To Edward S. Aarons

I grew up not far from Harvard Square in Cambridge. My favorite haunt as a ‘youngster’ was the Paperback Booksmith, located on Brattle Street near the old Brattle Theatre. That’s where you could see Bogart in Casablanca on the big screen, and there are few things better than that. The book store was a novelty in that it only carried paperbacks, with a huge selection ranging from the interests of nearby Harvard students to more mundane choices for the likes of me.

That’s where I learned that book stores were places you could spend time in, sometimes the better part of an afternoon, listening to Handel, slipping books out from their hiding places and feeling you have entered another dimension. My selections were always varied, and for every classic ‘must read’ I stacked on the floor, there were always a few ‘fun reads’, and I remember one author in that category being Edward S. Aarons. Now hopefully his name will rekindle a memory or two for some of you. He wrote those slim volumes of the “Assignment” series, as in Assignment Peking. Secret agent stuff, full of late night chases through dark back streets of rainy foreign cities, hidden dangers lurking at every doorway, and with plots that seemed so inscrutable right up to the point where the least obvious character is revealed as a double agent and nuclear war is foiled for at least another week or so.

Well, even if you don’t recall him, Edward S. Aarons showed me it was alright to have interest in many genres of reading, and when I discovered John Le Carre`, and read my first real cold war ‘spy novel’, I felt I owed it all to Aarons. The world of Le Carre` opened up many hours of entranced reading that I still experience each time I revisit his earlier works and settle into them as if it were for the first time. And it was Le Carre` to whom I owe my initial experience with a rare book dealer.

In the days before the internet, and that was not so long along ago dear reader, collectors either frequented bookshops for their ‘wants’, attended book auctions and fairs, or pored over dealers’ catalogues in search of the volumes they just had to have. I began to receive dealers’ catalogues in the mail and enjoyed going through them fantasizing about the leather bound sets and modern first editions being offered, and how nice they would look on my rudimentary book shelf. But they seemed expensive, and so remained a dream to be fulfilled on another day. Besides, I really didn’t have much experience with this and the process of actually ordering from a dealer’s catalogue intimidated me more than a little bit.

One evening, going through a recently received catalogue, I saw it, and my heart jumped. A first U.S. edition of The Spy Who Came In From the Cold, signed by the author on the title page, for $85. I remember reading the entry over and over again. Yes, I could just afford it, and definitely yes, I wanted it. In fact,I just had to have it. There were two ways to order: by mail, or telephone. I gathered my courage and phoned the next morning.

The kind voice on the other end asked what catalogue number I was ordering from, which book number, and hold one minute please, and then yes, the book was still available. She wanted my name, address and phone please, and will I be sending a check? That will be fine sir, and thank you for calling. That was it. I mailed out a check that afternoon, and the book arrived two days later, after obviously being shipped prior to the arrival of my check.

The book was a treasure of course, a prized possession. And what an experience: a transaction of mutual trust and interest. Was this the exception or the rule? Was this the way book dealers and collectors behaved? They didn’t know me at all, and yet I was treated like a long time customer. My amazement was superseded only by the pleasure of owning a signed Le Carre`. I had entered the world of collectors and dealers, and I was hooked.

A youthful side trip to secret agent land via Edward S. Aarons leads to more sophisticated ‘side’ reading, leads to a desire to obtain a particular book, nudged along by a very cooperative book dealer, equals a lifelong passion for fine books and the book business. I’ve kept that memory of the book dealer who cured the intimidation of the young collector as a model to strive for. And I’m pleased to be able to say that my experiences in the book business have been, for the most part, of a similar stripe. And I also try to keep in mind that the book a youth is reading today might not measure up to my expectations, but it can lead to other authors and genres, and ultimately can prove to be the catalyst for a lifetime of fine reading and collecting pleasure.

I recently found a stack of six Edward S. Aarons paperbacks at a little bookshop in Washington, D.C. They were all somewhat dog-eared, and set me back five dollars. I love them, and of course they brought back many memories. But I don’t think I‘ll read them. Why tempt fate. It’s just nice having them nearby.

Twilight Zone

Submitted for your approval...

A small antiquarian bookshop in a small town, late on a rainy, Saturday afternoon. In the dim light two gentlemen are in discussion, deploring the younger generation’s lack of enthusiasm for reading and studying classical works. But their conversation comes to a sudden halt as the door to the shop sharply opens letting in the wind, the rain, and the chill…of the Twilight Zone.

Enter a young man, no more than twelve years old, thin, glasses, disheveled hair, wet. He defines the word ‘scurry’ as he hastens past the two men, directly for the second aisle of books. He bends to his knees and reaches knowingly for a slim volume nestled on the bottom shelf. A moment of decision passes and then he rises, comes to the gentlemen, opens the book to a penciled mark and asks: “Is this the price of the book sir?”

It is a small size, slim volume in soft dark blue leather, with one word in gilt on the cover: Cicero. The adults stare at the volume, then at the boy, then at each other. The boy explains how he was in the shop earlier and saw the book but only had ten dollars, not the twenty dollars to buy it. He went down the street to find his father, and ‘borrowed’ the extra money to pay for the book. Not one word yet from the gentlemen as they continue to stare and try to find words to express their wonder.

“Sir”, the boy says, “my father is waiting for me and I really have to leave now.” The book is wrapped carefully for the young customer, money is exchanged, but not the full amount as it is explained that the book must have been mispriced and is only ten dollars. The boy sighs and says “Thank you sir.”

“A very fine choice indeed, young man” offers one of the gentlemen, but before further conversation is possible the boy has scurried once again toward the door and is out into the rain, clutching his treasure tightly. In and out, as quick as a character in knickers from Dickens.

There are no words necessary or even possible for the two men as they walk to the shop windows to watch the departing young man, but there’s nothing to see of course, the sidewalk is empty, the rain pours down on the deserted pavement. They walk over to the shelf of books, and there is definitely a small gap there, so it did happen. One says: “Look, is that fairy dust on the shelf?” A chuckle or two, then silence. “Cicero”! There’s nothing to add.

…The street scene turns to black and white, the camera pans off to the distance, and a familiar voice intones: “You have observed a moment frozen in time, in a small bookshop in a small town, on a not so ordinary rainy afternoon. Two gentlemen have had a curious encounter with a young visitor … an unscheduled appointment … in the Twilight Zone.”