The library began as a cardboard box by the bed because I didn’t have shelves yet and because I was pretending this wasn’t becoming a thing. A box is temporary. A box says, “I’m just passing through.” It also says, “Go on then, buy three more.”
First bad purchase: a sun-faded paperback from a Sunday market. The cover had that late-70s grit, the seller swore it was “casi nuevo.” It wasn’t. I knew it wasn’t. I bought it anyway because my hands were already full with two decent finds and I didn’t want to put them down to argue. Heat, noise, coins—usual hustle. I paid, nodded, walked away feeling like I’d got away with something. I hadn’t.
At home the paperback told the truth. The spine had a slight S-curve, the text block felt wavy, and there was a hint of cellar in the smell—mild, but enough. When I opened somewhere in the middle, the glue cracked like old sugar. Marina leaned in, sniffed, and said, “If it’s sick, it doesn’t need you to be its doctor.” Then she took her mug and left me to stage a rescue I already knew wouldn’t work.
You can flatten some sins. I pressed it under a couple of hardbacks for a day. The wave relaxed; the smell didn’t. I tried a dry airing: open on the table, shaded, soft ceiling fan. Better for the shape, not the odor. That’s when I admitted I hadn’t bought a book. I’d bought a lesson and paid market price.
The lesson, written out so I stop pretending I’ll remember next time:
- Do the fan test at the stall. Pinch the fore-edge, riffle pages by your nose. You’re smelling for damp, smoke, or a sweet-stale note that means the glue is going.
- Check the spine line. Hold the book at eye level. Any S-curve or twist? Walk away unless it’s rare and you’re fine with “reading copy.”
- Lay it flat. Edge a corner onto something level and look down at the page block. Waves = humidity. Shape may recover a little; scent usually won’t.
- Open to 40–60% and listen. A sharp crack means brittle glue. If you hear it in heat, it’ll be worse at home.
There’s a version of this story where I negotiated hard and only paid a euro. I didn’t. I paid six because I wanted the feeling of leaving with a stack and because the seller had probably heard enough opinions for one day. That’s part of the trap at busy markets: you’re buying mood as much as paper. Still, six euros is two decent paperbacks on Wallapop if you’re patient, or a chunk of a hardback you’ll actually keep.
I didn’t bin it. I quarantined it in a paper bag, then tried a smoke-smell trick that sometimes helps: closed box, book on a rack, bowl of unscented cat litter nearby (not touching), a few days in a dry room. It took the edge off, but the cellar never fully left. Conservators are blunt about this: there’s no guaranteed fix for mustiness; isolate anything suspicious and be cautious around mould. If you want the sober version, read the NEDCC guidance on moldy books.
So that was the first bad purchase into the box by the bed. The other two from that morning were fine—one with a bus ticket bookmark, one with pencil fights in the margins. They balanced the mood. I logged the dud anyway: title, date, where, price, what I missed, what I’ll do differently. It sounds fussy. It isn’t. Five lines and you get the start of a pattern. Patterns save money.
A few days later I went back. Same stallholder, different stack. I picked up a hardback, did the fan test, checked the spine, opened to the middle. He watched me, then said, “Ese sí.” I believed him because I’d already decided for myself. I paid—less than last time. He counted the coins slower, like we were both agreeing to start again.
At home, the good hardback went onto the plant-stand-turned-table. The wavy paperback stayed in its bag, a quiet reminder. Marina stepped past, glanced at the stack, and said, “Your modern sculpture is getting taller.” I told her I was learning. She said, “Then write it down.” So I did.
One useful rule I’m keeping: a “rescue or release” minute at the end of every scout. Anything suspect goes to a separate spot for 24 hours. If it still smells off or stays wavy, it doesn’t join the room. No sentiment. The room is a memory machine, not a hospice.
