The books turned into bananas and figs as he weighed them on a little scale that he picked up from a souk in Morocco. He packaged the bananabooks into bags he tied carefully, making two loops in the filmy nylon, before putting them in the customers' hands. Before the buyers could get back to their cars, the bagged fruitbooks grew wings and flew off—back to the literary gardens where they grew, back to their seeds and the letters they knew, back to the beginning where all booksellers thought it began, rumored to be a garden somewhere in the Middle East, though no one knew exactly where. Manuel, the bookseller, preferred selling books that did not become fruit, but, like so many things—such as forests with trees and frogs with four legs—these were of a beauty rapidly vanishing.
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