Mr. Meyers could be quite irritating at times, but not so much as when he caught you unawares to elaborate on some new work of literature that had just entered his premises. There was no escaping him yesterday afternoon. The sun was out for the first time this year, the clouds had parted and our little alcove community was bathed in a fragile silvery light. As I was enjoying the interaction of light and snow, Harold Meyers rushed out of his store making straight for me. "Jeremy, this is fortunate indeed. I remember you telling me that you enjoy Moliere!", shouted Meyers as he managed to raise his creaking voice almost above normal speaking volume.

Knowing I could not escape this encounter I replied: "Yes indeed Mr. Meyers, I have been working my way through 'The Misanthrope' in the evenings." "In that case you will be delighted by this little find", said the bookseller almost out of breath from striding the few feet from the door of his store to my location in the center of the square. "You see here before you a first edition of 'L'Ecole des Femmes' by Moliere. This copy has the original cover illustration by Francois Chauveau", continued the old man, "you do read French do you not?", asked Meyers. "Alas sir, Mr. Hubbard has yet to finish my education of literature in English before he will begin with foreign languages", I said, wondering what the consequences would be of this admission. "Well then Hubbard will have to either step up the pace or teach you more than one subject simultaneously, surely this is not outside his or your reach". "I can not make this decision for my mentor but I will relay the message after lunch." This somewhat satisfied Mr. Meyers, and with me now  wondering how to tell Hubbard he took the opportunity to switch from my pressing education to describing the contents of the tome he had brought out to show. What appeared to be a bright red leather book turned out to be quite an old volume, having been printed around 1663. It struck me that the paper was much thinner than could be found in contemporary books. Meyers stood before me hands behind his back peering through his half glasses expressing curiosity and approval at the way I handled the book. Because the paper felt so fragile being careful with this book was really the only way to examine its contents.

"Let's show Hubbard", said Meyers, "I'm sure he would want to see, feel and smell it. Touching a book is just as important as absorbing its contents you know, as is smelling it. Within my store one can experience every emotion possible to humans, conducted and concocted by the fragrances of long gone ages. Old leather can be quite intoxicating to all our senses." Meyers had long lost me with his diatribe, although I do confess to having grown accustomed to the atmosphere of Hubbard's little library. If this is due to the smell of the books or the tactile sensation of turning the pages I can not tell.  In any case I did agree that my mentor would be very interested in examining the little book I held in my hands.

Leaving old Mr. Meyers for a moment to fetch Hubbard I made my way to the watch shop. The watchmaker could barely be seen working in the far end of the store in his workshop. I opened the door and shouted: "Sir, Mr. Meyers has a book here he would like to show you!" Hubbard turned to me, lowered his glasses with attached loupe and looked at me with a confused expression on his face. When this began to become an awkward pause I repeated the request: "I'm sure you would like to see this sir, it is a very old work by Moliere and it has some wonderful engravings". Still, Hubbard did not respond. At last after what seemed minutes the old man rose from his seat. "Sorry Jeremy I need to finish this watch and my instruments are configured in such a way that I can't let them stand here or they might become unaligned", came the reply finally. "Surely a few minutes wouldn't hurt?", I asked. "NO You do not understand, these tools are high precision instruments, they need constant attention, please leave me alone!". So far I had not seen my mentor angry and not only was this my first introduction to Hubbard's darker side, it also did not make any sense.

Countless times he would come upstairs during what he called 'delicate operations' to consult a manual from his library or to have some wine to steady his hands. Once, one evening he nearly forgot to close an especially fragile timepiece when he became entangled in yet another heated discussion with Welder about some brand of wine that did or did not exist. Under the circumstances it was better to leave the watchmaker to his watches and apologize to Meyers. When I returned it was clear that Meyers could see on my face that something was wrong. "He did not want to come out, did he?", asked the bookseller. "No he did not and got quite angry about it", I replied. "Not to worry, it is my fault I totally forgot. Did he explain to you why he stayed inside?" "No not at all, something about instruments that need handholding", I said still confused. "I'm sure that is what it was, he has some pretty sensitive things in there", came the voice of Meyers, sounding almost apologetic. "I will stop by later this evening and show him the book".

We parted, Meyers with a faint smile on his face, me wondering what had just happened. Most of the rest of the day went uneventful and conversation was kept limited to store activities. Supper was no different either and neither of us spoke, unless it was to our maid Helen to convey dining directions. I decided to retreat early, leaving Hubbard to his books and myself to Moliere. Meyers came in not long after and for about a hour the two were in intense discussion. Famous works of literature are interesting but not fascinating enough to start a heated debate. Most of the time the conversation teetered on the edge of ridiculous when Meyers for example refused to accept that Goethe's false teeth were made in France. Even so, the two old men obtained endless fun from their nightly literary bickering.

When Meyers had left and Helen had refilled the old man's glass I received a request to join my mentor in the library. I asked Helen what this was all about but she did not know either. I must remember to tell you more about our maid. She is a colorful character and I have failed to mention her so far. Hubbard replaced his conversation partner's glass with a new one in which he was now pouring a golden Sauternes. On the table rested a half bottle of Chateau d'Yquem, the undefeated king of desert wines. Of course I am quoting Welder and Hubbard here, since I had never seen or tasted this wine. As I sat down Hubbard handed me a small glass of the glowing liquid. "There is no gold in there but isn't it remarkable how it appears to be a liquid form of that precious metal?", asked Hubbard, carefully easing into the conversation. "The chateau has quite a long history and has been dedicated to making this wine for centuries. At the heart of the estate lies the castle itself, constructed in the 15th century and further built upon and refined in the 16th and 17th centuries. Even though the landlords experimented with wine making there for a very long time, we know that they began to produce wine seriously in 1711 when the chateau received its current name from the new owner and wine master: Léon de Sauvage d'Yquem." Hubbard paused, he always did so to let the impact of his words sink in. I nodded along with his explanation. Sometimes the old man would actually make an interesting story out of the history lessons. He did not continue but stared into his glass for a while.

After a long pause he finally spoke. "Anyway, It is time I apologize to you Jeremy, not only have I treated you poorly this afternoon but I have kept something from you. Something I should have told you the moment you decided to stay with me", said Hubbard in a soft voice. "It is not that I did not want to come see Meyer's book and it was not that I had instruments that needed tending", continued Hubbard. "I am not sure how to explain this to you, you see it sounds quite absurd when I tell you." Not wanting to further confront my mentor I said: "why not leave the interpretation to me, so far you have been honest with me and I have no reason to doubt you now." "Very well then, have you ever heard of something called Porphyria Cutanea Tarda.", Hubbard asked. "I would venture to guess that this is a new species of bird found in the Amazon of which you are so fond but that would most likely be wrong", I said, trying to add some humor into the situation. Hubbard was not amused and said: "no Jeremy, it is a rare condition in which a person is extremely sensitive to sunlight. So much so that in some cases a person with this decease can not leave their house." It was true I had never seen my mentor outside of his dwellings during the day. Many old men of his disposition upheld a similar lifestyle and I therefore thought nothing of it. Hubbard continued: "this condition, this illness is not something that I am comfortable discussing with everybody. Mainly because the explanation seems too far fetched and it is not that I can not be in sunlight, it is just that it becomes very painful when exposed for too long and will be so for a long time afterwards. You see when I first saw you picking locks on one of my nightly perambulations I saw a young me. Maybe it was wrong to hire you and make you my eyes and ears, forcing a similar education and lifestyle upon you. Perhaps it was a slim payment for assuming my outside instance."

It was not easy to find a suitable reply. There was a definite anger welling up, a realization of being manipulated, of being used. "Why not simply tell me and ask me if I could help out?", I finally asked. "Embarrassment mostly, insecurity definitely. It was easier to play the all knowing wise old man instead", replied Hubbard still staring at his glass. "I do hope you will forgive me, I meant no harm. I tried to help not just me but you as well with this little arrangement." It was difficult to stay angry with Hubbard. It was true he had provided me with more than any employer would offer: a first class education, access to knowledge, fine food and wine, not to mention being able to mingle with high placed individuals. Maybe I should have stayed angry and maybe I choose to reduce the importance of Hubbard's actions to stay in my little sphere of comfort. In the end it did not really matter, we had both gained tremendously from the time I started working here and this was more than enough to make up for one mistake. Knowing Hubbard's secret did not make any difference in either of our foreseeable futures all of a sudden and I was quite content to continue the learning process as we had started it.

Neither of us were men of many words and our preferred solution was to leave the answers unspoken as we did in this situation. With that non-act we accepted the situation as it was. Perhaps not an adequate solution but a fair one for two introvert personalities. Hubbard filled up both glasses and smiled. "You know, seeing the peculiar color of our Sauternes wine reminds me of one peculiar side effect of my illness, it turns my urine a fluorescent pink." Whether this was true or not it made us both laugh.