The Pepper in the Gumbo (Men of Cane River #1)(3)
“And that place is not in your pocket, right?” Bix smiled. “Everything here is outdated. Just look at that radio. It’s ancient.”
Alice laid a protective hand on the faded red radio. “This is a 1955 Admiral. People pay a lot of money for these.”
“Mm-hmm. And they pay more for something with stereo. My grandson has a little gizmo that holds fifteen hundred songs and fits in his pocket.”
Technology was meant to be a tool, not a crutch. The entire world had become dependent on gadgets for entertainment and personal happiness. But it was silly to argue with a man who was wearing a raincoat he got in 1944. Instead, Alice pulled out a folded sheet of newspaper from under the stack of receipts. “I’m not against the digital age, I’m really not. See here?” She tapped the headline and several inches of column underneath. “There’s some guy who’s uploading rare books to digital e-book platforms. People are rediscovering the classics, poetry, old myths.”
Bix cocked his head, the light reflecting off his thick glasses. “Those books have always been around. You go to any ol’ tag sale and you’ll find a bunch of old college text books.”
“Right. At tag sales. Not when you need them and not in perfect condition. If they’re copyrighted, they’re usually in print. If not, they can be impossible to find. Anyway, this guy, he scans them, checks for formatting issues, writes a bit of a commentary, and puts them online.” She leaned over the article and read aloud, “An e-book of lesser known works by the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins was published last month was received enthusiastically and shot to the top of the bestseller lists.”
“Well, it seems like that’s a fine thing to do, if you’ve got the time and the inclination. He must be an old guy like me with not much to do,” Bix said.
Alice scanned the article again. “Not sure. He uses a pen name, Browning Wordsworth Keats.” Alice smiled. She liked him already. “He also runs a website where people go to talk about their favorite authors and old books. Nobody really knows who he is. Which isn’t unusual, is it? Technology has made us just a bunch of profile pictures we can grab from anywhere.”
Bix shrugged. “Sounds like a smart move. He does this long enough and he’s going to run into someone who’s not happy about him making money off their great-great-grandpappy’s poetry.”
“Or great-great-grandmama’s poetry. He also just put up a collection of the works of women poets. Christina Rosetti, St. Therese of Lisieux, Hildegard of Bingen. He definitely went past the Brontes.”
“Sounds like one of those books with just the good stuff. You know, only the pieces you like in a five-inch anthology.” Bix scratched his chin. “Maybe you should get one of those e-readers.”
Alice had been thinking the same thing, but she slowly put the newspaper back on the desk. “I have a whole bookstore. I don’t need to buy an e-reader for just one book.” This is how it starts. One piece of seemingly harmless tech and the next thing you know, you can’t go anywhere without it. You get lazy and just download a copy instead of finding the book on the shelf. And the finding is half the fun. Browsing on either side, above and below, that is the joy of it.
“You don’t know until you try it. You could really be missing out. I’d get one, but I suppose I wouldn’t be able to see the print on a screen any better than on a page.”
Alice felt her heart squeeze at the thought. Even large print was too small for Bix now. “I just figure, if I don’t need it then I won’t miss it.” Alice tugged a few more receipts out from under Van Winkle’s midsection and reopened the Excel page. “Mais, I better get started here.”
“Me, too. I’m meeting Ruby for lunch. But where is Miss Elizabeth?” A few seconds later, a soft meow announced the arrival of the sleek calico. She stepped gracefully into view and Bix bent down, reaching out with both hands. “Up you go, Mamzelle. We have work to do.”
Bix headed toward the back room, Elizabeth perched on his shoulder, staring at Alice with bright eyes that always seemed quietly amused. Bix talked as he worked, and Alice could hear the kitty answer back every now and then, as if in complete agreement. They were a pair, those two. Alice couldn’t imagine one without the other, even though someday... She hurriedly grabbed a few receipts. She didn’t have her head in the sand. People moved away, moved on. They died. She was perfectly aware that someday Bix would be gone and she would have to hire new help. But not now, not today.
A yowl made her jump in her chair and she turned to hush the Siamese cat who trotted after Bix. “Mrs. Bennet, stop your fussing.” As long as Mrs. Bennet stuck close to Miss Elizabeth, she was fairly content, but the moment they were separated, headache-inducing protests began. The cat had the most annoying screech, but Alice couldn’t bear to send her away. She knew the bookstore had a few more than normal. To be honest, quite a few more cats than anyplace she’d ever been to, but they were her family now.
When they discussed books, Mr. Perrault used the Louisiana French that she heard at home when she was little, never correcting her or becoming frustrated when she didn’t know a word. Mrs. Perrault began to invite her upstairs to their apartment for dinner, then gradually extended the invitation to the hours before dinner, when all the cooking was being done. Alice watched at first, fascinated by the slow, methodical steps of Creole cooking. Within months, she could make jambalaya, gumbo, and Natchitoches meat pies by heart.