I was at a pub, watching the inside of my own gaze. My mind lost in a fog. Blankness. That was when Castellemare, dressed in black came by, sweeping that blackness over blankness.
Castellemare sat across from me with hands folded in front of him. He was wearing a smirk that suggested there was something enormously funny at the end of his gaze, perhaps me. After a few minutes of his smirking and staring, he began wiggling his thin eyebrows repeatedly.
“Why are you staring at me?” I asked.
He widened his eyes and exaggerated his impish smirk.
“What's going on?” I insisted, but he only continued his mime antics.
I turned away to escape his disquieting stare. He got up and sat at a table in my field of vision. He then slowly turned his head toward me and continued his strange smirking. What he did next was even more curious. He lit a cigarette and let it burn away in the ashtray, not smoking it. I watched as the cigarette burned to the filter, discharged itself from the ashtray, and rolled to the ground. He then scouted the passing people, waved his hand twice, and a stranger walked towards me with a glazed look in his eyes. The man opened his mouth to speak: “Ammonius Saccas was a porter in Alexandria. He and Plotinus first met in a mirror. All of Greece, Rome, and Egypt had begun to worship the god, Serapis, drawn from the insistence and influence of Apuleius, Plutarch, and Lucian. Ammonius said that skepticism was death.”
The man snapped out of whatever trance he was in and resumed walking.
An eerie hum followed. Castellemare produced another cigarette. No one seemed to notice that smoking was banned from indoor spaces years ago. No one seemed to notice the incongruous placement of an ashtray.
“What do you know about Obsalte?” Castellemare finally spoke.
“Little to nothing.”
“Good. Keep it that way. It has been my experience not to be tempted by Gimaldi's busywork. What you just heard about Ammonius is all you really need to know.”
“I want to know more,” I said, almost in defiance. “What I just heard was a bunch of mystic gibberish. I could ask any old Sigurd to go out and find me that bullshit conspiratorial mumbo jumbo.”
“If you insist. Barbaric warriors, if allowed to live long enough, usually turn to religion. Did you know that? It's a kind of sickness when the glory of combat is over, and the desire for deification or piety takes over. But it takes a catastrophe, a great crisis, for them to make this leap from the sword to the cross.”
“I don't follow.”
“I didn't suppose you did. You seem to be a dim boy.”
“Gimaldi warned me off of you.”
“I trust that you've read his counter-book?” he asked probingly.
“I did,” I replied. “A bit sketchy in places, though.”
“Ha! Gimaldi as a man is sketchy in places! Take it from someone who has read him before: he likes the textual leaps. It's his way, a throwback to his origins. He's afraid to produce worthy works. A textual leap is his way of veiling an omission. Him, a researcher? Pfah! A detective? Oh, laughs! I told you last time we all met: it is just a metaphysical joke book, nothing more. Come with me: I have some things to show you.”
I followed him out of the pub and into a taxi. What had I to lose? I was being pulled in the direction of yet another mystery, and my ability to resist was absent. When we arrived, we were in one of those quietly set upscale parts of town where old houses crumble behind large trees. Castellemare's house was an enormous and old testament of what wonders could be produced with stone. We entered, went up a winding flight of stairs and reached an oak paneled door. As he opened it, I could see a marvelous yet disturbing thing. The room was all mirrors, stacked reflections emanating from the walls, ceiling, and floor.
“This is what I believe to be called a Tain, a large array of scrying glass, or what have you,” he explained. “Want to know more about yourself?”
“Myself?”
“Certainly. Most people do. Some people will go as far as to STEAL BOOKS AND LOOK FOR ANY TRACES OF THEIR OWN NAME. SUCH PEOPLE ARE INCURABLE NARCISSISTS WITH AN EXAGGERATED SENSE OF PERSONAL ENTITLEMENT. Anyway, just gaze into one of these looking glasses and let the mind go its own way.”
[The obvious insertion and capitalization of the phrasing was making it seem rather clear to me that this book was meant to be read by me. Why would someone go to the trouble of upbraiding me in print?]
Hesitatingly, I positioned myself in front of a mirror, my reflection cast in all directions at once, stretching outward on all sides towards infinity. I began to muse over the form I saw so ubiquitously present: myself - and this was not a pleasant image or feeling. But this vain introspection soon gave way to a kind of aleph-effect... I was able to stretch my thought to the outside, bring all those seemingly disparate and brief experiences into view. I could not only see Gimaldi's house in my mind, but I could sense it, and the road construction nearby... a cement pipe... stenciled letters... An inspiration enough to title a book... Stenciled letters not intended for that inspiration, an expiry date, a cement pipe consciously or unconsciously engaging an old man's attempt to write a book... Finally, the sense impressions must have overwhelmed him... This world, so intriguing, yet so false... The man named his book after the most absurd presence: a cement pipe's stenciled letters that read “Best Before 2099”. It announced a subtitle: De Imitatio Calembouri. The book said it was volume three. The book was about what happened after the synthesis, the atrocity, and the cataclysm. Did I know what any of these things meant? I saw an inscription within the infinitely mirrored space that may have been the full inversion of mind: as fish grow in proportion to the size of their container, knowledge too grows in a like fashion. What of knowledge in an infinite space, in an infinite library?
A hand touched my shoulder, coaxing me away from the reflections; it was Castellemare sporting another smirk. He led me down to his den. His decor was partially Baroque, but mostly eclectic, the ooze and overflow of an antique dealer's warehouse. A painting hung on the wall that bore his likeness. I asked about it. It read, Aetatis Suae 33.
“Oh, that? A portrait and nothing more. You wouldn't know the painter. He never came to be recognized - just faded away, died. Artists are rarely important until the second act. Say, that Tain was a hoot, wasn't it? There was a fine story about such a room, one that inspired me to install it in the first place. It was about a prisoner who wakes up in a room very much like that one, but the space of his confinement keeps expanding every day although the appearance is exactly the same. I believe that story can be found and read in a very particular labyrinth. It is of no matter – just one of my little interests. That, and the Library, of course.”
“Library?”
“A very special one, young man. Gimaldi did not tell you of this? Tsk-tsk. I thought he would have had the decency to give you a reason to avoid the likes of me.”
“Where is this library?”
“Anywhere. To speak of space is so dull. Remember that short story I was telling you about, the one with the mirrored room? Well, in my Library, I have plenty of copies of it.”
“You're quite the collector,” I said, veering on sarcasm but stopping short since I was in a home I could easily be ejected from.
“No, I never collect things. I despise the fetishism of sets. I prefer organizing what is collected. I am the Librarian, and the copies of this story I have possess different authors, different endings, written in different styles. I am sure there is one in there written by you, one by Gimaldi, and one by me. But that is not why you are here. You are here because you are on a quest for knowledge, knowledge on Obsalte.”
Without giving more than a cursory glance at one of his shelves, he pulled out a leather-bound text with ribbing on the spine. I was actually not looking for information on Obsalte; I had forgotten that quest and was now more consumed with finding more about Gimaldi and Castellemare.
“This is what you may need. In there,” he said, “You will not find answers, but more questio
ns. It isn't about Obsalte directly, but more about us – Castellemare and Gimaldi. Consider this a temporary loan; I will require this book soon, perhaps on short notice. You may wish to start reading it tonight.”
The book was entitled Codex Infinitum. I had read a few chapters from it before, a book I had chanced upon at a used bookstore that had attracted me with its heavy Latinate title, the gravity of some secret trusted only to me. The book itself was a desperate disappointment, and I had cast it aside despite mention of Gimaldi and Castellemare. Why did I toss it away so quickly?
“I have this book already,” I said, handing it back.
“Oh, really? Look again.”
“No, I'm serious. I have it already. I bought it a few months ago at a used bookstore. From what I read, it's about an infinite library tended by someone with your name, and an employee named Gimaldi. I think one of you rushed out and self-published it... maybe as some twisted combat of who can libel whom the best.”
“You must have the rough draft, then.”
“No, I don't think so,” I countered. “My copy is dated 1977, a paperback – but I have a feeling it was published a few years ago. This book is... “ I looked in the front matter before declaring, “Published in 1889. That would make my edition more recent.”
“Sigh. Your sense of temporal succession is so... linear,” he said as if the word were distasteful. “I don't expect you to understand, but this book that you have in your hands is the edited and complete draft, whereas what you have at home is a very early, and very bad copy. Besides, better books were published in 1977... An impressive scholarly text on a book I leant someone, actually. No matter.”
“No, I don't understand. Did the publisher of my edition decide to print the earlier draft?”
“No, the publisher of your edition published what was available. This book you have – the revised edition – was never released... at least not in this world. This book has several histories, but let us stick to the one that is most common among them all. There were two early drafts of the Codex Infinitum. In the first, it was incomplete, and only two or three chapters had been written before the author abandoned it to focus on other projects. These chapters were published in some literary periodicals, but the rest of the story remained blank. In the second draft, the author attempted to bulk up his page count and alleviate the guilt of not being productive, and so sloppily attempted to intercalate two earlier unpublished novels into the text: one entitled Best Before 2099 and the other 7th Meditation: Mountains Without Valleys. These two very early works were part of the author's juvenilia, and it showed: bloated and pretentious writing, wooden dialogue, hasty attempts to create atmosphere, frequent invocations of medieval thinkers, unbelievable events. The problem with the awful second draft was that there was no seamless integration of the texts, and obviously no attempt to commit a serious rewrite of them. The stylistic differences were plain to see, and the author's laziness let that stand for a time. Thankfully, upon the advice of a close personal reader, he undertook that wretched and exasperating task of rewriting those texts. It proved difficult because he was forced to confront his horrible writing, and to delete entire swathes of text where there were salvageable ideas and phrases. As a historical text, it is a complete hash! Of course, the Library isn't fussy about possible and speculative histories sitting on its shelves.”
“So I have the second draft?”
“We can look that up in the catalogue, but you evidently do not have the final revised edition – until now. What is curious is that in the revised edition, Gimaldi is reading Gimaldi. In fact, he is reading our story right now, trying as you are to develop his disparate set of clues to come to a conclusion to the mystery.
[This added contrivance to the tale was making me feel ill. I was beginning to think that Castellemare had written this himself, knowing I would take this book, and seeming to find great amusement in tormenting me.]
“I don't get it. Gimaldi is reading us right now? This is happening in this book?”
“Right down to the very dialogue,” Castellemare smiled. “Awful as it is – I can almost hear Gimaldi groaning. We are not very convincing or interesting for Gimaldi’s tastes, I’m afraid.”
“How can that be? This is happening in real time.”
“Is it? Also, don't confuse one Gimaldi with another. The Gimaldi you know here is not the same Gimaldi of the main story of Codex Infinitum. There are very significant differences. Don't be fooled by facile similarities just because the names are identical.”
“There are two Gimaldis?”
“Yes, yes,” he said, losing his patience. “Two of them, if not more. There are, at last count in this book, three of me. There is only one of you, although you are referenced insofar as the other Gimaldi is reading about you trying to wrap your mind around the fact that there are two Gimaldis! And, in at least one implied mention, you are actually Gimaldi, which is another hilarious little hoot!”
This gave him some bizarre pleasure.
“And,” he continued. “Gimaldi – the other one, the one you don't know except through this book I am lending you – is as equally confused as you are. He will likely not take this seriously.”
“Why?”
“I'd suggest you – and the Gimaldi reading this – keep a pen handy and underline the names and dates in this book to refer to later... it may get a bit confusing. Anyway, Gimaldi believes that I am a trickster deceiving him with books designed to drive him mad. Of course, he stole the book in which he is reading us now. However, his trust and understanding of the Library is very small, and part of him doubtless either believes I have written this to fool him and let the book fall into his possession when he thinks he stole it, or that the world itself is founded on irrationality.”
“This is making me a bit dizzy. I'll ask anyway: what is real, then? If we are merely characters in a book, and yet I can read the other Gimaldi as a character in a book where he is reading me, which narrative is real?”
“They both are; they all are. There is even another book based on these two entitled The Infinite Library which is simply another version of this story. All are equally real.”
“But this is circuitous! I am reading him, he is reading me reading him, and I am reading him reading me reading him... It is infinite!”
“Yes! An ouroubouros, the snake that eats its own tail, eh? I do get my jollies with paradoxes.”
“But there has to be a starting point; there has to be a true narrative that started all the others.”
“Your tenacity to the artifice known as Reason is adorable. Again, you insist on being so damn linear. If you don't like questions, don't bother asking them. Seek all you want for answers, but the universe pays out in the coin you give it, so for every question, get one in return, quid pro quo. Now, if you'll excuse me... I trust that you can show yourself out,” he said, now departing into the enormous labyrinth of his home. I was left with an alleged revised copy of a book I had jilted, bafflingly published before my own copy.
[This endless recursion could be said to have an end. If Castellemare wrote this, it could all be bogus. Just another attempt to trick me. The scene itself was contrived, the whole purpose for what? Invite someone to see your mirror, lend him a book, start chattering about paradoxes, and then abruptly ask him to leave. No, this was not believable – it was written for my benefit.]
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Editor's Note: This section of the manuscript was withdrawn very late in the press process at the insistence of the author. The author requested that this notice be put in place of the chapter, and that it once possessed a long discourse on avatars and their relationship to the endings of eras. The author wrestled with keeping such turns of phrase as “drooping crepuscular light” and various connections made between Plotinus and theurgy, and an even looser connection between Plotinus being induced by Ammonius Saccas to become an avatar. In the end, it was the author's request to excise this chapter to avoid any narrative confusion or burthen his story w
ith the complicity of too much assumed knowledge in the history of philosophy. If Gimaldi had written it, as he would write the [title redacted], he would no doubt tart it up as he fancies to tart himself up with bloated language and pretentious references to philosophers he has not the mind to understand properly and patiently. Pity, that.
12
“Now you know,” Gimaldi said with tender resignation. “Blood has been spilt, and so we must take time and reflect on our given positions in this matter. Castellemare plays this game like a chess master, and he thinks like one, too.”
“I don't fully understand the danger in this situation,” I said, no longer disturbed by his usual melodrama. We were at his house.
“He brought you to see his mirrors, didn't he? That scoundrel of sensibilia! I should have cut him down a long time ago.”
“That doesn't seem so generous of you. I've always had this picture of you as being a man of patient reserve and cryptic wordplay rather than swordplay.”
“As you might have noticed, I do not live in generous or enlightened times,” he said, leaving me with his wife in the parlour while he fetched another drink.
Some time had passed and I felt the awkward ambiguity of either leaving or staying. A house like this, with its eclectic decor of antiques and old conte prints of lithe nude women, had with it a strange gravity that rooted me where I stood. With all the clutter in that humid parlour, the walls seemed to close and expand, like a moist lung. Gimaldi's wife was smoking from a hookah with her feet dangling like heavy fruit, legs hung over the arms of the cushioned armchair. She would not pass a word to me for some time, absorbed in her little act of exoticism.
The Infinite Library Page 22
