The Loneliness of the Long Distance Book Runner Read Online Free

are bought and sold. Simply that. Open air markets appeal; their ancient and overt purpose of bringing buyer and seller together. Their ‘openness’ extends, somehow, beyond that of the physical selling arena. Not that I wish to romanticise; people can just as easily be ripped off here – openly or otherwise – as in other environments.
    On Sunday mornings the car park adjacent to the city’s football club comes to life as hundreds of car booters and professional traders join together to form a huge flea market known in French as Les Puces .
    Such is Les Puces popularity with buyers and sellers alike,we arrive pre-dawn in order to guarantee a place in which to sell our wares – livres en anglais . Pulling up behind a Peugeot 807 fully packed with Indian jewellery and trinkets, we are struggling to come to terms with the early hour. The plan had been to snooze awhile but our growing anticipation, together with the activity of others outside, makes relaxation impossible. A hoard of bargain hunters shine torches into the back windows of the van but we make it clear that we’re not yet open for business. We heed a friend’s advice not to set up too soon. Jemal teaches geography in a local secondary school and supplements his salary by selling Moroccan pottery he transports from his home village in the long summer break. He warns that certain traders/hustlers will pounce, like the proverbial early bird, on the items brought to the market by unwary families, which are then brazenly sold on later that same morning from their own stalls.
    We grab coffee, experience the early morning chill. We then take a tour as the rising sun reveals the sheer variety of goods on offer. Plenty of clothes and bric-a-brac along with an eclectic mix of junk and antiques. The place is lent an exotic flavour by the rugs from North Africa, Rai music blaring out. All classes of society will soon be caught up in the age-old customs of surveying and scrutinising. In catching the mood of the market, we adopt an easy stroll while casting a keen eye. By observing some of the early transactions I ascertain that haggling is very much de rigour.
    In spite of the variety of stalls and merchandise about, it is still with a slightly embarrassed air that we set up, unfolding the pasting table upon which the books, mostly paperbacks, are laid out. To my relief, nobody bats an eyelid. The books are casually surveyed. A few people linger to take in the titles andonly one elderly gentleman chooses to express surprise over their language. In opening a shop one year later, I am met with considerably more scepticism from passers by. One guy even insinuates that the shop must be some kind of front for ill-gotten gains. I try to look affronted but take perverse pleasure from the thought.
    Our spirits receive an early boost when a man, with dishevelled hair that gives him a somewhat professorial air, snaps up our entire collection of Sotheby’s Art Auction catalogues. Great. We’re in profit.
    Although it’s only nine in the morning the alleys are thronging with punters. As the sun rises higher, we understand the advantage of being in the row of cars opposite us, for they lend the sellers a modicum of shade. We are forced to beat a retreat into the van and cast envious glances at people who erect makeshift awnings. The covers of some books curl under the fierce sun and there are sporadic gusts of winds that have me reaching for elastic bands to stop the pages from being blown about. Conversations are started with neighbours and an inchoate camaraderie means that we mind each other’s stands to permit toilet breaks and ‘getaway’ tours of the market when boredom thresholds are reached.
    ‘Ah, Travels in the Hindu Kush . I’ve been there,’ a Dutch holidaymaker informs us. ‘Buy it to remind yourself of the experience,’ I reply as he leafs through it. I fail to convey the intended humour for he takes seriously my comment. ‘You really can’t compare the two.