The market is changing over.
The vegetable sellers are gathering the last bunches of sweet-potato leaves into plastic crates. A hose sends water along the covered pavement, carrying the smell of bruised leaves with it. From the other end of the lane, night-market carts roll in one after another. Someone tests a gas ring. Flame goes whump.
I hug the old book to my chest and push against the traffic, my shoes sticking to the wet tiles. A crate of water spinach nearly takes me out at the knees.
‘Little sister, coming through.’
I flatten myself beside the fish stall. By the time the scooter squeezes past, only half the doorway of the Thousand Worlds Bookshop is still open.
The old magazines outside are still piled higher than my knees. I edge round them and into the shop. Dust first. Paper second. Then the owner, crouched behind the counter with twine looped round a stack of books. His white hair is neatly combed; one side of his grey vest has been pushed crooked by a book corner.
‘Ah, it’s you.’ He peers at me over his reading glasses. ‘The young lady who needed a book for her report. Finished it, did you?’
I’ve only been here a few times. He actually remembers me.
‘The report is why I’m here.’
I put the old book on the counter. A notice beside it says SECOND-HAND BOOKS: NO RETURNS OR EXCHANGES. A teacup covers one corner. I decide this makes it legally invisible.
‘The book you recommended wasn’t printed all the way through.’
I open it at A hundred years later and flick onwards. Blank. Blank again. The owner plants both hands on his knees, gets to his feet and studies the pages.
‘Mm. No words.’
Excellent. Defect acknowledged.
I close the book and push it towards him with both hands.
‘I’d like to return it.’
His fingers stop halfway through the knot.
‘Return it?’
‘For a refund.’
‘I know what a refund is.’ He takes a breath and pushes his glasses up. ‘Return it where?’
‘Here. To you.’
‘What for? You bought it.’
Right. One of us has missed something quite basic. I’m no longer certain it’s him.
‘The whole back half is blank.’ I fan the pages at him. ‘That makes it defective.’
He rubs a blank sheet between finger and thumb, then holds it to the light.
‘Paper’s sound.’
‘I didn’t buy paper. I bought words.’
‘You had words. Plenty at the front.’
We are both still being very polite. This is now taking effort.
‘Fine. No refund. Could I exchange it for a complete book?’
‘There isn’t another one.’
‘Then a different book.’
His eyebrows rise. ‘But this book is this book. A different book is a different book.’
‘Yes. That is generally why people exchange things.’
He bends for the carton at his feet. I bend with him, just enough to remain inconvenient.
‘Back home down at Liulichang,’ he says, ‘a book crossed the counter once. It did not come back across.’
‘Um… I don’t know where that is. Also, we’re in Taipei.’
‘The counter works the same.’
I try for half the money, since half the book has no words. He says books aren’t sold by the word, and I did receive a story—at the front.
Somehow, Liulichang has won.
Outside, a metal food cart rattles over the wet tiles and knocks the door hard enough to shake it. The owner puts the last books into the carton, then takes his keys from a drawer and lays them on the counter.
‘Store credit,’ I say. ‘Keep the money and take it off my next book.’
He tries to lift the carton, fails, and straightens for another breath. ‘You take another book, I take this one. That is an exchange wearing a new hat.’
‘It’s literally called store credit.’
‘Young lady, this is a bookshop. I am not a bank.’
I look at him. He looks at me.
He carries the carton to the door, returns, and holds out the old book. I don’t take it.
‘What happened to the five Princesses?’
The question gets out before I can hide it behind my book report.
His hand stays between us.
‘My little brother keeps asking,’ I add quickly.
The first pan of oil outside begins to hiss. The smell slips in through the doorway. He presses a curled corner flat with his thumb.
‘No words doesn’t mean there’s no more to it.’
‘Then where’s the rest?’
‘You’re asking me?’ He drops the book into my hands and turns to switch off the light behind the counter. ‘Can’t bring the beginning back just because the ending hasn’t turned up.’
By the time I step outside, the night market has taken over the lane. Lights are coming on above the stalls. White smoke climbs towards the awnings. I walk a few steps, then turn.
The owner has already pulled down the metal shutter. He is bent over the lock. His keys strike the door twice—ting, ting.
My pocket buzzes.
The basketball group chat has a new message.
Tomorrow, 8 a.m., usual court. Peach, you’re coming, right?
I type one-handed: Yes! Save me half the court.
Sent. Read. A basketball emoji appears almost at once.
I’m about to put my phone away when the family group chat slides into view beneath it. Mum’s message is waiting there.
Qingming ancestral rites tomorrow morning. We leave at 7.30. Don’t forget again.
The fourth reminder.
I swipe it away.
Yes, Mum. I know.