The Infinite Library (17 page)
Read The Infinite Library Online
Authors: Kane X Faucher
Tags: #Mystery, #Retail, #Fiction, #21st Century, #Amazon.com
At a certain point as the moon crested somewhere behind the jagged teeth of buildings, I had let the book fall from my bed, and was soon lost in sleep. The makings of this pseudo-Franciscan mystery were beginning to weary me.
The mention of the Library felt tacked on, perhaps to goad me. I was beginning to wonder if this book was not from the pen of Castellemare himself, written in such a poor fashion as to punish me for my act of theft.
9
The Waking and Boarding Call (A Small Exodus)
B
eset by a shadow carousel of terrible and interminable nightmares. Castellemare and Angelo had accosted me in some vast and empty concert hall of sorts. Castellemare with his trademark grin said to me, “It is a sad thing indeed when someone is so incapable of reading two books at once. Focus is a sin.” The dream broke and dispersed as the sound of Leopold Castor's heavy boots clomped down the bowed wooden steps, followed by the crash and click of the apartment bloc's front door. I had barely a few moments' peace as my telephone rang. I waited it out for three rings, and retreated into the bathroom, trying to suggest to whoever was calling that I was not available.
The phone rang again, and it seemed as though its ring was more insistent, its cachinnating trill sending up ever more sharp slivers of noise. I sat this ringing onslaught out as well until it charged up yet again. Whoever it may have been, they were not going to take my silence for an answer.
“Hello?”
“Hullo. Busy?”
The voice was not entirely recognizable to me. There was a silent gap I hastened to close. I could hear breathing, and could also picture the face of the unseen caller, perched there with a serious intent, face cast in chiaroscuro, holding the receiver with a determined patience. Perhaps as it is seen in the movies: a close-up of just a mouth moving, the rest matted in shadow to conceal the identity in a darkness the audience would have to fill in piece by piece.
“I'm sorry,” I stammered. “I had just stepped out of the shower.”
“Read anything interesting lately?” The voice was flatly interrogative, suggesting that the caller knew much more than was letting on.
“Who is this?”
“A caller. Read anything interesting lately?”
“I'm sorry. You must have the wrong number.”
“Gimaldi, have you been reading anything interesting lately?”
“How do you know my name?”
“I know your name. I've read your name. Have you?”
“I-I must confess that I'm getting a bit nervous about having this conversation,” I said, quavering. Not exactly a take control statement or in any way eloquent.
The caller repeated his request with what sounded as though spoken through clenched teeth: “Have you... read anything... interesting... lately?”
Just then, a shadow swept beneath the crack of my apartment door, a few motes of dust disturbed by motion.
“I have to go,” I said, distracted and trying to sound unafraid. I hung up the phone and I padded quietly to the coat rack beside the door and cupped my ear to pick up any sound. A sharp thump was delivered on the other side of the door, just where my ear was directed.
The phone rang again, obliterating any chance for me to hear who or what was outside my door. I had managed to hear a bit of shuffling. Fear was beginning to well up in me, but I decided to quash it with irritation. I leapt to the phone and, without waiting for a voice, said, “What!?”
“Someone is at the door. Have you read anything interesting lately?”
I hung up immediately. It would have been considered rather comedic had I not been so shaken, but I fished through the kitchen drawer for a knife. I approached the door quietly and then with a sharp jerk I opened it, knife trembling in my hand with the handle close to my body.
Nothing. The phone rang again. I closed the door and unplugged the phone. There was a very slow and determined knock on the door followed by footsteps that were walking downstairs to the front entrance. Despite my fear, I went in pursuit, flying down the steps and out the front door. I looked the fool in my pajamas, and a bit maniacal since I had forgotten that the kitchen knife was still in my hands. I quickly tried to conceal it as I scanned up and down the street from the front entrance. Nobody. I had also forgotten my keys, but was fortunate when a neighbour from downstairs was coming out. Seeing my knife and my attire, I quickly explained that I had been preparing some vegetables for a stew and, and... the explanation trailed off alongside my neighbour's interest or concern that I was mad.
I went back up to my apartment and saw that I had left the door open. The two books were now sitting on the bed where I distinctly did not place them. Fear took me, and I searched every room and closet with the knife clutched in hand. I then hastened to close and lock the door, checked under the bed, and drew the curtains closed. As if on cue, my computer fired up into life, breaking the sleep spell of the screensaver to notify me of an awaiting email. In bold was an unread message by someone I did not recognize: Edward Albrecht. The message was titled “a few things you should know about finis logos”.
The message was not to me, but rather... from me, forwarded to the attention of Edward Albrecht, cc'd to a few other names I could not recognize because they were masked by obscenely long and confusing email addresses. The email said something about a “chiffre”, some confusing and seemingly hallucinogenic descriptions of a seven-way synthesis, and mentioned some obscure texts that were most likely in that impossible catalogue of the infinite Library. I flagged the message and closed the window.
I had to regain the normal bearings of the day over and against the panicked mystery it began with. I had to sink myself into regular things, routine activities, or otherwise populate my day with events that would restore a sense of order. With unhurried but mechanical pace, I showered, dressed, and decided to take a stroll down “antique alley” and hunt for rare book gems deposited there by dealers who had no idea of the value of the texts they purchased in estate sales. Despite myself and my need for normalcy after having been so terribly ruffled by the morning's events, I did carry along with me the
Backstory
and the
7
th
Meditation
in my shoulder bag – perhaps subconsciously fearing that an attempt would be made by persons unknown to steal them from my apartment. So, out I went into the safe warmth of the late morning, feeling the need to be quiet and anonymous. I would take to the day with a sombre and reflective attitude, letting my fingers run over the spines of books in antique stores and waiting to have my attention captured by something surprising.
There was a safe and contained excitement in hunting for books, just as a game of chess is far more relaxing than waging real war. I was expert at being able to scan a long row of books on a shelf and separate within moments the good from the piffle. Some people have this gift in other ways – like the way a referee can spot a rule infraction in the seething chaos of quick-moving bodies, or a soldier can pick out friend from foe in a heavy firefight. My gift was much more modest and hardly applicable to other aspects of existence, but it gave me a sense or comfort and order to cast my gaze upon a finite number of objects and let that limited dimension determine the rules of engagement. Libraries and book collections are finite in this world, and eventually one comes to the end of a series. Perhaps 250 books on a shelf, and that number will be the absolute measure for that collection. Within those 250 books may or may not be what one is looking for. But each library and each collection cannot be divorced by their context: I had always known better than to expect great works of literature in a large book franchise store, or to set my hope too high when scanning a table of paperbacks at a garage sale. One had to adjust expectations to the milieu in which the collection was situated.
After a few hours, I had exhausted the antique stores, finding little of interest. I had already visited the used book stores recently and knew that their stock would not have changed significantly since last I visited. Now that the morning had been spent, and my need for caffeine had spiked, I decided on a small bistro. Feeling the safety of normalcy, I tucked myself into a corner of the bistro, removed the
Backstory
from its place in my shoulder bag, and consumed – or rather choked down - another chapter. It felt much more imperative now, more urgent that I throw a bold shoulder into reading in search of information that others evidently did not want me to have for reasons I could not glean. I dug back into it:
Excerpt 4 and 5 from
Backstory
I spied Gimaldi from my modest flat's window on a Wednesday. He was curiously inspecting a sidewalk display of inexpensive handicrafts. After some careful deliberation, and some indecisive hesitation, he chose to purchase a miniature of a
red clay lion
.
The grey
day became dark after that. There would be nothing left but to lie back on my bed, read a chapter or two of some dry book, get listless and pace on the faded green carpet. While I became incumbently bored, Gimaldi was still lurking outside, now sitting on a wire-wrought bench next to dead geraniums wilting in a wooden box. Why didn't he go away? His very presence made me feel anxious, like I expected him to expect me to do something useful with my time.
The dry book in question was entitled
Codex Infinitum
. From what I could gather so far, the story centered around another character whose name was also Gimaldi, but a younger and different model of the man I knew. Some kind of chintzy book collector who bought and sold rare editions for small commissions, and came under the employ of a bizarre librarian named Castellemare. Gimaldi's narrative was dry and plodding. The idea of the infinite library where all possible books were housed was buried under too much of Gimaldi's weak philosophical reflections. I put down the book shortly after he stole two books from this library that would reference himself. I wasn't going to bother picking the book back up anytime soon.
Obsalte – I was still turning back to this name. Research required the skillful hand of someone who could release the precious clues from the pulpy prison of a book. I was never adept at the practice; I only pretended to be. My mode of research was haphazard, disorganized, and lazy. It was never about finding the answer to the question, but creating a rhetorical masterpiece with a hypnotic effect. That was one of the many reasons I did not survive and prosper in academia. My research techniques wouldn't be faithful in deciphering the enigma of Obsalte, even if I was driven by his connection with Saccas. Less faithful would be Sigurd, who would take any piecemeal information he found and bring it into the realms of his fictive fantasies. Like me, his mind operated too fast for the plodding task of research, and preferred the flights of error and fiction.
She had French hands, like a violinist's. Gimaldi's wife was something of an enigma, not unlike the man himself. She had a way of turning away from a conversation when it settled into an agreement of the topic. Agreement bored her.
“
Would you like to drink any more of my wine?” Gimaldi asked sharply, as if I was being greedy. Dinner had consisted of a roast, dumplings, crackers and spread, epistemological breaks, and furtive glances. Gimaldi and his wife tended to stare at me expectantly, as if I was to explain myself. An outsider might have thought them rude - they did invite me to dinner - but this was the natural way Gimaldi and his wife comported themselves with company – or at least with me.
“
I've been researching Obsalte,” I said.
“
You are a liar and a thief,” Gimaldi replied dismissively.
“
I have,” I protested, but to no avail.
“
If you had, then you wouldn't be in my house right now. No, you only think you've done research. A man who seeks is a man consumed. I see no hunger in your eyes; only pale curiousity.”
Just then, Gimaldi's wife broke out in tears.
“
What?” Gimaldi asked aggressively.
“
What?” she replied, the crying jag finished as quickly as it had come on.
“
What?” Gimaldi snapped at me.
