I reached the library at three minutes after eight. Looking through the glass door, I read the time on the large clock hanging from the ceiling in the foyer. The lights were still on, but if the door was locked not even my close relationship with the librarians would be of any help. I grabbed the cold doorknob apprehensively and pushed. I couldn’t help but sigh with relief when the door opened. I entered quickly, turned to shake off the snow coating my umbrella, and then closed the door behind me.
I spent a few moments in the foyer cleaning the snow from my hair and stamping my feet on the doormat to remove bits of slush. I also took out a handkerchief and wiped off the water streaming down my glasses. I put my umbrella in the brass stand next to the door, then rushed up the narrow staircase to the main library area.
It was quite warm in the building, causing my cold glasses to fog up as I climbed the stairs. When I entered the large room illuminated by fluorescent lights, I had to take them off again and wipe them. Even though I am extremely near-sighted, I could move forward as I wiped my glasses since there were no obstacles on the wide, dark-red carpet before me. The tables and chairs were to the left, next to the tall windows. Holding my glasses and handkerchief, I advanced with long strides towards the counter at the opposite side of the room. To the right rose shelves full of catalogues and various reference books which, owing to my blurred vision, looked like dark, overhanging masses.
I put on my glasses the moment I reached the counter. I had already thought of an apologetic excuse I could make for being late, one that, accompanied by a suitable smile, would put the librarian in a good mood. Unless ill-tempered by nature, people are usually obliging in such circumstances, even when they consider the request excessive—probably so they can take pride in their kindness afterwards. However, I had no one to give my excuses to. There was no one sitting behind the counter. Had my glasses been in place, I would have noticed this earlier.
I turned around in bewilderment. Perhaps, preoccupied with wiping my glasses, I had passed by the librarian without noticing him. But there was no one behind me; the long room was yawningly empty. There was actually little chance that we had passed each other. I might have missed him but he wouldn’t have missed me, and the librarian would have been certain to address me. Hesitant, I turned towards the counter once again. Then I realized what had probably happened. Since no one was expected, the personnel had retired to some back room in anticipation of going home.
I coughed loudly, but no one appeared at the half-open side door that was the main entrance to the area behind the counter. The light was on in the room behind the door, but no sound came from that direction. “Good evening,” I said, and waited a bit, then repeated it in a louder voice. Still no response. Silence reigned in the library.
As I stood there, not knowing what to do, the lights suddenly went out. All at once I was surrounded by darkness. The windows that had been dim rectangles a moment before were now the only source of light. Through them came the orange glow of the streetlights, muted by a coating of snow. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I looked around, trying to figure out what might have happened and having no easy time of it.
Then, from somewhere downstairs I heard a sharp metal sound, like a key turning in a lock. That same moment, I realized what was going on. The personnel did not have to go through the main room to reach the ground floor. As I had waited in front of the counter, they had reached the stairs some other way, or had taken the elevator. On their way out, they had turned off the building’s power from the central switch. That was a reasonable precaution for an institution such as a library.
“Wait!” I shouted, running across the room. In the darkness the carpet became a straight, black strip, allowing me to move quickly even without light. But when I reached the stairs I had to slow down. It was considerably darker in the windowless foyer. The only bit of light came from the glass door at the entrance. I groped for the handrail on the right, grabbed hold of it and started downward, even though I was already too late. There was no one by the door.
Turning the doorknob and pushing brought anger this time, not relief. I was most angry at the librarians. How could they just lock up and leave, without checking whether anyone was still inside? True, I had entered after working hours, but even so. What if a thief had entered instead of me? The library security system clearly left much to be desired. But I was also to blame, quite honestly. I have never had a high opinion of people who leave everything to the last minute, and that is exactly what I had done in my haste. All because of a movie that I could have seen another time. In fact, nothing would have been lost if I’d never seen it at all.
Well, agonizing over it now wouldn’t help. I had to devise a way to get out of the building. The thought of staying locked in the library until Monday morning made me shudder. That would not do at all, even though I certainly would not be bored surrounded by so many books. The heating might have been turned off with the power. The building might become colder and colder with each passing hour; they might find me frozen in two and a half days, in spite of my warm coat. There were other problems, too. I would not die of thirst—the restroom was probably in working order—but how could I survive sixty hours without food? And where would I sleep? I couldn’t just sit and read the whole time. I shook my head, still holding onto the doorknob, as though expecting the door to budge. There had to be a solution.
What would I do if I really were a thief? A thief would not wait until Monday to be let out. What would someone like that do in my place? I thought about it for a moment, but everything that crossed my mind was either too violent, too dangerous, too hard to carry out, or required tools that I did not have at my disposal. All in all, it seemed I could not depend on any latent aptitude for thievery.
Then it dawned on me—a simple solution, but one a thief would never think of even in his dreams. All I had to do was return to the counter and use the phone there. Telephones work when the power is off. I would simply call the police and explain my predicament. They might think it was a crank call, but even if they didn’t believe me right away, I would keep on calling until they checked on me. After that it would all be plain sailing. They would probably take me to the police station to make a statement. Even a run-in with the police was more acceptable than languishing in the library for two and a half days.
Stepping with care through the pitch black that engulfed me when I turned my back to the entrance, I mounted the stairs, my hand upon the rail. Even though I could see nothing, climbing was not difficult, particularly since I no longer had to hurry and everything would be better as soon as I reached the room. And it truly was better, but not just because of the meagre light that poured in through the windows. Although weak and dimmed by the green plastic shade, the desk lamp at the counter seemed strong as a floodlight to me.
I stopped at the entrance to the main room and stared straight ahead. How could that lamp work if the power had been turned off in the whole building? Maybe I had jumped to the wrong conclusion. On their way out, the librarians had probably just turned off the ceiling lights. There could be no other explanation. But even so, someone had to turn on the lamp. When I’d left the room, it had not been on, and no one in the library but me could have turned it off. Or was I wrong about this as well?
As if in answer to my question, the door leading to the back room opened wide and someone entered the area behind the counter. I was rather far away, but I managed to make out a tall, thin, middle-aged man in a dark suit. He headed for the librarian’s chair and sat down in it, turning his attention to something in front of him. He did not raise his head towards me. Even if he had looked in my direction, he would have had trouble seeing me since I blended into the darkness around me.
I remained hidden, trying to figure out the man’s function. It did not take long: he was the night guard, of course. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? I sighed with relief. My troubles were at an end. I wouldn’t have to call the police. I would tell the man what had happened; he
would have no reason not to believe me. Anyway, he could easily check the library’s records and see that I had been a member in good standing for many years.
Even so, I had to adjust my approach to the circumstances. The night guard certainly did not expect someone to jump out of the darkness at him. Who knew how he would react? He might even aim his gun at me, and that was all I needed. I coughed and walked towards him slowly. After several steps I said in a mild, well-intentioned voice, “Good evening.”
I had assumed he would stand up, perhaps even jump up from his chair. I would stop in that case and let him walk towards me, giving him a chance to collect his wits. Any sudden movement, even just walking toward him, would be inadvisable, since it could be interpreted as a threat. But, contrary to my expectations, the guard just raised his eyes towards me and returned my greeting, not the least bit surprised, as though my sudden appearance was quite natural: “Good evening. May I help you?”
I walked up to the counter. The man had a nicely trimmed, thick black moustache, but his hair was already turning gray. The suit he wore seemed of high quality. The handkerchief peeping out from his breast pocket was the same shade as his tie. I am unfamiliar with the dress code for library night guards, but I certainly hadn’t expected this! The manager of the library might as well have stood in front of me, wearing his best suit.
“You see,” I began, “I’m a little late . . . ”
“You’re not late at all,” said the man behind the counter, interrupting me. “We work at night. This is a night library.”
I stared at him in bewilderment. “Night library? I didn’t even know they existed.”
“Yes, they do. And have for a very long time. Although very little is known about us. Were you interested in a book?”
“Yes, if possible. I really enjoy reading on the weekend. I was already afraid I would finish up empty handed this time. It’s really nice that books are available at night, too.”
“Of course they are. Although the selection is different than during the day. We only have books of life.”
I thought I had misunderstood. “Excuse me?”
“Books of life. You haven’t heard of them?”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid not.”
“Too bad. I certainly recommend them. Quite interesting reading. Contrary to widespread belief, real lives are often considerably more exciting than those that are invented.”
“Which real lives?”
“Everyone’s.”
“What do you mean—everyone’s?”
“Literally. The lives of all the people who ever existed.”
I silently studied the man on the other side of the counter for several moments. “There must be a lot of them.”
“Yes, there are. One hundred nine billion, four hundred eighty-three million, two hundred fifty-six thousand, seven hundred and ten. As of the moment you entered the library.”
I did not reply at once. I hoped that he interpreted my silence as an expression of amazement at the information he had just given me. What was going on here? Who was this man? He wasn’t the night guard—that was quite certain. I also doubted his claim to be the night librarian. Whoever he was, I had to be careful. I was locked in a dark, deserted library with him. I had to avoid any conflicts, not deny anything, not contradict him, not enter into unnecessary discussion. Just wait for a chance to get out of there with the least difficulty. Suddenly, I wasn’t interested in books anymore.
“You don’t say!” I said finally, trying to appear properly amazed.
“Yes, but don’t let this enormous number give you the wrong impression. Even though there are so many lives, each one of them is unique and unrepeatable. Precious. That is why they deserve to be recorded. Thus the books of life.”
“So, more than one hundred billion of them. That is truly a gigantic library!” I figured a little flattery wouldn’t hurt.
“Yes.” A proud smile appeared on the stranger’s face. “And constantly growing. A daily update is made of books on the people who are living now. And there are more than six billion of them! With new additions arriving all the time. Mankind is multiplying unchecked.”
I nodded in admiration. “If I understand you correctly, the books of life are some kind of diary.”
“You might call them that. But they are very objective diaries. That is their main attraction. Nothing is left out, nothing is hidden, nothing is shown in a different way. They are perfectly true. Which is only fitting. Like documentary films. You’ll see for yourself when you read one of the books of life. Which one would you like?”
I thought it over. “I wouldn’t know. It’s not easy to decide when there are so many to choose from. Which would you recommend?”
“Almost everyone chooses the book about himself first. Which is a little strange since they have already read that book, in a way. But many still find it full of surprises and revelations. People are mostly inclined to forget things or suppress them.”
“Do you mean to say there is a book about me, too?” My surprise was not exactly feigned.
“Of course. Why should you be an exception?”
I hesitated briefly. “All right. I’ll take the book about myself.”
“Fine,” replied the man in the dark suit. “Wait here, please. I’ll bring it to you at once.”
He got up and headed for the back room, leaving the door ajar behind him. I stood in the small circle of light around the counter. I started to feel warm. I still had no idea what was going on, but asking for the book would let me end the whole thing calmly. I would take the book he offered, thank him, and leave. Everything would be much simpler once I left the library.
What the man brought me several minutes later was not exactly a book. It resembled a large binder. A thick sheaf of pages stuck out from between brown cardboard covers. Noticing my puzzled look, he hurried to explain. “This is the only way to add new pages during the update. The book will only be bound when there is nothing more to add.” He smiled at me again. “Luckily, in your case that time has not yet arrived.”
I returned the smile and took the binder. It was quite heavy. My name and date of birth had been printed in large, blue letters on the cover. The place for the other date was blank. I put the binder under my arm, reached into my jacket pocket, and took out my library card. “Is this valid for the night library, too,” I said, handing it to him, “or does it require separate membership?”
“No need. We do not stick to formalities here. You are already a member by virtue of the fact that our stacks contain a book about you. In any case, we don’t lend books, so there is no need to keep records.”
“You don’t lend them?” I asked, confused. “Does that mean I can’t take this with me?”
“Unfortunately, that’s impossible. It’s the only copy we have. Something might happen to it outside the library, and that would be an irreparable loss. All traces of you would be lost, everything kept inside. It would be as though you’d never lived. We cannot take such a risk. But you can read it here at your leisure.” He pointed to the tables on the right. “Make yourself comfortable and turn on the lamp. You can have as much time as you need.”
I shouldn’t have accepted it. I should have thanked him for the offer, told him it was late, I was tired, promised to return another time, and left at once. But I didn’t. Vain curiosity won out. It isn’t every day you get to read a book in which you are the main character. I wouldn’t keep it for long, just leaf through it, I told myself. I sat down at the nearest table, pushed the button on the table lamp and placed the binder in front of me. The stranger at the counter bowed his head, engrossed in his own work.
If I hadn’t been in a hurry, I would have started at the beginning, although I wouldn’t have been able to testify to the accuracy of the account. Who still remembers their earliest days? I turned the binder face down and opened it from the back. I wanted to see how up-to-date it was. This all seemed like a lot of fun, of course, but a flicker of apprehension rose
somewhere in the back of my mind. I felt like someone who doesn’t believe in fortune telling, standing before a clairvoyant who is about to tell him his future.
The last page had been filled with tiny writing. A heading with today’s date straddled the middle of the page. I started reading from that spot. Somewhere towards the bottom I reached into my coat pocket and took out my movie ticket. I compared the row and seat numbers with the ones cited in the book of life. A lump formed in my throat. The last sentence brought vividly to memory the clock in the library foyer whose hands showed three minutes after eight.
I glanced at the man sitting in the librarian’s chair, his position unchanged, and then looked around uncomfortably. I suddenly got the impression of invisible eyes piercing the darkness, staring at me from all sides. This sensation made it hard to concentrate on my reading. But I had to continue despite an overpowering feeling that I would certainly not like what was to come next.
I began to turn the pages impatiently, leaving the end of the binder, heading towards the past. I searched for special dates in my life, dates when something had happened that no one else would know about except me. Or should know. Or had a right to know. And yet they still knew. Everything was written down there before me, all the dry facts, like a court indictment. Every secret that I had hidden not only from others, but often from myself. I felt hopelessly naked, like a hardened criminal whose crimes have suddenly been disclosed to the public.
I closed the binder. Beads of sweat streamed down my forehead, and not just because I was wearing a coat. I sat there a while longer, unmoving, my eyes blank. Then I turned off the lamp and went slowly up to the counter. I put my alleged book of life upon it. The stranger smiled at me again, but I remained serious and dejected.
Impossible Stories Page 27
