The Curious Book Seller Near Dupont Circle

On occasion, as part of my research, I locate various antiquarian book dealers in the District and browse their shops for both books and curiosities which may help explain what I have been experiencing for the past several months. Education I know will be the key to my salvation from this madness. The proprietors of these shops tend to be both erudite, in regards to esoteric knowledge, as well as shall I say…eccentric in manner? This past weekend, I found myself preoccupied in the area of Northwest D.C. called ‘Dupont Circle.’

This area of D.C. is home to many of the well-heeled artists, writers and free-thinkers in the Washington, D.C. area. The area is named after a Civil War Rear Admiral, a certain Samuel Francis DuPont, for deeds rendered during the war. This largely residential area began blossoming in the late 1800s, by the turn of the 20^th Century the Dupont neighborhood was a prosperous and vivacious neighborhood in Northwest DC. The area is well known for a small park in the center of the circle with a double-tiered white marble fountain positioned there around 1921. More information about the history of this unique residential area can be found at the following U.S. National Park Service website here: http://www.nps.gov/history/Nr/travel/wash/dc50.htm

As I walked I admired the beautiful architecture. Specifically, I found myself admiring the Richardsonian Romanesque Revival style rowhouses on Q Street. I even managed to snap a few pictures which I placed at the top of this blog entry. Overall, a rather relaxing and prosaic stroll, little did I know my stroll out in the sunshine would degenerate into existential obscurity.

I had heard rumors that an old antiquarian book seller lived on Q Street and dealt in various ancient occult texts. The man did not actively advertise for the simple fact that those who wanted his books found him. Through painstaking research, I only ever discovered a name and general location, “Mr. Rolan Corvino, Q Street NW.” So I put on my heavy winter pea coat, along with hat and gloves and took the metro train to the Dupont Circle metro stop. I exited the to the north side entrance when I arrived. I walked away from maddening holiday crowds, down Q Street on that sunny but frigid day hoping to find a sign by one of the rowhouses which indicated a book seller. No one else was around, so I could not ask anyone which row house may be Mr. Corvino’s residence.

As I walked by a particularly sinister looking yellowish brownstone rowhouse, I happened to look down. This particular ominous dwelling had an English basement entrance to the lower left of the doubled door front entrance. The door to the English basement was a dark green color but what caught my eye was the brass plate attached to the English basement door. I walked down the five steps and stood in front of the door and examined the brass door plate. The plate in large letters simply stated, “Rolan S. Corvino, DFA” and nothing else. Cautiously, not knowing if I had the right person, I knocked.

From inside, I heard a chair scraping against floorboards and light foot steps becoming louder and louder as they approached the door, then several deadbolt locks being slowly disengaged. The door opened wide and standing before me was a well dressed elderly gentleman of average height and girth. He was paler than me; shaven headed with large bright intelligent eyes and gave me a wide smile of unnaturally white pointed teeth.

“May I help you, Sir?” He asked with a slight almost imperceptible European accent, which I could not place. I asked if he was Mr. Rolan Corvino, the antiquarian book seller. His immense smile became even wider and the sunshine gleaming off of the abnormal white teeth nearly blinded me.

“I am indeed, Sir. I thought you might be a buyer, not many solicitors are as well dressed yourself. Please come into my humble studio and we can discuss your specific interests and what type of codex you may be seeking.” Corvino stepped away from the door and with a flourish of his arm, directed me inside.

The English apartment was essentially a studio apartment; only one other door was located inside, at the other end of the room. The walls were lined with huge book cases and various preserved maps of Washington, D.C. and the surrounding jurisdictions from the eighteenth century. The book cases appeared elegantly designed from some type of hardwood and a glass enclosure surrounded the books themselves.

My eyes took some time to adjust to the lack of natural light, only a few dim artificial lights provided illumination. Corvino must have noticed this.

“I keep all my books in the basement of the house, Sir. All the natural sunlight from my rooms upstairs would harm these ancient delicate texts. I converted this basement apartment to be my private studio many years ago. One can only slow the progression of age, not stop it I’m afraid. Please have a sit, Sir.”

He pointed to a couple of cushioned wooden chairs next to a large oak table. We both sat down. I looked around the room once my eyes adjusted, other than the stout table and two matching wood chairs; the only other furniture was a large roll top office desk, also made of oak with a leather back chair in front of it. On top of the desk was a laptop and printer. The room served as a home office which was both sparse and functional. The book shelves were colossal and impressive, containing hundreds of books I estimated, all guarded under lock and key in their glass prisons.

I did not want this established learned gentleman to think me mad, so I portrayed myself as a collector of occult texts. First, I introduced myself and I told him I was looking for a tome of a strange and unusual nature. Corvino cocked his head, closed his pale blue eyes and listening intently, he bade me to continue. I told old Corvino that I was looking for a text which discussed supernatural communication through the use of music, perhaps even a study in this area from some knowledgeable ancient scholar or alchemist. I advised Corvino that I would prefer an English translation but my Latin was passable enough.

Corvino stood up from his chair, from a pocket underneath his charcoal colored cardigan wool sweater he pulled out a pair of thin, black framed glasses. He put the glasses on and walked over to one of the book shelves and peered at each of the texts, almost lovingly. As he inspected each of the spines of the text, he spoke with his back to me.

“I keep all my occult related texts in this particular bookcase, makes tracking them at my age much easier. Let me see here…I have a copy here of various fragments of the ‘Pnakotic Manuscripts’ but in all honesty, I’m not really sure what language it is, a while back I sent it to a professor of ancient languages at Miskatonic University in Massachusetts. He hastily sent it back to me along with a very odd and frantic note…”

“Ah-ha! This is what I was looking for!” Corvino shouted and his eyes widened. He took from the pocket of his dim colored chino pants a small metal key and proceeded to open the glass display case. From the shelf he gingerly pulled out a leather bound text. He placed the text on the table in front of me.

“This, my good Sir, is a genuine Silas Andrus edition, from 1820, of Cotton Mather’s ‘Magnalia Christi Americana.’ I think you will find the chapter on the witch trials in Salem to be of particular interest to your ‘research.” He stressed the last word with great prominence. I asked Corvino how the witch trials in seventeenth century Massachusetts would relate to what I had described to him earlier.

“In the text, Mather describes hearing testimony from a teenage witness who felt she had been bewitched. Specifically, she describes washing clothes near a river one early morning. When she began her washing, she suddenly stopped because she heard a ‘queer sort of music’ in the air. She testified that ‘the music’ made her body sway to and fro. She could not explain this occurrence and it was, of course, attributed to witchcraft.”

I looked at the text on the table, the cover resplendent in rich leather. Corvino hand me a pair of white cotton gloves, so I could turn the pages without putting undue stress on the antique pages. The pages were yellowed but still firm. I found the chapter old Corvino spoke of and as I scanned it quickly, the testimony of the young woman Corvino described was listed. Mather himself seemed to have found it fascinating as well.

Grippingly, the young woman was found dead not long after the witch trials. She was found in bed one morning by her father. According to the authorities of the town, her entire throat had been torn out some time in the night, along with her tongue. Yet, no one else in the house heard an attack; in fact they all had slept extraordinarily soundly through the night. The young woman’s father had to break down the door in order to access her bedroom, it had been locked from the inside and the bedroom contained no windows, only a small closet to store her things. The authorities, who had at this time tired of witchcraft and the supernatural, had listed her death as a ‘suicide due to a lingering madness’ leftover from the long, exhausting witch trials. Yet no one could explain how she killed herself, without access to a knife or what happened to her the remains of her throat…or her tongue which also was never found.

“It makes for a strange read, doesn’t it, Sir?” Corvino remarked with a smile, from his thin bloodless lips, showing his perfect, white canine resembling teeth. Inwardly, I shuddered slightly. I suddenly wanted to be out of that basement tomb, full of odd and ancient damned texts, which smelled of festering mould and other fungi. I was finding it harder to breath and I felt my heart beating faster, my head began to swim and my respiration increased. I quickly made my apologies to Corvino, advising him that although I was interested in purchasing the book, I would have to be back later, since I was not feeling well.

I remember well, Corvino’s last words to me, “Tomorrow, by cover of night, Sir, I am receiving a particularly fascinating tome, which I can translate for you, it is in German and speaks of many ancient deities and their cruel worshipping cults.” He winked at me and gently ushered me out the front door. Once outside, back in the sunshine and after several minutes of walking and taking in the crisp winter air, I began to feel better.

A week later, feeling both brave and inquisitive about the text which Corvino remarked on during my departure, I decided to go back to his English basement studio in Dupont. I never asked him for a phone number or email, so I hoped he would be at his studio. When I arrived at the location, I found a strange sight. Some workmen in overalls were carting away Corvino’s heavy but meager furniture. I stopped one and asked him what was going on and where I could find Rolan Corvino. The workman advised me that Corvino had suddenly left the area, with all his books and had quickly sold his property to a neighbor. Corvino had left no forwarding address and according to the workman, who had seen him the day before, he appeared to be in a ‘bizarre and frightful’ state. I have scoured the internet and attempted to locate him through other antiquarians but no one has heard or seen Rolan Corvino since he fled Dupont Circle in his panic stricken state.