Donatello's David

by James Colton

Charles Bewick lifted the typewriter in its case from the floor, set it on the counter, opened it and laid aside the lid. The day's sales slips were neatly stacked at his elbow, the elbow of a good tweed jacket sturdily reinforced by an oval of leather. He bent and sorted through the box of statements on the shelf under the counter, eyebrows raised, peering through his bifocals. He drew of a statement, rolled it into the machine, and typed on it today's addition to rs. Wentworth's account. He bent and filed the statement back in the box. When he looked up there was a boy in the store. He was tall and underweight, one of those boys who has grown very quickly, very suddenly. His hair was brown and curly, childishly soft. His face was unmarked and still so young as to be rather more pretty than handsome. He was, Charles Bewick surmised, not more than sixteen. As he wandered between the tables stacked with books, the shelves lined with books, he glanced at Charles. His eyes were brown and clear. Aware of the bookseller's fixed gaze-the boy was terribly desirable-he gave a timid smile. Charles quickly ducked his head and went back to work.

When, a year ago, he had bought this shop, following eighteen years of isolation in his hushed office on the fourth floor of the Bravin County Library, had quit his post as Chief Cataloguer, where he had never met the public, and come half a continent's distance to preside at this counter, he had been delighted by the many pleasant looking youths who browsed and bought books here. The town had two colleges. The boys were a nice lot, mannerly and intelligent. They appeared to enjoy talking to him. Certain of them, alone or in pairs or triosturtle neck sweaters, bright nylon jackets, chinos, gym socks, loafers-came often to laugh at his witticisms and hearken to his observations on all manner of subjects. He had, after all, spent his life with books, had read widely, and possessed a retentive memory.

To a few of the boys he had found himself strongly attracted. One of them, by name Simon Wills, with a look of young tragedy about him, and hair, as the Child Ballads said, like the raven's wing, Charles had invited home one night after the shop closed at nine. In the quiet, booklined livingroom, where dim Helen had served tea and palely withdrawn at ten to go to bed, casting a look of reproach at her beloved Charles for introducing a mere mortal into the sacred circle of their twenty-year perfect insularity, how the boy's sudden, surprising smiles had shone!

Charles had been terribly nervous. It was a rainy night. He had sat in the lamplight, hearing the patter of the drops on the roof, their slow drip from

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