I put small shelf of reds in the front window. It looks good. It looks warm. It’s just a random selection of reds.
People go past and it catches their eyes. Their heads swivel so they can look at the shelf as they walk past. Finally they are looking at it over their shoulders.
Somebody said, ‘That’s nice. Did you see that?’
The books are random, chosen because they are stout. The one on the end is Les Misérables, and people know this one. They read the title out loud. They are walking past, and they stop and lean in and read it out loud, ‘Ley Miserabels’, wasn’t that a film? Pretty sure it’s a film.’
‘My brother’s read that.’
‘ God. Imagine reading that.’
‘Want to go in?’
‘Na. Already got too many books.’
‘Get fucked Ryan.’
‘My God, babe. Love you.’
I image Fyodor listening in from Russia and enjoying it.
Some people stand and stare at the books, silent. Then they walk on.
Some people come in and pick up the books and examine them closely. Then they say, ‘Thanks’, and leave again.
Once a child ate a bag of chips outside, staring at the shelf through the window and nodding and nodding at the books as he ate his chips – as though listening to music that nobody else could hear.
I imagine the books lit up at night when I’m not there. Catching the midnight pedestrian and shocking them into walking properly. Forcing motorists to slow down as they drive past and stare into the window at Fyodor Dostoyevsky who sits burning on the end of the shelf, still troubled by his death sentence and six years in a Siberian prison camp. Maybe it shows.