A gift horse that smiles

Don’t look a gift horse in the teeth, I was told many years ago, around the same time that I learned not to trust a Greek who bore gifts. Neither of them has been proved true to me, since the only horse I got close enough to look at the teeth of (forgive me, o Father, for the grammatical conflagration there) was not only friendly, but persistently blew down the front of my gorgeous and very designer lambswool sweater to express his obvious affection for me and the Greeks that I have met have all been wonderful people with no sign of any wooden constructions and no one called Helen in their ranks.

But today I was given something that, for me, was a true gift. For a long time I have been wanting a set of 13 books that all the literary reviews have been yelling about. I have read reviews of the baker’s dozen in even the most stodgy and traditionally-cultured publications that we get delivered to our home. I was once a die-hard fan of the books, their protagonist and their genre and used to own a few, which were unfortunately attacked by book-bugs and discarded when I was living in another city in another country in another time. A reissue brought them closer within reach, but the friendly next-neighbourhood bookshop owner was either ignoring me and my entreaties, or was so laid-back that he figured that I could wait until he was good and ready to cater to my rather demanding needs.

But I didn’t realise that a good turn done for someone some time ago would get me a payback. A friend and colleague had a birthday recently and had asked me months ago for some of the traditional South Indian dessert I make rather well, even though I say so myself. I had promised him some and finally grabbed the opportunity and the bottle of ghee with both hands, one also holding my trusty wooden ladle, and did the cooking I needed to. I managed to get it to him without anyone else doing a neat hijack – not myself, not Father, not anyone who saw that I had something special in my little baggie. He and his wife partook of some relish, he reported to me, and sang happy hosannas to my culinary talents.

And I got my just reward, as they call it, this afternoon. I walked past his desk and saw a copy of one of the books I had been asking for. It lay there and called ever so softly to me, asking me to take a closer look. I sidled up and poked at it with a finger. Then I picked it up and took a long and covetous look. I could not get to read it, he told me. He knew I liked crime/thriller/mystery fiction. I knew he knew. And we both did a little verbal and mental waltz, waiting to see who would speak first. I very coolly, casually said I had asked for the books, but they had not yet arrived. He bit. Do you want to review them, he asked. And you can have them all, they are bogging up my desk drawers.

That is where the horse came in. I looked, smiled and took. Now I own 11 of the 13 books, all for the price of a little kitchen labour and a 600-word review. I think I need to light a fire under the friendly next-neighbourhood bookshop owner for the other two.