The Infinite Library (60 page)

A few of them wrinkled their noses as though the very thought was distasteful. There were six of them in all, and it was a challenge to seat them in my rather small apartment; two of them had to sit on the floor. I offered to rustle up some drinks as if I were playing host. Most of them declined, but a few were thirsty for some water. A very wild bunch.

“Oh, Henry, could you start fetching this fellow's things from the car?” one of them said to another seated on the floor. The respondent looked miffed.

“Don't use my Christian name! Rank and Order-given name only when we are in our vestments!” he rebuffed.

“Don't worry,” I said. “Let's not be sticklers for formality. I think I know what you are after, and I would like to know why.”

“Well,” said one of them, putting on leadership airs, “You have in your possession a... rather delicate book. We agree that it would be best if we held on to it, just for a while.”

“To prevent the synthesis from occurring,” I added.

“Well, that as well... You are a very fortunate man in having been able to visit the Library. None of our Order have been able to do that. It is like that Castillon wants to play keep-away with us.” He must have meant Castellemare.

“It makes no difference now. The Library has dictated that the synthesis will happen, and that it is too late to do anything about it,” I answered.

“By whose authority did you gain this information?”

“From the one you call Castillon, but it comes from much higher.”

“Are you still under his employ, still have access to the Library? Perhaps you would like to work for us, maybe even join our Order. You have some well-received journal articles... “

These were hardly the type of people who would have murdered Setzer; they were too meek and campy, just an old boys club of obsessive academics who got their jollies dressing up and being mysterious and self-important. I was beginning to think more and more that it was Angelo, operating under his other capacity. Was it not Angelo who had reported seeing the body first? But what reason would he have? I was not long in going over these thoughts as two of the Devorants picked up and started the process of returning my things. While the door was left ajar, who should come by but Castellemare, attended by Jakob.

“Look what I found wandering around with no tag,” announced Castellemare. “I was just in the neighbourhood, really, and it turns out that one of my appointments was postponed. What is this, Gimaldi? Are you moving out? And are you going with the 'old judges moving company,' too?”

The Devorants darted him a hostile and suspicious look. Castellemare grinned as broadly as usual, and Jakob was trying to look important.

“Quite the party,” remarked Castellemare.

“Who is this person?” asked one of the Devorants, taking another box of my things into the living room.

“Castillon,” I answered wryly before turning to Castellemare. “May I introduce you to the Devorants, mystical Order of the Station Wagon.”

“It's my aunt's!” one of them piped up in embarrassed protest. “And I'll have you know it is very economical.”

“Well, we'll just squeeze on in,” said Castellemare, leading Jakob gingerly. “The gang is all here, it seems. Let's party, gentlemen!”

“Y-you are Castillon?” asked one of the Devorants, Henry by name.

“Castellemare,” Castellemare corrected, “Although I'm sure a lot is lost in translation. Oh, Gimaldi: do you have anything for myself and my guest to drink? I would prefer something strong with a lime slice – if you can possibly summon up a piece of citrus in this place.”

“We have so much to ask you,” said the apparent leader.

“And I have so much not to tell you,” beamed Castellemare. “Rest easy, men of the cloth. Let's drop our banners and have ourselves a little shindig.”

I could tell that the Devorants could not conceal their awe, while Castellemare was very much enjoying himself with the comical social arrangement.

“Gimaldi,” Castellemare called out. “Jakob here is a bit loose-lipped and says he's been your research associate. Don't be angry with him.”

“I didn't mean -” began Jakob.

“Oh, shut it, you silly turd,” Castellemare upbraided mockingly.

“That's research
assistant
,” I corrected.

“Jakob here has been telling me
all
this very interesting information. His tireless research findings are spot on!” Castellemare said facetiously. “I had no idea that this nefarious, shadowy plot involved such notables as Marduk, the Earl of Sandwich, the Annunaki, and Aleister Crowley, no less!”

“No, it's the Earl of Brunswick,” Jakob said, proving himself the fool.

“So what are the cloaked ones doing with all this heavy lifting? That certainly can't be good for their arthritis,” asked Castellemare.

“Returning a few of my things.”

“I never would have figured them for thieves.”

“The best way to jack a house is -” began Jakob, showcasing knowledge he did not have, before being cut off.

“I really wish we could retire this 'thief' label,” Henry protested.

“To be honest,” said another of the Devorants to me, my computer in his hands. “We didn't get to pry all that much. We couldn't get into your computer.”

“It's password protected,” I said. “Every time it goes into screensaver mode.”

“Ah, yes. We aren't much for code-breaking. We're none too shabby when it comes to the written code, but computers are a little beyond our ken. Say, I think I will have something to drink.”

Perhaps he would have liked to see the wine list.

“Mr. Castill – Castellemare, level with us on this synthesis business. What is the meaning of it? I dare say that if it brings about atrocious consequences -”

“Hush, silly goat,” said Castellemare. “I can't just give away the whole program so early even before the first act has been completed.”

“My Christian name is Paul,” another member of the Devorants said, offering me his limp hand.

“That it is, very Christian,” guffawed Castellemare. The one named Paul pursed his lips disapprovingly.

“Ok, gang,” I raised my voice above the commotion. “Why don't you robed ones start from the beginning: why you raided my apartment, what you think you know about the synthesis, and all the rest so that we can feel good about each other.”

Henry was the first to step forward. “Mr. Gimaldi, again, on behalf of our esteemed Order, I would like to apologize for our actions, for although sometimes the ends seem to justify the means, we are still aggrieved to cause you any trouble.”

Castellemare was attempting to conceal his laughter, and not doing a very good job of it. The stiff comportment of the Devorants and the apparent non-threat they posed, was quite risible to the mad Librarian. I suppose it was jarring and a bit humourous to me as well, especially given that I had assumed all this time that the Devorants was a dangerous cabal. In actual fact, they were no more harmless or in the know about dark secrets than a group of Shriners.

As it turned out, the Devorants were not responsible for the spooky phone calls and knocking at the door – their only acts had been to keep tabs on me given some insider knowledge that I was now employed in connection with the Library, and in making themselves at home with my belongings. Beyond that, the source of my being terrorized remained a mystery. Their knowledge of the synthesis could be summarized as it being something bad, and little more. I was convinced that these could not be the
real
Devorants, but some hackneyed nostalgic throwback to Adam Weishaupt's
Illuminati
. I was able to deduce that their Order was established in 1949, and that their entire set of traditions from costumes to rituals had been borrowed from eager and obsessive research into secret societies. They were, in a pinch, the dog's breakfast of secret societies. All of this greatly amused Castellemare who was visibly trembling trying to stifle his laughter. Despite my relief, I was admittedly disappointed. It was quite a letdown that the Devorants were merely an exclusive bunch of book snobs.

“About that drink, Gimaldi,” Castellemare asked.

“I would favour one as well,” added Jakob. I merely shot him an annoyed glance.

“Fresh out,” I said.

“All these books, and not one on good hosting. Tsk tsk,” joked Castellemare.

“Henry,” I began. “There is nothing more that can be said. I accept your apology, but let's not have a repeat of this. I think it will be best if you and your colleagues take your leave. I don't think you fellows will be able to throw any light on my current list of questions.”

Henry cleared his throat and, not without some rushed embarrassment, said, “Mr. Gimaldi, I would like to take this opportunity to ask if you would consider a sponsored invitation to join our Order. In our estimation, you have many of the characteristic hallmarks of a fine member.”

At that point, Paul proffered me the Devorants brochure, done up on a dot matrix printer. I took it out of politeness and lied that I would seriously consider the generous offer for membership. Disappointed that I would not give them a peek of the book, and realizing that Castellemare was resolute in telling them nothing to satisfy all their eager curiousity about him, they were soon to file out, leaving me alone with Castellemare and Jakob.

“What a fun bunch!” beamed Castellemare. “So, are you gonna do it?”

“What?” I asked.

“Join them! Become a full fledged member of their sacred fraternity and be initiated into their most treasured secrets! Honour, title, respectability... Perhaps even a nice black robe if you pledge to their monthly dry-cleaning pool. Membership in such an illustrious group certainly has its privileges.”

“Can it, Castellemare. Yes, they were ridiculous, but now I'm coming up empty as to who is giving me a hard time.”

“Perhaps Jakob here knows.”

“I've been treated to enough of his theories,” I said. Jakob's expression became petulant.

“So, let me anticipate your question, Gimaldi. You want to know why I've paid you a visit, and why I brought the imbecile with me.”

“I'm sure you'll tell me,” I said resignedly.

“Well, I had been pressed for time and so could not enlighten you to all the details about the synthesis, and since there are so many it is hard to keep straight. You see, this idiot by my right hand will be reformed.”

The news was as mysterious to Jakob as it was to me.

“Reformed?” I asked, and Jakob also asked with a look.

“Yes, reformed. He is the perfect material for an anti-hero tragedy... A detestable character, pretentious, but so ridiculous that one could not see him as evil. Albrecht is evil, but evil needs intelligence. This boy here is but an egotistical brute, a wannabe, a man-child desperately looking for a father. He will gain in intelligence, but along the way he will commit acts of questionable morality that will more be on account of his blunders than any true conviction. Don't you see how the narrative will unfold? Stupid purity and impure genius. Jakob here will emulate and then fail, but he will remain pure. Albrecht will always be the evil genius and the absent father. Classic narrative.”

“Prosaic and mundane, if you ask me,” I said. Jakob also seemed to agree. I did not inquire after the name of Albrecht.

“Oh, Gimaldi, all stories are prosaic and mundane when you break them down to their basest elements. Look at our story: bookworm pulled along some bookish mystery filled with mysterious enticements, puzzles, terror, and an ambiguous villain figure who speaks in riddles. Betrayal, fights and flights, morose introspection, a bit of action, a murder, an accidental death due to struggle, a little bit of breaking the law here and there... Bo-ring! The motifs repeat: you failed to crack codes in your previous attempts with books, and redeem yourself in a labyrinth – of all places! All that is missing is a love interest, but that may unduly complicate the narrative and compromise your character as being somewhat asexual.”

“Asexual?”

“Oh, give it up, Gimaldi. The only proof of penis you can ever have in our little epic is if you take a piss. Aside from running into Alexa, this entire story has been a sausage factory! Feminists would be in an outrage with the implicit misogyny of our story since it seems to suggest that only men concern themselves with books, and books are symbolic representations of knowledge. We deal with secret fraternities, my employees you have met are all male. It's a classical narrative. If women were to suddenly delight our tale, would they not be just instrumental props? A conspicuous absence of women, yes, but at least we couldn't be accused of objectification.”