Travels with my Aunt

The Stuttgart Antiquarian Book Fair is the first fair of the year. It is always held on the last weekend of January, and is, obviously, quite important for a rare book dealer whose shop is only about 12 km away from that town. So, what with sending out lists and invitations, organizing the transport of my boxes, getting my suit from the cleaner and all the other little chores that attend a fair, I did not really pay attention when my Tante Trude called me up to announced that she was coming to the fair, and would I send her an invitation? I did, and forgot about her.

The fair went pretty well, all things considered. I met customers that I’ve known for 30 years and that I only see at the fair. I went out for the usual drinks with colleagues whom I consider friends, even though they, too, are rarely visible in the body. And I even sold a few books and heard all the usual questions: “Is that really the price? I bought that 20 years ago for half that – in Deutsch Mark.” “I have this old Bible. What is it worth?” “Do you buy books? I’m getting old, and my children aren’t interested.” “I must poke around in the attic. I’m sure we’ve got loads of old rubbish like that up there.”

And I had the usual lunatic. This one came to my stand, stopped dead, stared straight ahead and said, in slow, measured tones: “Travel books. Travel books. I do not travel anymore. Since 1594. I have been everywhere.” I considered asking him whether he’d been to Australia before van Diemens, but let it be. I just remarked “Very wise of you” and busied myself with tidying up the stand.

And then Tante Trude arrived. She was a bit out of breath and quite impressed with the fair. I suspect that she always thought that I was a kind of flea market dealer, and now she saw the books on my and other peoples stands, she was relieved. She marvelled at the prices, but realized that rare things have to be expensive, otherwise they wouldn’t be rare. Then she took me along to the cafeteria for coffee and cream cake. Tante Trude has a traditional German figure and intends to keep it that way. Over a delicious Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte she told me the reason for her looking me up:

“I hear that you travel a lot, dear boy. Your mother tells me you always travel alone. That is not good, you need someone to look after you.” (I am 59 years old). “As you know, since your Uncle Herbert passed away, I’ve been sitting around at home, but I’ve always wanted to see the world.” Uncle Herbert was quite a bit older than Tante Trude and didn’t like travel. He used to say he’d seen enough of the world from the back of a lorry during the war, and most of it had been trying to kill him. So he and Tante Trude always went to the seaside.

“Well” resumed Tante Trude, drinking coffee daintily, “I don’t want to go on bus tours, like an old woman …”

I could see where this was going. Now, I like Tante Trude, she has an open mind, reads a lot, is jolly and has the typical German pragmatism that is useful when travelling. But, she is a lady of a certain age. She saw what I was thinking and tapped me on the hand with her spoon.

“Dear boy, I would love to come on a trip with you. You know your way around, you speak languages. I won’t be an encumbrance, and you’d have someone to talk to. Now, I heard that you are going to Turkey in a few weeks.” (The information flow in my family would put any secret service to shame). “I could go with you, you know, just to try it out. Don’t worry, we’ll have separate rooms” she giggled and blushed prettily, “and we’ll share expenses.”

And so it was arranged. We are going to Istanbul for a week. Tante Trude is looking forward to it keenly. I have lent her Lady Montagu’s “Letters from Constantinople” and Julia Pardoe’s “Beauties of the Bosphorus” but have also advised her to get a somewhat more recent guide as well.

So, the dies are cast. I’ll keep you posted on what happened.