The Secret Books’ Club

When she picked it up in the second hand’s bookstore, where she was just browsing anyway and had no intention to stay longer, just waiting for her train, she involuntarily grabbed that book. It was thick, its cover has been run down already, couldn’t be seen it clearly was it a street or a house on it? It looked quite interesting, the writer was Maeve Binchy and the book titled as Tara Road. It was about a woman’s life, mid-forty, after divorce – exactly like hers: built up and then crushed down to nothing. She hurriedly took it, paid – almost blushed – how dare she buy a book that relates to her life this much – and left for her train. Only at home she noticed the note on the first page. “Take me to Budapest, to Gozsdu square on August 19th”. That’s interesting. What would an English-speaking book do in the heart of Europe? Anyway, upon returning home, she put down the book and whenever she had time for it, she read a small part or chapter. She quite enjoyed it, she could reflect on it and could see herself in the book and in its characters. She was going to go back to the second hand bookstore! It must have some other books too which would prove to be an interesting read! 

Weeks have passed, the weather has changed, the book, now read collected dust on her shelf, but somehow she remembered the date and didn’t forget about even though her ex-husband has come back to her and tried to convince her to move in again. The morning came cold in her little village in the morning of August 19th. She still decided to wear her stray sunhat, put on some pink lipstick and dress up in her red mini dress. She wanted to look like someone who belonged. She had no idea where the book takes her but there was one thing she was sure of: she would go and grab another book from the same writer in the same bookstore. 

She was quite excited. She never visited a book club before or such, partly because of her ex-husband, partly because of her own shyness. It would be quite exciting, she felt, and she couldn’t help smoothing down the edges of her skirt for the thousandth time on the train ride. She kept the book in her lap and re-read her favourite chapters during the ride, however, she could hardly concentrate. It was not often that she travelled to the capital, and she was quite nervous on how she would find the square or what she would find there. When she was nervous, she had this urge to smooth out her skirt again. 

When she entered the square, she immediately saw the arrow leading her way to the “secret book club”. There were not so many people there, just a handful, but the books were more varied than she believed. First, of course, she believed it’s going to be a Maeve Binchy’s book club but she couldn’t have been more mistaken. There were books here from every course of life and from different styles. There were books from different nationalities, like The Rainbow Troops from Indonesia (Andrea Hirata) and The Garden of Evening Mists by Tan Twan Eng from Malaysia. There were all sorts of books, covering all the known continents with such diversity of stories that she hasn’t seen before: books from Guatemala, all corners of Europe, or even in the Northest part of America or Southern Africa. 

The chairs were already prepared in a circle and she took a place. She put down her book on the shelf as it was indicated, and heard the other people whispering: 

“Yes, yes, I had the same note in my book.”

“I couldn’t help, all I could do was just to come.”

“I am here, too because of this secret message.”

“I know not what it is, but I’m quite curious.”

Suddenly the doors closed and silence came to the room. A middle-aged grey-haired man came to the stage. 

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for coming today to this secret book’s club. This was the last wish of my beloved and dear wife, Noble Margaret Köbln. All of the books you can see her were hers. She, as a fond book-lover and an amateur writer, loved to share her books as well as her ideas with the world. Therefore, she put a note on the first page of every book of our little library. Her testament stated that all of her books which she hadn’t given away should go to second-hand libraries. Look at us now! So many of you followed my beloved wife’s last wish. Those of you, probably found her books in second-hand shops. So many books are back! My heart is melting and it is leaking out through my eyes – please forgive me for my emotions. Let me read her testament to all of you, and then you are free to enjoy the cookies, the tea and, of course, the books!” – the old man coughed a little – thus hiding being touched, and then started to read: 

“When we come to live, we start with an empty journal. All of us, one by one, without exception writes it full before we leave this spot. All our lives are like a book, still, we do not share it with so many people as we ought to. Why?

 Are we afraid of something? We, humans, get another meaning every time when we meet someone. We read others as well as we are read by others. We constantly re-invent ourselves and find newer and newer meanings for us. What are you waiting for then?

  Let’s dare to open it and read in each other’s minds! I am leaving this word, soon. But the books, I collected – my dearest, beloved books – I should let them go and circulate. I wish they go far far away, and once they return they would tell me many things. I’m on the pages. I reinvented myself with all of the books and got closer to myself while reading each of them. I just hope, you, as well as I, indulge yourself and enjoy them as much as I did when reading them. Go out and spread the books, take them with you and swap with each other: fly, on the wings of your imagination!” 

The book club gave a standing ovation to the fragile man. It was truly a magical moment. The lady in the straw hat was looking at him with shining eyes, clutching her hands in front of her chest, giving out a longing sigh…