To be blinded by a mirror – any mirror, and not just the sort that is forged in the secrets of alchemy – is said to happen to many. We rarely see ourselves objectively and most often blinded by what it is that we see. In this case, I was blinded by my own folly, staring into a mirror and having reflected back at me a truth that was too much to bear – or was not mine to know. That I desired to reflect back at the world knowledge I had gathered on John of Lerida and his sect was a mistake, for some images are not meant to be reflected back into the world, but absorbed into that hidden, secret darkness.
[This section ended with what I would consider almost a direct taunt: Gimaldi, you little weaver of tales and fables, as blind as Milton and Borges with half of a half of their power! - This could have easily been written by Castellemare given the tone. Symbols for my benefit, perhaps, were heaping up, and the mirror only doubled them. The mirror divided the Library infinitely].
15
Cui Prodest?
Perhaps little more than the mere recollection of my face, as memory had presented it to me. The mirror was dirty, streaked, unclear, but my face was clearly unshaven. I gazed intently at the seemingly infinite eruptions of stubble that peppered my face, stubble that had taken on a new life as wiry spots on the pocked landscape. I steadied a slightly over-caffeinated hand gripping its implement to shear the sward of my neglect. Yet, I paused as if about to take stock in what I was, to repeat a mantra that was still fresh to me but felt prematurely stale: “My name is Gimaldi. I am 45 years old. I live in Toronto, Canada. My temples are grey. The bags under my eyes have developed their own baggage. I do not know if I am at the centre of a vast and incomprehensible mystery. I own no pets. I have no current love interests. I make my living with books. I am addicted to cigarettes, and perhaps addicted to my failure to quit them more so. I fancy myself as being of the rationalist mindset in making fair and meticulous deductions. I do not look good in the colour red or in profile.”
The mirror held every blast of projected image without itself being affected – a repository of endless recollections. And those fostered and provided by memory had their way of occulting the naked view. Perhaps I would see in the mirror a man twenty years his junior or senior, wasting my thoughts on what I would look like in the future or what I could have looked like had I adopted a healthier lifestyle. These thoughts would droop as the stems that were to transfer to them some kind of nutritive relevance were far too weak. Instead, I took to the repetitive act of scraping steel upon skin, leaving fallen black snow in the basin of the sink.
I stood and laboured – or, rather, fussed needlessly – with myself. I was a shut-in, feeling and being cosmopolitan but not actually being cosmopolitan except by the geography of the self upon which the distance between idea and its action is connected only by one road under heavy construction. I read books, or sold them, and was as leeched of life as they were. Just the idea of life, how it might look or feel or taste. I made pointless mental calculations I never broadcast to others... warming over swathes of memory alloyed with inherited social myths... what one ought to be or do by ages 30, 40, 50... I added to and subtracted from my own age comparing how many years past or until the next expected benchmark or age-ascribed standard. “Married by...” “Career by...” - just blanks and unsigned cheques. Physically older, no further, but too depressing to vocalize, a luxury of self-absorbed pity that timeless swaddling of the middle-aged man that summons as much feeble strength to combat it. Paralyzed by these self-directed sermons, rendered useless by a self-targeting grudge: I was at war with myself, against myself, through very slow and exacting punishment for I know not what. For being born? For crumpling rather than charging at opportunity?
Finding myself ambushed by my own self-created wringing, overwrought riddles within riddles, I pounced and gabbled at them, believing my squawks and barks of excuse or false courage would be flared and blared. But, bulldozed flat by mean, hard, little concerns... I could clutch at the very essence of myself, withdraw my hand with the root of it, and find it so small, so shrunken. And then I just let that part of me rest. My contribution to the story, overdue, underwhelming, but I was entitled to just a little self-reflection when I had been busy getting tangled in multiple mysteries.
The two weeks had past and I was expecting a research report from Jakob Sigurdsson sometime in the late afternoon. I had my doubts that he uncovered much, mostly believing that he most likely did not put as much effort into the task as he would let on. For me, the mystery was not deepening, but rather widening, increasing its dimensions topographically. Cynical as I could be, I had long since abandoned any hope in resolving it... and yet I held to the same fool practices of collecting the detritus of clues, recording all the tracks in shifting sand, trying to catch the scent of the answer as it reticently kept its distance like the horizon. That, and the reckless and coquettish tossing in my direction the handkerchiefs by figures like Castellemare who did so just to ensure that I would follow.
So far, no mention of the synthesis in what I had read. If this part of the plot was so integral, then it had to be introduced soon as the pages were beginning to run out. What was my purpose in reading the Backstory beyond mention of a few existing persons? The synthesis had not only failed to materialize as a plot item, but there was hardly enough space left in the book for it to be properly finessed. The Backstory had no plot motor, no engine: only an ugly chassis skinned with cheap material.
A knock at the door broke me from being entirely consumed with the problem. My continued wariness at receiving callers was still firmly with me. I looked through the peephole I convinced my rather miserly landlord to install and saw a familiar although unwelcome face.
“What?” I asked through the door.
“Let me in. No funny stuff. Just want to talk,” Angelo said in an exchange that could have equally found its context in being spoken between two lovers in a spat.
“I'm through with it, Angelo. Leave me alone.”
“I haven't come for the books. I just want to talk.”
I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was not here to exact vengeance. He sounded more conciliatory than usual, and his generally brusque manner seemed to have receded deep within his leather jacket. I relented and opened the door, but barricaded him from entering by making of my body an obstruction. I had not given it any thought that Castellemare’s threat of sending Angelo to retrieve the books did not come to pass - until now. Why was I not visited earlier, and why were those two books still in my possession?
“May I come in?” he asked without a hint of truculence in his voice or composure. It was an endearing request, almost childlike.
I retreated back into my apartment without turning my back on him, sat on my office chair, letting my gaze trail him to a reading chair a good many safe yards away. I made the calculation of how quickly I could acquire the knife in the drawer if need be.
After an awkward silence, I asked him, “So, what is it?”
“Anton Setzer is dead.”
“Dead?” I echoed with incredulity.
“Very.”
“Since when?”
“Since yesterday. At his bookstore, that shallow front of his,” Angelo said with some disdain, but immediately made a gesture of apology with his hands.
“Who did it?”
“That I don't know, but don't start making wild accusatory leaps here. My employer had nothing to do with it,” he petitioned, and I was inclined to believe him. For what little I knew about Castellemare, murder didn't seem to be in his character despite having all the motivations against Setzer to do so.
“Was it the Devorants, then?”
“The who?” Angelo said baffled as if struck with a foreign utterance. It was quite likely that Angelo was not high enough in the Order to have been told about the Devorants. I shook off the reference as he continued, “Anyway, there might be cause to believe that you had a hand in this.”
“Me? How so?”
“I know
it would sound preposterous given how mild-mannered you are, but isn't it always the person you least suspect?”
“You read too many potboilers, Angelo.”
“Funny. He was found dead in the mystery section of the store.”
“Do you presume it may be the murderer's signature? Perhaps the person or persons involved are trying to send a message. And to this nonsense of me being somehow involved, get that thought out of your mind right now. Besides, if you truly thought I had a hand in it, why would you come here and bring me news of his murder? You seem a bit shaken, and, honestly, I don't think there was much love lost between the two of you.”
“He was a colleague, and a fellow of the book. Those are reasons enough to mourn the fallen.”
“How touching,” I said a bit too caustically. I redressed my tone. “It all sounds so unbelievable. How was he killed?”
“Force-fed. He choked to death on having pages of novels crammed into his mouth.”
“It sounds ghastly. There must have been more than one person involved to make that happen,” I added impotently. Truth was, I was already puzzling in different directions as to who the culprit was. From my final conversation with Setzer, I had reason to believe that the Devorants were involved.
“That hardly matters at this point. You're dead right: someone is trying to convey a serious message. My advice is if you are still poking your nose where it doesn't belong, you better quit it now. That means all your sleuthing and asking after things that are none of your business has to stop. I can spare you the trouble by telling you that there is no conspiracy to uncover, no secret or hidden knowledge to gain.”
“Setzer's murder, and the way it was done, suggests quite strongly to me that there is indeed a conspiracy of a kind. Booksellers are not traditional targets of assassins.”
Angelo was becoming agitated. “If this is a message, then you best heed it. Trifling with things you don't understand is a perilous offense.”
“Angelo, are you ever off the clock from this perpetual 'dark-robed ones' facade? Really, it's a bit much. And let me ask you this: why are you not here for the books? 'Perilous offense'... really, Angelo... According to what court? I'm expected to obey the savage rulings of a court I do not know, cannot see?”
Angelo stretched out one leg and rubbed it gingerly, turned his head and scratched his nose. “The boss has called it off.”
“What?”
“Keep 'em. The books. Fuck it.”
“Just like that?” I said, floored and suspecting some kind of trick.
“Listen, Gimaldi, this isn't personal. I do what the boss says, and if he says the whole thing's called off, it's called off, period. Don't ask me why because he has his reasons, and I don't ask why, either; I just do as he says.”
“If Setzer was done in this way, you may be in danger, too,” I offered with a slight dash of sympathy. If anything, despite how I was not fond of the man, he could prove a useful ally – or at least not an enemy. I had in my trust and so felt no reason to carry the standard of wariness around him. I related to him what Setzer had told me. I could tell that this was the first time Angelo had heard this news, for his eyes bulged in flashes of disbelief- or he was a good actor.
“Orders, merged libraries, syntheses, a real fine fucking mess all that,” he said, finally.
“You already know about the Orders,” I reminded him. “Should I refer to you by your proper title? Knight of Acquisitions?”
“I know only of the Order I belong to, none other. I knew Setzer had branched off to form some renegade order, but I couldn't have imagined it having all the refinement and traditional structure of what I belong to.”
“We have to piece this together, Angelo,” I offered again. For the first time, it seemed as though I was in possession of more information than he was, turning the positions around. “If this was not just some random murder, then it was a calculated hit. A big one at that since, given my understanding, Setzer was the patriarch of his Order, its founder. Someone had reason to kill him, and kill him the way that they did.”
“Stating the obvious. Who are these Devorants?”
“You may have to ask your employer,” I said flatly. “I've told you all I know.”
“The boss doesn't give any info for cheap. It would be against my station to make inquiries. It's part of the code.”
“Of the Order?”
“Rules, Gimaldi. We all have our rules, our duties, our obligations to the Craft.”
“Something has been bothering me, and I was hoping perhaps you could shed some light on it. We can both fairly agree that the 'boss' is a very savvy and calculating man with incredible foresight. There is no possible way that he would have simply let me have those books unless it was part of his plan, and neither would they still be in my possession if he truly wanted them back. The fact that you were told to drop the issue is also very telling. He intends for me to keep these books, despite the law of the Library.”
“I told you already, Gimaldi: his reasons are his alone. I take no part in the decision process, but merely do as I'm told.”
“Which brings me to why you have come here today. To merely relate news of Setzer's murder?”
“That had nothing to do with the boss' instructions. I just thought you might like to know, a small professional courtesy. The boss merely instructed me to tell you that the hunt was called off and that you can stop living in fear of him. That's all.”
Angelo appeared deflated. Everything I had reported to him was taking its toll, weighing him down. After a time, I asked him, “Have you ever read these books?”
“The ones you stole? No. I am not permitted to read anything from the Library unless my boss wills it.” And, after a time: “I should go. There has been a curiously sudden surge of slipped books, some of them appearing in strange places.”
“Such as where?” I couldn't resist from asking.
“Public places: subway terminals, park benches, another in a framing shop. There was even one duct-taped to Setzer's hand; that was how I found him.”
I decided not to press Angelo any further. I could see by the haggard look in his eyes and the slumped register of his voice that things had suddenly become quite complicated and confused for him.
“Angelo,” I said by way of parting, “Let's keep in touch from here on in. I think if something is afoot we'd do much better to keep each other apprised of what's going on, share some information from time to time.”
He was about to launch a retort, but thought better of it, nodding resignedly instead before leaving my apartment. I was left to ponder why so many books were beginning to slip, and in the places they ended up doing so. But this, like so many books, had to be shelved for a while since I needed to meet with my research assistant.
By the time I arrived at the pub – a location of his insistence – he was already there and was two pints in the lead, attempting to look mysterious but ending up looking more ridiculous than anything else.
“Hello,” I said tiredly, ignoring his affectation. I could tell he was trying to seem dramatic, and he kept tapping on a thin folder covered in silly arcane symbols – no doubt his flourishes. Someone of his stripe would be the last candidate any secret society would ever consider. He would thrust his ego forward with any such membership to a private fraternity, and would most likely give away all the secrets if it meant people would take notice of his importance. I was sure that he used his temporary role as my research assistant to pick up young girls with embarrassing teasers of “I'm doing research on dark secrets, but I've said too much already... “ - He just seemed the type.
“I have completed the first round of my appointed task,” he said with unnecessary gravity, bowing his head forward to meet me with a gaze that was supposed to convey same. “It is here.” With that, he slid the thin folder, with its clumsy insignias of recognizable secret societies and Egyptian symbols, toward me.
“Great. I'll just skim this now and take it with me,” I said.
>
“I went to considerable trouble in the process of my findings... some dangerous moments, as well... “
I sincerely doubted anything of the sort had happened, and so resolved to ignore his desperate clambering for my attention, so I scotched it with terseness. “Trouble and danger are pretty common. Thank you.”
Jakob seemed disappointed, and so with some petting I changed my tone to reflect that I was pleased with his diligence, and then parted company with him.
Upon skimming what he had, it was unsurprisingly subpar: mostly a series of jot-notes any high schooler could have obtained from an encyclopedia. Worse still were the personal speculations of Jakob Sigurdsson on the meaning of the information, unsusbtantiated links to Freemasonry, Egyptian rite, and whatever other tepidly overrated conspiratorial group he wanted to name. Mixed in with this were Jakob's theories about the pyramids and their link to godlike extraterrestrials and quotes from Aleister Crowley he tried to pass off as his own. It was a triteness heavily underscored with cliches, occultish bromides, and sloppy references to staid mysticism. However, Jakob's mediocre research did unintentionally put me back in touch with some of the basic information I needed in order to see how these references fit into this maddening puzzle.
The Infinite Library Page 25
