The Infinite Library (58 page)

Dr Aymer screwed his eyes tighter. He was unsure of what the strange man was asking for. Was he looking for something poetic? Dr Aymer knew enough about himself to know that he was no poet. He tried anyways. Quieting his mind, he let loose with the ambling thoughts that passed there, but thought them instead of voicing them. He evaluated the young woman, moving from the slight prognathism of her face, the slender suppleness of her form, the presumable soft texture of her young skin. His thoughts lost their reins and suddenly very disturbing thoughts entered – thoughts of performing experimental surgery, to apply a scalpel here, append there, something vaguely biomechanical, artistic. The woman was now filled with new possibility.

“Is there something the matter, Doctor?” asked Ensopht, still in rictus.

“I am having terrible thoughts. In some of them, I see a man that is not me, but is partially me... He is using women for art, using his scientific skills to make grotesques. If this is the result of a synthesis, I want no part of it. It is sick and depraved. I just want these thoughts to go away.”

“Why don't you talk to the young lady?” taunted Ensopht. “Enact what needs to be enacted. Follow the crescendo of an entirely new will.”

It is not recorded by this author what the doctor actually did – whether he took up on the provocation or not. What we may say is that the doctor was indelibly changed. What mattered was that the will of art and the will of science conjoined that night, under the light of exquisite atrocity.

Whatever had happened that night with Dr Aymer and the lady had visited Leopold by way of thought. Instead of Dr Aymer, Leopold was in his place. Leopold was smitten with the moment and absolutely rapt with his further delving into the sketchbook. That toxic book, crammed with lubricious images of horror, manipulation, orphaned fragments, and other unsettling matter had a bewitching effect. None of the fragments made sense in their arrangement, along with the sketches, but each was like an incantation or an invitation to draw closer into it, to become the book itself or surrender to it.

Red lion sketchbook fragment:

On Piotr.

The gun is located
in the top drawer just beneath the typewriter. The typewriter was next to the drained bottle of scotch and the stuffed ashtray
.
The gun was loaded, and had been for twenty years. It had been loaded and ready ever since Piotr had arranged the pact with himself: “at the exact moment I write the perfect novel, I will put the nozzle in my mouth.” And one day, on a gloomy March afternoon, he did. Piotr was pleased with himself. A shot rang out and quickly receded back into the angry hum of the world...

But then Leopold was thrust into a dream, and the dream went like this:

I awoke on a landing at the very top of a long, stone-carved stairway that wound down along the inner wall of what appeared to be the inside of a colossal cylindrical shaft. Behind me was a sealed black stone door that I could not budge despite all efforts, and judging by my attempt to rap upon it, it was solid and so gave off no report of an echo. The stairway itself jutted from the stone wall as though a natural continuation of the very wall from which it was attached. Attending this endless stairway was an iron rail, positioned on the outer part of the steps, a little less than hip height. Seeing as there was no way to budge the monolithic door, I decided to make the perilous descent down these mysterious steps.

6

where a sixth meditation produces the monster of the extended substance, the body.

Chanted by all six, in dream or vocalized, wherever they happened to be at that particular moment: “There are children with mirrors everywhere, and they do not know why they are holding them. There is a long gallery of masks that are picked up and replaced at irregular intervals. There is the screaming streak of colour across my eye, and something eerie felt through the press of my fingertips. There is a sound like bells that is incessant, but the chiming seems mechanical. Everything is both an irritation and an ecstasy. And there is me and there is you, but that doesn't seem to mean much anymore, the divisions like shutters dropped down randomly between my-thought and your-thought, my-body and your-body. Something outside of the relation of my thought to itself guarantees what it is I sense, grants me substance, but it is no sort of god. And so, suddenly, the carnival of the senses entered into harmony. And everywhere the chorus is sung:

The normalcy I craved was slowly returning to me.”

27

The Day After

T
he normalcy I craved was slowly returning to me. Although I no longer had a supply of books to sell, I still had money in my account to sleuth for deals on the internet in order to rebuild my catalogue. I took an early lunch in the downtown core, and visited all my favourite bookshops. I was seeing books in an entirely different way, and although the idea of the infinite Library once frightened and defeated me, I realized that it was nothing more than the fragility of the ego that made me feel this way. It did not matter that everything that could have been written by my hand already existed, for the books were more important than the authors, and the purpose of writing is communicative, instructional, and a means to provide pleasure. And it also didn't matter that one did not have every single book ever produced, for the attempt to collect an entire set of anything was merely a cheap way of trying to recollect oneself. I was at peace with the idea of the Library, perhaps even quietly happy.

I still had in my possession the
7
^th
Meditation
as well as the collated book from Setzer's labyrinth that I decided, with some irreverent cheek, to dub
Finis Logos
. The
Backstory
was still missing, but I couldn't exactly say that it was a terrible loss.

Such normalcy would, of course, be short-lived. Doubtless, word of what I did to Angelo would reach the ears of Castellemare, and it was him I spotted at a bookstore, pretending to be absorbed with a paltry collection of dramatic works.

“Gimaldi, what a fine day,” he greeted. I could see the mark of a split lip I had given him. “Oh, I just love drama, don't you?” he squealed.

“I bet you do,” I said icily.

“Tragedies and comedies, epic lineages cut short, treachery and betrayal, unrequited love and heroic triumphs. Ah, would life follow such excitements. Alas, life is mostly dull. But not for us drama buffs, eh? Speaking of treachery, Gimaldi, have you seen my dutiful assistant?”

“Your henchman? Yes. Like Humpty Dumpty, he took a nasty fall.”

“Whose hand was responsible for that?” he asked, probingly, yet still keeping his focus on the books.

“Mine, but you should be thanking me, not that I did it for you. He was a double agent under the employ of a different office,” I stated and then left the bookshop. I could see that my news had surprised him – his expression was as though he were just slapped. He followed me outside. For once, I knew much more than he did. With such a reversal, I wanted to savour it.

“Say, Gimaldi, pardon and all that, but what do you mean?”

I kept walking. I reached a set of traffic lights and waited for my turn to cross.

“I don't mean to insist,” he said, catching up with me. “What do you mean when you say 'double agent'? I am so very curious.”

“Why not consult your Library; perhaps you'll find the answers you seek there,” I said and could not help but to smile.

“Gi-mal-di, please. I beseech you to explain. I'd rather get all my information firsthand if possible.”

“It's as you say: good employees are so hard to find,” I said, and crossed the street.

He followed closely behind. “Gimaldi, wait. Let's be gentlemanly about all this. Make a clean breast of everything.”

“Perhaps we can make a deal, but it will cost you. I want to know everything about this proposed synthesis and my role in it.”

“Point blank. You have everything you need to know from that book which, if I may remind you, you stole. If anything, you are in my debt,” he said testily. “I have given you far more information than was necessary, and what reward did I get but a poke in the jaw!”

“You gave information willingly. I didn't solicit everything you told me, but like some penny dreadful villain, you felt the compulsion to unveil your master plan to satisfy your enormous ego. The vital questions I did pose, you coquettishly kept mum about. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to go on alone.”

“Of all the nerve,” I heard him say to himself. “Gimaldi! Stand and face me!”

I turned on my heel and he was so close our noses were almost touching.

He spoke in harsh undertones: “I won't stand for this. I demand to know what you discovered about Angelo, and I must know now.”

“I'm not your personnel snoop. You should keep better track of your employees. I will not respond to your demands.”

“Gimaldi, let's not bicker like old lovers here. I will pay handsomely for your time and information. This is what you're after, am I right? You are a mercenary at heart, and every man has his price. Name it, and I'll be sure to make the proper arrangements to honour your request. I am quite serious.”

“I also met the Librarian. You had lied to me. You are not the Librarian.”

At this, Castellemare let out a raucous laugh. “Ah, so you met the caretaker!”

“He has a differing view than yours.”

“That he does, that he does. But think about it, Gimaldi: a Library of that size would require more than one Librarian. Doubt the credibility of my title all you like, but I perform all the requisite duties of my station.”

“According to the rules of the Order, not the Library. And the merger went through, regardless of your treachery.”

“There was a war in Heaven,” he said, as if quoting. “The new vanguard challenged the assumptions and rules of the
ancien regime
in an act of rebellion.”

“So you're the upstart. Figures.”

“There is much you do not understand, Gimaldi. Don't be so self-satisfied that you have all the answers. Granted, you have much more than most, but the picture is still so grievously incomplete.”

“I like the picture I have and am satisfied with it.”

“We are veering too far off topic. What is information on the deceased worth to you?”

“Not much, but I'd charge someone like you dearly for it.”

“Name your price.”

“I have already: knowledge for knowledge. Everything you know about the synthesis and my role in it.”

“I meant
money
, Gimaldi.”

“I have enough money to sustain myself, thank you. I don't feel comfortable taking money from you – servants take money. You know what I think? I think you know squat about this synthesis and are just prancing around as if you do.”

“Oh, very nice, Gimaldi... Trying to goad me to prove you wrong. The price you name is completely off-balance; the information I have is worth a fortune compared to the paltry news you may have. The only reason I need to know so badly is because I hate that feeling of being cheated.”

“So do I.”

“Gimaldi, are you implying that I had in some way cheated you? Did I not pay you promptly for your services? If you're going to say that I cheated you out of information about the Library and other like matters, well, that was not yours to have in the first place. You simply aren't entitled to that.”

“I've named my price, and if you reject my final offer, I'll be on my way.”

“Fine, Gimaldi. You drive a hard bargain. Listen to me, there are just some things you are better off not knowing. You will regret learning of the synthesis. There is nothing you can do to stop it.”

“That will be my choice and responsibility to bear.”

“Yes, we are all responsible for what we know, even if it brings sorrow. Come with me; we will sit ourselves down somewhere more comfortable and swap stories like good gentleman.”

Castellemare chose a quiet licensed bistro up the street and ordered an elaborate coffee. As if expecting to bear the brunt of terrible news, I ordered a scotch.

“Fairness and honesty,” he said. “For the purpose of expediency, I would recommend that you give me what I want to know first since it will be most likely a shorter tale, and then I will commence with my own. I promise on my word to honour this trade.”