The Artist's Impression. Julia Schulz

      Chapter 1

      Henry saw that Georgina Harris was timidly eccentric and well read; not ebullient. Georgina had read all the greats from Jane Austen to D.H. Lawrence to Thomas Hardy to Leo Tolstoy to Anita Brookner. Balzac’s Bookshop, Oxford, England is tastefully trendy and dusty; independent and filled to the brim with eclectic fiction and Oxford University students. Quirky poetry and classical literature were most popular, with recommendations from their individual tutors sought after as an extension to their required reading lists. While Oxford University English tutors discouraged romanticism, they felt it necessary for their pupils to read extensively, so familiarity with different author's ideas and development of their critical thinking faculties could be enhanced. And, individual tutorial sessions were a breeding ground for exchanges in ideas for new books, and in fact, one of the only opportunities for tutors to impart to their pupils their personal favourites. Balzac's books are dispersed and shelved over two levels; with oriental rugs covering the floorboards in the main walkways. The wooden staircase leading up to the levels is in disrepair and boards shift when walked on. Cosy, dusty and dark, it is only lit with floor lamps, apart from where percolated coffee is available on the third level free of charge to Oxford students. This level is strewn with three seater couches and Eastern looking, colourful floor cushions, replacing the traditional tables and chairs. There are ashtrays reaching up high on aluminium stands; a vinyl record player turns out classical music, and incense holders burn sticks of sage casting puffs of grey smoke into the air. Two cats, Spinoza and Hemingway, curl into reading chairs, imprinting themselves on space, and are no bother to the patrons. The atmosphere is eclectic. Two regular staff members are caretakers of the books. Firstly, Brian Cowley, reads English at Oxford University; has sea green eyes which seem to pierce your very soul. He is a neat dresser; with wheat coloured wavy and wiry hair, short back and sides and wears glasses. He is mostly friendless, apart from those on the fringes of society who frequent the bookshop, not necessarily because they like reading, but because they seek some form of steady acquaintance here, whereas elsewhere, in Oxford, they are made to feel unwelcome. His only bad habit, albeit an uncomfortable one, is staring at you for too long. There are no flies on Brian. When he stares at you, he sees straight through you. He is an academic, although at the same time pragmatic. Brian’s is a salt of the earth soul. Brian is no romantic fool. Hours upon hours spent reading and dissecting the classics has left him with a self-assured ability to sum people up quickly and effectively, thereby ensuring his own character remains polished, protected and not in disrepute from contamination with the wrong sort of people. This air of self containment is his discreet magnetism. Secondly, Henry Xavier; reads Philosophy: a dark individual. A common simile heard on the Oxford campus compares students to ducks. I.e. graceful on the surface, although paddling like mad beneath to complete compositions in competition for firsts. For Henry, it truly is an effortless experience. Because he has a natural talent to comprehend large masses of texts rather quickly. Being anti-social in nature affords him more time to spend under the desk lamp in his room, whiling the night away in philosophical ecstasy. He is an original thinker; praised and considered as the top tier of excellence in academia, especially in the field of Philosophy. And, he is an excellent writer. His obsession with ethics, then existentialism, festered after his first semester. He once wrote “FUCK YOU” on poster sized paper after his housemate declared Heidegger pious; overtly pedantic and in support of Nazism. Pasting the sheet above the housemate’s bed while he was asleep; his housemate, upon waking, rolled over onto his back, discovered it and immediately realized that he was living with a twisted individual, and crawled like a viper from the house soundlessly in the early hours of the morning. Shortly after this occurrence, Henry took rooms at Balliol College within the Oxford University Campus. Its slogan: “the tranquil consciousness of an effortless superiority” was very fitting for Henry. Balzac’s is in fact arbitrary and wholly academic; a façade of a business, if you like. Mr Brady, the owner, who acquired the shop through generations of Brady’s after his father passed away, simply continues its existence as a means to an end of his boredom. When Henry himself is bored, and therefore seeking a rise out of Mr Brady, he engages him in argument concerning the Kantian perils of using anyone as a means to an end, purely to satisfy his penchant for dark amusement and the sharpening of his argumentation skills. Mr Brady formerly read Philosophy at Oxford, but due to awkward tendencies, was unable to work in the professional context usually reserved for high ranking academics. He was in fact, quite a talented metaphysician in his time and his IQ is off the charts. His demeanour is eccentric and habits routine. Lacking in presence of mind and common sense, quite often present in those on the academic spectrum, he fails to realise the accumulative stress originating from his interactions with the dark creature, Henry. Georgina arrives to be interviewed for a job and is greeted by Brian, who is spectacled and dressed in laced leather shoes; black trousers, a short sleeved white shirt, and a second-hand paisley patterned satin vest. She looks down at her own satin, ivory blouse, roached black skirt, black spotted, sheer stockings and patent leather flats and then introduces herself as Georgina Harris and says that she is here to be interviewed by Mr Brady for a position. He eyes Georgina cautiously, then, just at that moment, the old oak door to the shop opens to reveal Mr Brady. He is what one would describe as dowdy and unimpressive. He shuffles towards her with his brunette coloured head down and an eccentric smile on his face, which she immediately mistakes for kindness. “Hello, I am Mr Brady.” “Georgina Harris” she replies. He merely shakes his head while shaking her hand. Then he disappears into a small, locked room to the left of her. Her thoughts turn to the latest Anita Brookner novel that she is reading. And she wonders how Brookner is able to come up with enough material to cover twenty four novels solely on the subject of loneliness and solitude. A short while later, disturbing her reflections, the door opens and he reappears. “We’ll head up to the third level and have a chat, shall we?” She nods politely in affirmation. As they head up the wooden stairs and approach the top landing, she sees a small group of three academics sprawled on the couches, each with a book in hand, ranging from Spinoza to Proust to Schopenhauer. They take their seats in one of the couches opposite and arrange themselves for comfort. Georgina is mindful of being watched by this group, but they don’t even appear to be aware of her presence, given that they are totally immersed in their reading material. “So, Georgina, can you begin by telling me a little bit about yourself.” After some reflection, she responds with, “Well, I have been a reader all my life and now seek new ways to pass the time. I want to submerge myself in an emollient atmosphere which mirrors my lifelong existence.” At that point, the young man opposite her reading Schopenhauer looks up, then the guy next to him rolls his eyes and reaches across to turn up the volume on the record player, so they are treated to a full blast version of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. After a stern glance from Mr Brady, the volume is turned down on the record player. “I must add that I read 19^th century British Literature and some high calibre Contemporary Fiction, from authors such as Barbara Pym, A.S. Byatt, Penelope Lively and Malcolm Bradbury. I regard Anita Brookner’s writings with the utmost fondness and always smile wryly when I get to the end of her books. Anyone hoping for a galloping, gripping plot is going to be disappointed, I’m afraid. Her writings are abstract and her characters have a Victorian feel, while I find the majority of the general public pursue novels which thrill, with concrete purpose. There is something so surreal and alluring within Brookner’s novels which instill within you an addiction for more, whether what she has written is exemplary or poor. But most people would agree that she writes well.” The young academics opposite have discarded their books into a pile on the floor and departed the shop. “Georgina, we sell very interesting books to usually very interesting people in what I will proudly say a very interesting, as well as intellectual environment. We try to avoid a stuffy; sterile; severe intellectual atmosphere which is so commonly found in this part of the world, in favour of a more bohemian environment. It is what sets us apart from the rest. Well, that is all the questions I have, Georgina. I will be in touch shortly.” She thanks him profusely, rises from the couch, shakes his hand once more, and makes her way down the rickety stairs and departs through the oak doors out into the street outside. She takes a few deep breaths and looks upwards to the sky collecting her thoughts. She turns around to the trolley carts containing second hand copies of classic novels and starts to rummage through them. As she is doing this, she looks up through the window pane to see Mr Brady watching her. Georgina then turns away to begin her journey home. The sky is darkening and she is joined by people rushing home from work and University before the