Nonetheless, about half a minute later the message on the screen told me that a work under that title did not exist in the catalogue of the National Library. I sighed deeply and drew my left hand through my hair. This was becoming awkward. Perhaps I had been wrong about the old man after all. I thought back to parts of our brief conversation that I’d skipped over lightly, although they should have aroused my suspicions.
Still, it was hard for me to believe that the blind man with the ice cream cart had been dishonest. My intuition, which rarely erred, protected him. Without taking my eyes off the screen where the message about the unsuccessful search quivered dully, I tried to find some way around the seemingly inexorable conclusion that something illegal was going on. The only extenuating circumstance I could think of was that the book had been a present and had not been sold, which excluded any self-interest. This, however, could not be used as an excuse for the fact that the title did not exist in the National Library catalogue.
Then, like a drowning man grasping at straws, I thought of something highly unlikely. Perhaps I had remembered the title incorrectly. I was certain I hadn’t, for I’d just closed the book and the word had been simple and short, but sometimes such commonplace oversights can occur. Maybe only one letter had been different. After all, computers are very literal machines. I picked up the brown book from the desk in front of me and opened it again.
What I saw on the third page simply could not have been true. A lump formed in my throat. The difference was much more than one letter. A completely different title, consisting not of one word but three, greeted me. The book started to tremble and I stared at it in disbelief for several long moments, until I finally realized my hands were shaking. I had to place them in my lap to calm them. I squinted at the new writing, doing my utmost to find some explanation for this impossibility, but I couldn’t think of anything. A book cannot change its title by itself. Everyone knows that. But it had just happened. What kind of trick present had the old man slipped me? And why?
I could not find the answer to this question just sitting there helplessly, staring at the third page. I had to do something. But what? Take a closer look at the book, perhaps? The first time I had just flipped through it. If there was some trick involved, that would be the best way to find out. But the chestnut-colored volume lay motionless in my suddenly sweaty hands a little while. It required considerable willpower to raise it again.
I turned another page—and stared wide-eyed at the beginning of the text on the fifth page. It was a novel, as I had expected, but no longer the one from a moment before. This time the chapter was denoted by a title rather than a number. And the letters were a different size: smaller, with less space between the lines. I was holding a completely new book.
This was too much. I reacted as though someone had tossed me a burning object: I threw it away from me and jumped off my desk chair. The book fell on the keyboard and pressed some keys. The National Library site suddenly disappeared from the screen and the speakers emitted a high, broken squeak.
If not for the noise I wouldn’t have dared touch the book again. But I couldn’t stand the sound; it grated against my overwrought nerves. Carefully, as though picking up something that might bite me, I took the book off the keyboard. The squeaking stopped at once, but the screen still had no picture.
I stood in the middle of my study beside the chair, now at some distance from the desk, and held the book out in front of me. I had the feeling something was about to happen, but I couldn’t guess what, so I didn’t know how to prepare myself. Several slow, tense minutes passed. When nothing happened, I realized it was foolish to stand there, waiting. I had to act.
Having returned somewhat to my senses, I concluded I had only two choices. I could put the book back in the dirty bag, add the three others, and throw them all away at once, not in the kitchen garbage can, but in a dumpster outside, as far away as possible, maybe even in the river, in spite of the rain that still poured down. I would thus be free of the cause of my troubles.
Or, I could open the book again. That didn’t appeal to me at all. I shrank from what I might find there. Once I had been through an earthquake. The most unpleasant part of that experience had been losing the solid ground under my feet, something I had always counted on to be there. Here I risked shaking an even more important foothold: reality.
But it was too late. Reality had already been shaken to its foundations. I could remove the book physically, but not from my memory. I could not continue to live a tranquil life, pretending nothing had happened. That would be like burying my head in the sand. Sooner or later, I would start to buckle under the weight of unanswered questions. So I actually had no choice.
I opened the canvas cover slowly, as though something might jump out of the book. Somehow I already knew what I would see on the third page, but I still started a little when I saw the new title. This time it consisted of two words. I didn’t have to leaf through the book to be convinced it was a new novel.
But I did so anyway in order to check something else that had occurred to me. Turning several pages at a time, I soon reached the end. The typeface was now large, double spaced, and the chapters had both a number and a title. I went back to the beginning in the same way. There was no change. It seemed that the change only happened when I closed the book. The work stayed the same as long as the book was kept open.
I closed the book, then opened it again. That was it! By some magic, I had a new novel. I repeated this simple operation and smiled with pleasure at the same outcome. I had not come a single step closer to solving the problem, but at least I knew what was in store for me, so the tension eased a bit. It’s amazing how much easier it is to accept the impossible once you are no longer afraid of it.
To show myself I no longer feared the chestnut-colored book, I started to open and close it quickly. I watched in fascination as the titles on the third page changed each time. I was filled with something like the ingenuous excitement that overcomes a child who has been given an amusing toy that produces unusual effects. I thought for a moment that the title of the edition was quite fitting after all. This was truly the smallest library, but by number of volumes, not titles. Indeed, what can be smaller than one single volume?
Then, after I had opened and closed the book a dozen times, I suddenly froze in mid-motion. The question that dawned on me suddenly turned my delight into something close to horror. What happened to the work after I closed the book? My discoveries so far indicated that it disappeared without a trace. Each title appeared only once. That meant that I had just lost more than ten books irretrievably with my thoughtlessness!
I couldn’t let this happen again. I held the book open firmly with both hands, so it wouldn’t close by accident. I started to think feverishly what to do. How could I save something as short-lived as a work that only existed so long as the book was open? Nothing came to mind. I have never been good at coping under pressure. That’s why I can never write to deadlines. Then, when I was ready to sink into despair, something so obvious occurred to me that I would surely have slapped myself on the forehead if my hands had been free. Photocopying, of course!
There was no need to hurry. I could wait for the rain to stop. Spring showers don’t last long, and the work now between the covers was safe as long as I kept the book open. However, my patience ran out. I held the book in one hand, fully open though that wasn’t necessary, and rushed to the vestibule. I grabbed my coat and umbrella and quickly went out into the hall. Since my hands were full, I had a bit of trouble putting on my coat. Once I got outside, I had to lower the umbrella all the way to my head, the brown volume under my chin, in order to protect it from the heavy downpour.
I splashed along the wet pavement quickly, taking no notice of the fact that my shoes were full of water after only a few steps and my pant legs were soaked almost to the knee. Luckily, the small stationery store that had a photocopier was not far. When I entered the store, shaking my umbrella after me, the owner looked at
me in amazement. The woman clearly had not expected any customers in such a cloudburst. She must have wondered what urgent matter had forced me to come in just then, but she didn’t say anything.
I said that I needed to photocopy something and waved the open book. I didn’t give any explanation, although it would have been proper to do so. What, in any case, could I have said? She kindly offered to do it herself, but I declined the offer. I did so unnecessarily roughly because I was terrified at the possibility of someone else getting hold of the volume. The woman shrugged her shoulders and indicated the machine in the corner, then went back to her reading behind the counter.
I placed the book on the glass, lowered the heavy plastic cover and pressed the green button. The bright light went back and forth and a moment later a copy of the third page emerged from the side opening. At least that’s what I hoped would happen. But there was nothing there. I turned the paper over, thinking the print was on the other side. Both sides were blank. I raised the lid and turned over the book. The title was still there, but it was invisible to the machine.
Noticing that I was turning over the book and the piece of paper, the storekeeper asked me if anything was wrong. Did I need help? I quickly replied no, everything was fine. In order to allay her doubts, I continued with the photocopying. I turned new pages, pressed the button on top, and completely empty pages continued to come out of the machine. From where the woman was standing, she couldn’t see them, and she soon lowered her eyes to the newspaper in front of her, convinced that her strange customer had found his way.
The senseless photocopying was not so useless after all. It gave me a chance to steady my nerves after this new surprise. So I couldn’t photocopy the book. I assumed that the same thing would happen if I photographed or scanned it. I shouldn’t waste time on that. What was I going to do about the potentially short life of the individual works? I could not keep the book open all the time to save one book, because then all the others would become inaccessible. And if I wanted access to another work, this one would disappear forever. I couldn’t see a way out of this conundrum.
Then a dark thought formed in my head, sending a shiver through me. Maybe that was the whole point. Maybe the whole thing was devised intentionally to be a Catch-22 situation. A very spiteful and malicious person stood behind The Smallest Library. Someone brazenly pretending to be a blind, benevolent old man with an ice cream cart, who generously handed out books. If I wanted to escape this trap, I would have to face him again.
I picked up the fifty-some empty pages, folded them lengthwise and put them under my arm. I hesitated briefly after raising the plastic lid, then quickly closed the book and put it in the large pocket of my raincoat. One title more or less—what was the difference? Approaching the counter, I put down a bill that was more than enough to cover what I owed her. I left without a word, feeling her inquisitive eyes on my back.
It was still raining, but now only small drops came sprinkling down. I opened my umbrella and headed briskly towards the Great Bridge, taking a shortcut. In an alley, I threw the bundle of blank papers into the first container without stopping. As I loped forward, the clouds first became lighter, then thinned out and finally, when I was already close to my destination, rays from the hidden sun poked through them here and there.
There were still a lot of people under the bridge. Many who didn’t have an umbrella, as I hadn’t at first, stood on the edge of the covered part waiting for the rain to stop so they could leave. They blocked my view of the far end, where the old man had set up his cart. But as I made my way to the middle, where the crowd thinned out, I realized I wouldn’t find him there. He had been under the open sky before, so the downpour had certainly caused him to find shelter somewhere under the wide metal structure.
I started to turn around, searching, but there was no trace of the old ice cream cart. I certainly would not fail to see it. The space under the bridge was rather large, but it would be impossible to pass unnoticed there. Had the old man left during my absence? That seemed unlikely. Would a blind man pushing a bulky cart go out in such a thunderstorm? No, that would be reckless and dangerous. Unless, of course, the blindness and the rest had been a sham.
I wandered through the stands a while longer, not knowing what else to do, as my frustration mounted. Of the many questions besieging me, one slowly started to outweigh the others. Why me? Why had this happened to me, of all people? What set me apart from the others gathered in this place? The fact that I am a writer? A writer who hasn’t been able to write anything worthwhile for quite some time? Wasn’t that damnation enough? Why did I have to be given this book?
As I walked aimlessly, I found myself close to the seller I had talked to just before the fateful meeting. I thought for a moment to ask him about the old man. He could hardly have escaped his notice. But I didn’t do so. Asking questions would only get me entangled in a web of explanations about something that had completely escaped my understanding. I might even be forced to take the volume out of my pocket and show it to him, which I wanted to avoid at all costs. But one other thing also discouraged me from conversation, something I dreaded most of all. What if the seller said he hadn’t seen a blind man with an ice cream cart?
There was no reason to stay here any longer. The weather had cleared up considerably. Now there were far fewer visitors under the Great Bridge. This time I headed home slowly, no longer in a hurry. I hadn’t gone very far when I became aware of the smells. First of ozone, then many others in dense clusters everywhere, brought out by the rain: the smell of new leaves in the tops of the linden trees, the damp young grass, the covering of humus in the little park, the washed flowers in the flowerpots. It seemed that even the water covering the sidewalk and pavement in large puddles had a smell of its own.
And at intervals, somewhere in the background of these strong smells, dampened by them, I detected a weaker smell that seemed vaguely familiar. It was omnipresent or else was following me. It was unpleasant, like the stink of sweat, but different, arousing thoughts of something strenuous and hard. Even painful. I tried to decipher it, but without success. The effort was not in vain, however. Quite unexpectedly, as I tried to figure out the mysterious smell, I thought of something which should have occurred to me a lot sooner. Before the photocopying, certainly. I quickened my pace almost to a run.
I took the monitor and keyboard off my desk since I didn’t need them. I could have done the job faster by computer, but I never wrote using the computer. Instead, I took out a large notebook that had been empty for a long time. I didn’t start to copy right away, however. When I picked up my pen, I was filled with the fear that this might lead nowhere. What if the pen left no mark, even though brand-new? I didn’t know. Yet what could I lose by trying? Things certainly couldn’t be worse than they already were.
I was unable to suppress a sigh of relief when the title of the novel appeared several moments later at the top of the first page. Clear and legible. I closed my notebook briefly and opened it again. No miracle took place. The writing was still there, as it ought to be. I turned the page in the book and sat back comfortably in my chair. Under the title I wrote “First Chapter” and then continued to the first paragraph.
Long and difficult work lay ahead of me. The novel was printed in tiny, single-spaced letters. But hardship is to be expected in the profession of writer. There is no respite. There are no shortcuts. Pain is part and parcel of the experience. That is why the pleasure is all the greater when things are brought to an end. When I copy the last page, I will simply close the book, and this work will exist solely in my manuscript. Who could reproach me then for adding my name above the title?
23. Noble Library
A noble library is much like a stomach. Strict attention must be paid to what goes into it. Only proper and fitting items should be allowed to enter a noble library. Should a book that doesn’t belong find its way into such a place, it would be just like recklessly swallowing something unfit for consumption. Nausea and di
sgust would result. Those were my exact feelings upon entering the study and finding a book in my library that I had not put there. I felt a revulsion so strong that it completely supplanted the natural question as to how the book had got there. In the same vein, the first thoughts of a man whose stomach contains something improper will not be how it got there, but rather how to be rid of it. Health is, after all, more important than sheer intellectual curiosity.
I took hold of the book with two fingers and pulled it out. It certainly did not belong there, above all else because of its size. That’s how it had caught my eye on the crowded bookshelf that covers one whole wall of my study. I’ve always felt the greatest possible disdain for paperback books. They are the ultimate profanation of an ideal that must remain exalted and noble at any cost. Only the ignorant and uninformed claim that a book should not be judged by its cover. Ostensibly, a great work remains a great work regardless of its packaging. Nonsense! Packaging must mirror the contents. Would you wrap a luxury item in old newspapers, for example? And what is a great work of literature if not the most luxurious of all items!
I didn’t let the title deceive me. The title would have suited a deluxe edition, leather-bound, with gold lettering; it seemed almost sacrilegious on the ordinary plasticized cardboard of a paperback. But, then, the people who make paperbacks are known to be unscrupulous. Nothing is sacred to them. They will not hold back from using the most sublime words if they believe it will make them a profit. All they care about is money. I truly don’t know where we’ll end up if we keep on misusing, trivializing and cheapening everything in this way.
Holding the object at arm’s length, I walked briskly towards the kitchen. I stepped on the pedal of the garbage can under the sink and opened my thumb and index finger. The paperback fell with a thud among the garbage where it belonged. I brushed my palms together. There! One must not be thin-skinned in such situations, but resolute and harsh. The treatment should be the same as for vermin. Like bedbugs or cockroaches. One must brook no quarter.
Impossible Stories Page 30
