The Book Barge – Part 1: Moored

Hanneke had taught geography for thirty-eight years, and on her first morning of retirement she woke on a canal boat in Amsterdam to the sound of ducks arguing.

She made coffee and stepped out on deck. The boat moored alongside was long and black, with a wheelhouse full of books, shelves on every wall and a hand-painted sign: De Drijvende Boekhandel. A man in a corduroy jacket was arranging paperbacks on a trestle.

"You are the new neighbour," he said, in careful English, then Dutch. "Pieter. I sell books. You will buy one."

"I will not."

"I have already chosen it."

He hopped across the gunwale and put a battered atlas into her hands. Hanneke, who had taught maps to teenagers for almost forty years, stood quite still.

"How did you know?"

"Your name is on the window," said Pieter, "and your boots are very good for walking. A geographer." He was sixty-four, silver-haired, with reading glasses pushed up on his forehead and a wry mouth. "I am rarely wrong about readers."

She bought the atlas. Of course she did.

Over the weeks, she found excuses: a cup of coffee, a book to swap, a small repair to his shelf. They sat in the wheelhouse as the rain drummed on the roof and talked about everything. His late wife, her divorce, the grandchildren neither of them saw enough, the pleasure of a good index.

"Can I ask you something?" said Hanneke, one wet evening.

"Yes."

"Why do you sell books and not keep them?"

"Because a book wants to be read," said Pieter. "Not owned."

"And people?"

He looked at her over his glasses, silent for a moment. "People too," he said gently. "But some are worth keeping close."

Her heart missed a beat. "Green?" she said, the word her granddaughter used.

"Green," said Pieter, surprised and pleased. "Very green. Stay for dinner."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Last Page.