by Mike Ashley
The boy turned them over, nodding his approval.
Francesca gave another shriek. Really, Margherita decided, she would have to talk with her friend about that. It was humiliating to be with someone who reacted to each little surprise as if a winged angel had suddenly appeared in the sky, surrounded by a nimbus of flame.
“What was that?” Francesca gasped.
Margherita turned in time to see a dark form disappear behind a curtain covering a doorway in the back of the store. “It is just – it was—”
“It was—” Francesca waved her hands at the level of her face.
The boy behind the counter leaned across the wood, craning his neck. “That’s just Nero.”
“Who?”
“Nero. The store dog. Signore Mallpiero’s dog. That’s all. He lives in the store.”
“No.” Francesca shook her head. “That was no dog. It had skin like a lizard.”
“No.” Margherita shook her head. “It had feathers. It was shaped like a dog but it was covered with feathers. Maybe it was a – what do you call it – a gryphon.”
“No such thing as a gryphon,” Francesca said. “I’ve heard of gryphons, read about them and seen pictures. They are imaginary beasts.”
“Oh, really.” Margherita was annoyed. “I suppose it was a big India-bird, then.”
“Not with skin like that.”
“Feathers.”
The boy with the too-short shirtsleeves came out from behind the counter. He stood facing the curtained doorway. “Come on, Nero. Nero, come to Peppino.”
The curtain shook, then a nose appeared, or was it a beak, followed by a four-legged creature. It was a gryphon, Margherita thought, with clawed feet and feathers like a bird. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again. It was an ordinary dog with short dark fur and a squarish face that it shoved into the skinny boy’s hand.
Margherita turned to Francesca.
Francesca had dropped one hand and held the other to her mouth. “I thought it was a lizard,” she said, “but I see, it’s only a dog.” She squatted on the creaking wooden floorboards and put her arms around Nero’s neck.
The skinny boy reached behind the counter and brought out two bits of biscuit. He handed one to each girl. “Give him a treat and he’ll be your friend.”
Each girl, in turn, fed her bit of biscuit to the creature. Nero wagged his tail gratefully.
“Your name is Peppino,” Margherita addressed the boy.
“At your service.” Peppino made a silly bow. “Peppino Campanini. Apprentice bookseller and student of manuscripts and wonders.”
Margherita and Francesca introduced themselves.
“So, you wish only these treasures from our bargain bin.” The boy heaved an exaggerated sigh. “My master will be displeased with me if I cannot sell you something better than these.” He lifted the three books and his eyebrow and said, “But I admit that they are a good choice. Oh, you found the Minisculo-Minisculo. Is that what brought you in? Signore Malipiero always salts the bargain trough with a few little treasures. I think you two ladies have cleaned us out today. Minisculo, Tunes and Rhymes, Tre Viaggi – everything else outside is trash. Surely you will not insist on buying these three treasures for a single coin.”
“That’s what your sign says.”
“Of course, of course, but we do not count on a customer so sharp-eyed as you and your companion are.”
“What else do you have?”
Peppino Campanini put the heels of his hands to his eyes as if to keep himself from crying. Then he dropped his hands. “You are too smart. I cannot deal with you.”
He leaned over the counter again, impossibly far. Margherita half expected him to lose his balance and fall to the floor at the feet of herself and her friend, but he managed to hang on. “Signore Malipiero! Signore Malipiero! Customers to wait on, please.”
Nero had sat on his haunches throughout the exchange. Now he stood up and trotted to the curtained doorway. He reappeared tugging by the cuff an old man, red faced and grey haired, wearing round spectacles, very dirty, making Margherita wonder how he saw through them and why he bothered to use them. He wore a pale shirt patterned with large black dots and trousers of a colour so long-ago faded that it was impossible to identify. Nero had his teeth in one shirt cuff, in the other hand he held a tattered, oversized book. Slips of paper curled from between its pages and the old man had crooked his forefinger to save his place and his middle finger to save another.
He blinked at the skinny boy. “Peppino, why do I pay you? Why do you call me whenever there is a customer?”
Without waiting for his helper to respond, the old man turned toward Margherita and Francesca. He bowed deeply. He had a round stomach and he made a sound something like “Oof!” as he stood back up. “You wish a powder, a potion, something to help you to learn without studying, something to make your boyfriends chase you, something—”
He stopped and studied them. “My apologies. Two beauties such as you need no help to make your boyfriends chase you. You have boyfriends? You want something else? Talent? No, I can see that you both have great talent. What do you want?”
Francesca said, “My friend wants a birthday gift for her father.”
The old man nodded. “Ahh.”
Margherita said, “He loves books.”
“Ahh,” the old man said again. “Well, you have come to the right place. My name is Ettore Malipiero and this is my establishment. As you can see, I have books.”
He made a sweeping gesture that included all of the store and seemed also to include Nero, Peppino, the mysterious realm behind the curtained doorway, the street outside and very likely all of Villaggio Sogno.
“And what are your names, young signorine? And what does your father wish to receive for his gift? You must ask yourself. What will make my beloved father happy on this day?”
“He loves old books,” Francesca said.
“Very old books,” Margherita said. “And other old things, but best of all, old books.”
“Good, good,” the old man said. “The old books are the best books.”
Nero snuffled at Margherita’s hand. He was looking for another biscuit but she had no more. She bent to apologize to the dog, and as she did so she could detect Signore Malipiero from the corner of her eye. There was something strange about him, something that did not agree with his cheerful and friendly manner. She straightened but he was just an old man, smiling at two girls and his dog. And from the corner of her eye, Margherita caught another glimpse of Nero, and he was not a friendly dog but something else once again, something that he ceased to be when she looked more closely at him.
“How much money do you have?” the old man asked.
Margherita and Francesca conferred. They had started the day with their savings but they had paid Signore Arruzza for the ride into Villaggio Sogno and had tipped him to make sure that he would return for them at the end of the day. And their meal at Honshu Kekko Ryori had cost them a pretty penny and then some. And they even bought a news sheet from Guglielmo Pipistrello just to get him to pay attention to them long enough to get directions to the bookstore.
To Ettore Malipiero, Francesca said, “Not very much.”
“Not very much, eh? Then why did you come to my store? Don’t you know this is the finest establishment in Villaggio Sogno for the purchase of rarities of this type? Perhaps your father, Signorina, would like a powder instead. How old is he? Do you think his powers are waning? Something to restore the strength and energy of a man of some years. I can make you a very good price, and your father will be grateful. As will your mother, I assure you.”
“No, a book.”
“Ah, well.” Signore Malipiero scratched his head. Margherita was almost certain that she saw sparks fly from his hair when he scratched, and the sound that accompanied them was unlike anything she had ever heard before.
“Perhaps,” he said, “a new book would please your father. There are many talented authors
even today, Signorina. Does your father read Cesare Zampieri? Very fine, his writings inspire the reader to deeds of courage and nobility. I even knew a man who had been unhappily married for many years but did nothing save put up with a nagging wife and a demanding daughter, pardon my candour, Signorine, I am an old man, you must forgive me, until he read a copy of Zampieri’s fine book, and then he set his mind to awaken him one night after the entire household was soundly sleeping and—”
He stopped and smiled as if ashamed of himself. “I am so sorry. This matter is too delicate for the ears of two such young ladies as yourselves. No, I would not recommend Zampieri. Perhaps a better choice would be the meditations of Oreste Ronga. Yes, I think Ronga might be the perfect gift for the father of a lovely young lady like yourself.” He turned to Francesca. “I think your friend’s father would enjoy Ronga. Do you know Oreste Ronga? A very talented writer. No? You do not know Ronga? There is a store not far from here that sells new books. I send customers there every day. Libri e Libretti. Just step outside my shop and turn – what is it, Signorine?”
They were both frowning.
“An old book!” Margherita said.
“An old book!” Francesca echoed.
The old man sighed. “If you insist. Well, come with me, I will see if I can find something, perhaps a codex whose binding is lost, water-stained, foxed, tilted, missing a signature. I’ll try and find you something.”
Something scratched Margherita’s hand and she looked down and caught a glimpse of a clawed foot moving away. But it was only Nero. “I think he wants another biscuit,” she told Peppino.
“It’s almost his dinner time,” the boy said. “I don’t know if it’s such a good idea.”
Nero stood on his hind legs. He was tall enough to reach the counter and he scratched its surface, leaving a row of parallel tracks. For a common dog he had very long, very sharp claws, more like those of a hunting bird than a house pet.
Signore Malipiero said something softly to his assistant and the boy grew pale. He reached under the counter for a biscuit and tossed it to Nero.
“Come.” Ettore Malipiero stood in the curtained doorway to the second room.
“Come with me, young ladies, and we will see what we can find to make a suitable gift for your father’s birthday gift. You are sisters?”
Francesca said, “No, we’re neighbours and friends.”
“Ah, good.” The man led them into a second room. Like the first, it held many, many bookshelves. It was a very odd room, with five walls instead of the customary four. Two of the walls were filled with books from floor to ceiling; two, from ceiling to floor; and one, starting at the level of Margherita’s blue eyes, was filled in both directions, to the ceiling and to the floor.
There were a number of cabinets in the room, each with many small drawers. The cabinets were of wood. The drawer-pulls, by their appearance, were of rare ivory. If this were the case, the ivory would have been imported from distant Abyssinia.
The centre of the room was clear, save for two wooden chairs.
Oil lamps and candelabra stood on the cabinets. When they entered the room only a single lamp was burning, casting dark shadows in the room. The flickering flame of the lamp made the dark room seem double dark, but Signore Malipiero lit a straw from the burning lamp and used it to light more lamps and candles.
“Sit yourselves down,” Signore Malipiero told the girls. “I will bring you some books. Oh, I have been in this business for a very long time, young signorine. I have been buying and selling books and other things for more years that you can imagine. I do know my stock. Oh, yes.”
He went to one wall and stood studying the bookcases, one hand to his chin, which had clearly not seen the glint of his razor for some days, the other upraised tentatively as if he were about to reach for this book – no, this one – no, this. At last he gave a satisfied sigh and pulled a volume from the shelf. He did not carry it to the two girls, but instead walked to a wooden cabinet and laid the book on its back so that the light of a candelabrum flickered across its reddish cover.
Margherita noticed that the flames of the candles and the lamps were wavering as if in a breeze, and in fact she did feel a chilly flow of air passing over her face and her shoulders. She looked at Francesca and saw a wisp of her friend’s hair flutter in the current of air.
Signore Malipiero crossed the room and knelt to reach the bottom row of books. He pulled a volume in a brown cover from the shelf, studied it for a time, then slipped it back into its place. “No, no,” the girls heard him mutter, “that one will never do. Not for one’s father, not for one’s father’s birthday.” He pulled another volume from the shelf, one with a yellow cover that bore the signs of great age. “Ah, this one, this one will please such a man as could be the parent of such a daughter.”
He laid the yellow book on the cabinet beside the red one.
Once more he crossed the room. At the wall where he now stood, a ladder rose. Margherita’s gaze had followed the old man since they entered the room. Now she watched him climbing the ladder. It appeared to be old, everything in the store appeared to be old except for the helper, Peppino Campanini.
Margherita watched the old man climb the old ladder until it disappeared into darkness. How tall was this room? Margherita wondered. How high did the bookshelves rise? How high would Signore Malipiero climb?
Sounds of scuffling and of grunting came from high above. The ladder shook. Margherita feared that it would fall, that Signore Malipiero would tumble from the heights and break his neck when he landed. What would happen then?
But eventually the old man’s feet reappeared covered in scuffed and worn boots, then his legs, then his torso, then the back of his head. When he reached the floor he turned to face Margherita and Francesca. He was covered in dust or soot, it was not possible to tell which. He held clutched in his arms a huge volume, its binding hiding his entire torso. In fact, it reached from his knees to his shoulders.
Signore Malipiero staggered beneath its weight, struggling to cross the room and lay the huge, black-covered volume on the cabinet.
He bent and opened a drawer in the cabinet, removing from it an old pair of bellows. He closed the drawer once again, then walked to the far side of the cabinet where he directed the bellows at the three books he had pulled from the shelves. He pumped the bellows once, twice, thrice; at the red book, the yellow book, the black book.
A cloud of dust arose from each of the books and was carried on an air current to the centre of the room. Margherita was startled and gasped in surprise, not a wise thing to do, for she found that she had inhaled the dust. She heard Francesca gasp as well, and realized that her friend had also inhaled the dust. It had formed a cloud, the three colours blending and whirling about one another, and in the cloud Margherita saw another place, a terrible place.
It was a room larger than any she had seen in her life, a room the ends of which she could not see. The floor was of stone, the stone covered with a deep layer of grey dust. Pillars as large around as the largest tree rose from the floor only to disappear in darkness above. Row upon row the pillars stretched in all directions, so that Margherita turned about, unsure whether she was in the bookstore or in this other place, trying to get her bearings. Instead she felt her head beginning to whirl. Everything about her was grey, fading in the distance to blackness. The air was cold and had a stale odour in her nostrils and a foul, choking flavour in her mouth.
She turned her face and peered upward. She could not see the tops of the pillars, nor the roof above her. There was only blackness. Something cold and very light landed on her face; she brushed it away and found a tiny smudge on her fingertip, as if she had brushed away a small snowflake made of floating dust rather than frozen water.
Rows of blocks stood between the pillars, each as tall as her waist, as long as a wagon and as wide as a bed. Something lay atop each block, covered with what appeared to be a soft cloth.
Everything was grey.
&nb
sp; Ettore Malipiero was there, but he was not the kindly, gruff-mannered man of the bookshop. He was something different, something frightening and evil. He was the creature she had seen from the corner of her eye. Nero was at his side, but it was not Nero the friendly hound but Nero the terrible animal she had glimpsed so briefly.
She tried to reach for her friend Francesca’s hand but a cold lethargy had stolen away her power of movement.
The creature who was Ettore Malipiero loomed over Margherita and Francesca, the three books balanced in his arms. Even Signore Malipiero was seen through a film of grey, but the books retained a suggestion of their colours. He dropped the red volume on Francesca’s lap and the yellow volume on Margherita’s. He still held the black book himself, but instead of a feeble old man who could hardly manage to balance the huge volume in his arms, he had become a giant. He was bigger than Margherita’s brother Ottavio, bigger than Margherita’s father. His skin was not that of an old man, but he was manlike enough to hold the book open before him as easily as a child holds her first reader.
His face was not that of a man. It was more like that of a lizard, and when he opened his mouth to reveal rows of gleaming teeth his tongue flicked out, a tongue forked like that of a snake, and his voice was half the voice of a man and half the hiss of a snake. He turned away and opened cabinet drawers, and Margherita wondered briefly how cabinets had appeared among the great columns, but her attention was drawn back by the sight of this changed Malipiero hooking ivory pulls with curving, razor-like claws. He scooped powder from the drawer and half-spoke, half-hissed words while he dropped powder into the burning candles of the candelabrum. As he did so coloured columns mushroomed up from the candles, yellow and red and black in this new grey world.
He took a shallow bowl and filled it with powder and stood over Margherita and Francesca and blew the powder at the girls. His breath was cold and stank of rancid oil.
Margherita tried not to breathe the powder that the creature that was Signore Malipiero blew at her, but it swirled around her head while she held her breath until finally she could hold her breath no longer and had to inhale the powder. She felt herself lifted. She could not tell if she was floating into the cold, stale air or if Signore Malipiero was lifting her in his scaly arms. She felt a pressure inside her head as if her brain was going to explode. She shut her eyes and tried to think only of Mother, Father, Ottavio, Francesca.
