- How much are these books, the lady asks, holding up a battered Penguin Classic copy of Frankenstein.
- If they’re not marked, they’re $3.
- And the ones that are marked? She’s looking directly at me, her eyes lifeless, waiting for an answer.
- Then, I say, they’re the price that’s marked.
- Oh, she says. She looks at the book in her hand, as if wondering how it got there. She drops it back in the box, casts a critical yet somehow still dead-eyed look over the rest of the goods on display, then turns and shambles off.
I’d be more indignant, but I’m wearing an ill-fitting sombrero to protect my head from the malevolent sun. Bad enough. But it is blue, and painted as an Australian flag. It was $5. Only because I will never, ever see any of these people ever again am I wearing it. And even then I feel as if a little bit of my spirit has been crushed.
At the end of the day, I make back the money I spent on the hat. The lady with butterflies tattooed round her wrist wanted to know if I had any real-life books. She was holding Frankenstein. I told her it was based on a true story. Her husband, drinking a can of Passiona, looked over and said yeah, that’s right, he thought he’d heard that.
- How much? she asks.
- You can have it, I say, for $5.