Inside Waterstones

I wrote once that libraries are magical places. In a way, bookstores are the capitalist version of libraries. In most bookstores, you can sit and read just like you would do in a library, but the chances of leaving the place with at least one new book for your collection is huge. At least for me. I have a very serious problem with bookstores. My behaviour in those places is a bit peculiar, I think. Last time (that was yesterday) I had tears in my eyes when I stumbled upon a fantastic edition of Lovecraft stories. It was a hard-cover, shiny black, and had a title in beautiful silver gothic letters, and it seemed to cry out to be taken to my bookshelf in Brazil. However, I knew I couldn’t buy it, not just because of the money but also because I’m determined to go back with only the same little suitcase I brought here, and I already have lots of new things to fit in it.

I have already had panic attacks because I didn’t know which book to buy, I’ve lost track of time, I’ve forgoten to meet a friend, I’ve spent money that I shouldn’t inside bookstores ( I can avoid buying clothes and shoes for more than one year but books… are a completely different story). So I think that, even with the ghost of capitalism threatening to kill any poetry that a place full of books might have, bookstores are still magical places too.

And I’m feeling rather brave today. I’ve decided to come and write in the café inside Waterstones. If I leave here having purchased only the Earl Grey and the banana muffin I’m having right now, I’ll consider myself a heroin. I’ve been to this store three times already and I bought books on every ocasion.

My mind works fast when I’m alone and feeling comfortable, and it’s amazing how many unreal things I can see right now just because of my crazy imagination. I can spot two or three different stories just from where I’m seated. I can’t write all of them before leaving here, because I can’t stay all afternoon, so here goes my favorite one.

The red-haired girl that works in the café comes and goes cleaning tables and collecting empty tea cups. She has a relaxed expression but a bit fake, as if she is trying to look relaxed but is not. The truth is that she is, in fact, a secret agent working for MI6. She was assigned to this task as a way of being tested and perhaps getting the chance to move posts.

She must work here for one month. At the end of this time, and this is today, another agent (a double one: he also works for the Saudi intelligence) will come to give her a file with a list of alleged terrorits that might be in the UK. He can’t send it through Royal Mail because there were signs that it has been invaded by Chinese hackers that sell information to terrorists of all nationalities, who use the information to enhance their performance in hiding. I can’t figure out why it is a Saudi double agent who has the list, my imagination didn’t get there, sorry.

The Saudi agent doesn’t look like he is Saudi because he was, in fact, born in Sri Lanka and has spent the last five years in New Zealand working undercover on a kiwi farm, waiting to be put back in the field and is meanwhile getting tanned in the New Zealand sun.

But our agent from Waterstones has received photos from her partner and knows that he is the man that has ordered an English Breakfast and a brownie. She sees that he drops a micro SD card inside the empty tea cup, while pretending to watch a little girl running in the store wearing a pink princess costume.

She rushes before any other member of staff gets there to clean the agent’s table. The speed with which she did this, unfortunately, has just cancelled any possibility of receiving a career upgrade: agents must be discrete, and she attracted too much attention. If this operation was just a normal one, and not a test for our protagonist, everything would be fine, because she managed to put the card in her pocket without being seen and there were no further consequences to her rushing. But, seated with a book of Russian poetry in an armchair not far from the café, is her strict boss in MI6, and he won’t allow this kind of mistake in future operations.

She knows this and looks sad now. I feel sorry for my imaginary secret agent. But she is secret and imaginary, so I can’t cheer her up. Housework waits for me at home, so I will get my bag now and leave this place and the other stories happening simultaneosuly. I didn’t buy books. I am a heroin.