The Infinite Library (64 page)

I rechecked what I had read in the book and found no concrete evidence for Leo's paranoid streak. He was losing his mind – of that I was semi-sure, if the book was to be believed as an accurate depiction of what was going on in the real world. But, as I would doubtless learn, not every detail of every event had been inscribed in the book, and the omissions were most likely going to result in my peril. Had I been able to read faster, I would have been able to possibly avoid this confrontation. But if Setzer's claims were true, all was already written, and most likely in a book inaccessible to me. Well, that being the case, at least I wouldn't have to fake surprise.

30

Excerpts from
7
^th
Meditation

9

The madman and the artist share a moment

A
fter his disturbing visit from his neighbour - a socially clumsy antiquarian bookseller named Gimaldi who came with more than just some beer and light chat - Leopold took another beer from the case and smouldered. What kind of neighbour would pry so indelicately into his affairs? All Gimaldi's talk about the dream was far too accurate, and the only reasonable explanation Leopold could come up with was that Gimaldi was tailing him... but why? The answer to this question would be given double: once by Ensopht, but firstly by the red lion sketchbook that Leopold had not yet finished examining.

It was true that the sketchbook was, in Leopold's view, a work of astounding and inspiring genius. It far exceeded anything Leopold himself could have ever come up with independently. It held within its daunting black covers all that Leopold had wanted to say, but that he had lacked the expressive ability to. However, nesting within its covers, was a warning that, had he read this prior to his neighbour's visit, he would have properly heeded:

The passage was followed by a rough sketch of a man looking like Gimaldi, but with long teeth and books for eyes. The image was menacing enough in a cartoonish way, and strengthened Leopold's desire not to speak to Gimaldi ever again. Perhaps, thought Leopold, Gimaldi was trying to steal the former artist's sketchbook for his own gain, and was now being chummy in order to obtain it from the new owner.

After their last soiree where Leopold was able to showcase his newest creation at the scientist's house, Ensopht had been pleasantly surprised with the product, lauding it as a fabulous first step that catapulted the synthesis into becoming actuality.

Other strange fascinations took hold of Leopold and his creative urges. Perhaps feeling closer to the interests of Dr Aymer, Leopold incorporated more images from genetics into his art. Rather than let the sketchbook itself dictate his creative enterprise, Leopold brazenly began filling its back blank pages (which had multiplied from three to thirty by a process known only to the magic of the sketchbook itself) with his own derivations and sketch experiments. The book never left him, and he took it with him to the most uncanny of places – under bridges, in abandoned industrial parks, besotted alleys, unkempt fields, and wherever might strike his esoteric fancy as zones of dilapidation and neglect. This, he thought, was necessary, for he began thinking in revolutionary colours: the synthesis and its outcome had to emerge from the forgotten spaces and the longest shadows. Of course, Leopold had been spared the true character and purpose of the synthesis, and so his interpretation was crudely literal and a tad bit shallow. Indeed, the synthesis was to emerge from forgotten spaces and long shadows, but these spaces and shadows were the zoned places of a collective unconscious, the insatiable drives clamouring to be set free. This was known to but the few, and Leopold was merely an unwitting instrument toward the satisfaction of what would come.

Ensopht had to ensure that Leopold would not attempt to make his work too public. Any dizzy kind of publicity would have sequestered Leopold in the art world's fad-formation and would endanger the providence of the synthesis. It was for this reason that, not trusting anything to chance, Ensopht secretly persuaded the Parson Gallery to cancel Leopold's show.

Meanwhile, the madman, Dr Wally Wyman, had finally completed his anticipated book on the philosophy of immanent energy. The work itself was radically more composed than its writer, as it is so often the case that the writer and his text are two distinct entities that only meet in passing. The metaphysics book was already on its way out, soon to be in the proofing stages when strangers are introduced between author and text by an editor outside this cozy twain. Despite the soon-to-be departure of the text into the plethora of a violent academic market of the grievously unread, Wally decided to celebrate with a package of nickel-cadmium batteries.

The last third of his book was padded with more poetic description than he was usually known for. Something creative was welling up within him, and he attributed this to a long absence from his electricity habit. “When the body loses its electric vivacity, the mind compensates by adopting the electric character of the poet.” It was shabby reasoning, but Wally did not think it warranted anything more than that.

In this mood, he decided to write a small story. It began this way: “Two men are charged with writing my story, each blind to the other's intentions... “

A moment of epiphany compelled Leopold to scramble about for paper and a pen; he felt the strange compunction to scrawl the notes toward what would perhaps become a kind of short story. He could envision the entire plot, up to a certain point where it fell apart and became hazy. His determination would bring him to this hazy point in order to transcend it, to bring the plot into perfect, spherical shape. It began: “Two men are charged with writing my story, each blind to the other's intentions... “ He could not stop himself; a writing without choice, as if dictated to his mind from a currently unfolding event.

Wally rested his pen, exhausted and unsatisfied. The story he had began had not been properly wrought the way his initial enthusiasm had thought it would be. He resumed, just as halfway across the city Leopold also resumed: “In that amoebic mass of bodies turning themselves over and over, we six were each in a kind of curious transformation. In a crash mode, in a fusion, in the reformation of a genre composed of six once distinct bodies goaded toward completion by a sphinx-principle of sorts. And this sphinx, a varied composite of mixed matters, of disparate parts forced into union, was much bigger than us all. In unison, we were more than the sum of our parts. Our parts, taken individually, leave only the riddle unsolved, but together in their context forge by way of the synthesis what the actuality of the merger must betoken.

10

The Prophet and the Third Man Discuss the Mechanics of the Synthesis

The rain was still slashing the streets, the sewers gurgled, and the wind whittled the rain drops into knife points. Ensopht and the Third Man had an unavoidable meeting in the warmly lit enclosure of a coffee shop, couched behind specialty beverages, the internal ambience standing sentinel against the inclement elements on the exterior of its arbitrary shell.

“They are writing one another now,” Ensopht said.

“Really? I guess that was to be expected. I hope to be the result of their composition, that I may have all my details filled in, that I may accede beyond being this... this... fetus of a being.”

“The time draws near. Your part in all of this is steadily becoming secured.”

“My part? Must I play just a part?”

“Why, yes, who has ever heard of a mirror without its corresponding reflection? You are aware of the plan, aren't you?”

“Yes, It tickles me. But must I be so repressed in this new entity?”

“Take heart, good fellow. You will have prominence; the reflection will be freed from the mirror, and you will stand without bounds. The scientist has already given in to his darker impulses, the artist has realized his newfound lineage, the philosopher has clued in and welcomed the synthesis... So, as you can see, everything is proceeding according to script. I truly wish someone of your... stature and puissance... could be made to play an even stronger role, but we need our checks and balances. We all make our compromises in this act of fusion. Do be at ease that you will be appropriately represented.”

“Do they show concern at how nebulous I seem?”

“Yes, but that is your nature, necessarily so. For them to know exactly who you are – or, rather, what you represent – would upset them. Are you not the incarnation of cruelty, what the foolish psychoanalysts call the Id? I think you've done well to keep quiet and unprepossessing.”

“Cruelty must survive harsh winters, avoiding detection. What use is horror that never abates, never relents to allow its opposite? Horror needs stark relief in order to be effective. I go about my business quietly.”

“The synthesis will resolve all the contradictions, forming mountains without valleys.”

“And I shall sit here, counting down the seconds,” the Third Man said flatly, using his spoon to carve an ellipse into the already battered wooden table. “Would I become as much like them as they would become more like me?”

“No one will be divisible or distinguishable in the final product. All parts will be harmoniously blended. It is the creation of the consistent and seamless character. There is both design and madness in it. We who have thrown our shoulders into this task, dipped our shovels into the virgin ground, know what is at stake: the
politics of a people to come
. Our part is necessary.”

“I look out on all of this and feel the swelling desire for great change. I see it in the murderous flash in a young man's eyes, I feel their need to hate like the buzzing of radio waves. Equality, tolerance, democracy, all these polite prescriptions upon them... that they begrudgingly obey for lack of any other viable alternative. The people secretly await the despot, the great era of the tyrant who will give them the permission and encouragement to exercise what they truly wish to express. Peace has been bad for all of us, a stale-making thing. It has been too long in this bloodless state, and I feel the painful yearning of the people to return to an age of atrocities to redefine the good and the evil. Enough of the aborted apocalyptic visions that failed to materialize, and enough of the diplomatic souls that would smooth over every tension by forestalling the inevitable angry violence of the people. The people want the cruel tyrant to tell them what to do, to tell them what they feel is okay.”

“And so the synthesis will unleash that very thing, freeing them through tyranny.”

“How much longer? I am becoming anxious to get to work.”

“Not much longer now. Patience. You have waited this long and you will be rewarded.”

“What remains to be done?”

“The bookish man must fumble through a few more of his convoluted codes, sleuth after those things he cannot yet understand. The Librarian has seen to it that the bookish man will be kept occupied for a little while until he can finalize the synthesis.”

Somewhere, in the distance, a spectral machine was purring. Over the skyline was slung a dark necklace of heavy and hideous clouds that seemed to frame the cyclopean and unblinking eye of a watchful moon.

31

Cipher

A
gain, I would be the victim of enigma. A postal deliverer came to my door and had me sign for a package. When I opened the manila envelope, and the bubble wrap, there was a smaller entirely black envelope inside with chalk-white letters that read: “To: Gimaldi. From: Mr. Clysm.” No return address either on the black or outer envelope. By the heft and size of it, I could tell the contents contained a book. What I didn't know was the entry of this book would soon consume roughly 20 straight hours of wakefulness.

It was irregular but not unheard of for some prospective sellers who trusted my name to send me a sample of their wares, but these were usually sent to me with far more protective packaging.

Written in an elegant cursive script was a note to me:

Dear Mr. Gimaldi -