ink with what could only have been a quill. The ink and quill were undoubtedly expensive. As was the paper, the leather and the binding.
Leticia could not make out many words. She was familiar with Spanish and Latin but this seemed to combine both on occasion and, at other times, there was another language entirely. And all of it in that bold, strong, almost egotistical handwriting. Most of the language was probably an older Spanish dialect. It was infinitely frustrating because she was sure she would have to write to her Latin professor at the University and then order several books and wait weeks for them to arrive before she could find out anything other than the obvious fact that she was holding a diary.
The diary belonged to a man with grace and style, a man who knew exactly what he wanted to say and who had much to say. The book was the size of a traveling preacher’s bible, approximately six inches wide, nine tall and four thick. It could fit in the pocket of a frock coat that a preacher would wear but Leticia didn’t know how she knew this: the book had never belonged to a man of God.
After hours spent trancelike, looking at, listening to and smelling the book – it smelled if not alive then very recently dead – she rushed to her secretaire, opened it, tore out a page of stationary and fired off a letter to Professor Greenlese. After addressing the letter and turning a few more pages furtively, Letty realized that it was well after midnight and she was tired. She wanted to tell Emily absolutely everything but it would have to wait until tomorrow. And then she was asleep.
