The Infinite Library

by Kane X Faucher

  Such normalcy would, of course, be short-lived. Doubtless, word of what I did to Angelo would reach the ears of Castellemare, and it was him I spotted at a bookstore, pretending to be absorbed with a paltry collection of dramatic works.

  “Gimaldi, what a fine day,” he greeted. I could see the mark of a split lip I had given him. “Oh, I just love drama, don't you?” he squealed.

  “I bet you do,” I said icily.

  “Tragedies and comedies, epic lineages cut short, treachery and betrayal, unrequited love and heroic triumphs. Ah, would life follow such excitements. Alas, life is mostly dull. But not for us drama buffs, eh? Speaking of treachery, Gimaldi, have you seen my dutiful assistant?”

  “Your henchman? Yes. Like Humpty Dumpty, he took a nasty fall.”

  “Whose hand was responsible for that?” he asked, probingly, yet still keeping his focus on the books.

  “Mine, but you should be thanking me, not that I did it for you. He was a double agent under the employ of a different office,” I stated and then left the bookshop. I could see that my news had surprised him – his expression was as though he were just slapped. He followed me outside. For once, I knew much more than he did. With such a reversal, I wanted to savour it.

  “Say, Gimaldi, pardon and all that, but what do you mean?”

  I kept walking. I reached a set of traffic lights and waited for my turn to cross.

  “I don't mean to insist,” he said, catching up with me. “What do you mean when you say 'double agent'? I am so very curious.”

  “Why not consult your Library; perhaps you'll find the answers you seek there,” I said and could not help but to smile.

  “Gi-mal-di, please. I beseech you to explain. I'd rather get all my information firsthand if possible.”

  “It's as you say: good employees are so hard to find,” I said, and crossed the street.

  He followed closely behind. “Gimaldi, wait. Let's be gentlemanly about all this. Make a clean breast of everything.”

  “Perhaps we can make a deal, but it will cost you. I want to know everything about this proposed synthesis and my role in it.”

  “Point blank. You have everything you need to know from that book which, if I may remind you, you stole. If anything, you are in my debt,” he said testily. “I have given you far more information than was necessary, and what reward did I get but a poke in the jaw!”

  “You gave information willingly. I didn't solicit everything you told me, but like some penny dreadful villain, you felt the compulsion to unveil your master plan to satisfy your enormous ego. The vital questions I did pose, you coquettishly kept mum about. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to go on alone.”

  “Of all the nerve,” I heard him say to himself. “Gimaldi! Stand and face me!”

  I turned on my heel and he was so close our noses were almost touching.

  He spoke in harsh undertones: “I won't stand for this. I demand to know what you discovered about Angelo, and I must know now.”

  “I'm not your personnel snoop. You should keep better track of your employees. I will not respond to your demands.”

  “Gimaldi, let's not bicker like old lovers here. I will pay handsomely for your time and information. This is what you're after, am I right? You are a mercenary at heart, and every man has his price. Name it, and I'll be sure to make the proper arrangements to honour your request. I am quite serious.”

  “I also met the Librarian. You had lied to me. You are not the Librarian.”

  At this, Castellemare let out a raucous laugh. “Ah, so you met the caretaker!”

  “He has a differing view than yours.”

  “That he does, that he does. But think about it, Gimaldi: a Library of that size would require more than one Librarian. Doubt the credibility of my title all you like, but I perform all the requisite duties of my station.”

  “According to the rules of the Order, not the Library. And the merger went through, regardless of your treachery.”

  “There was a war in Heaven,” he said, as if quoting. “The new vanguard challenged the assumptions and rules of the ancien regime in an act of rebellion.”

  “So you're the upstart. Figures.”

  “There is much you do not understand, Gimaldi. Don't be so self-satisfied that you have all the answers. Granted, you have much more than most, but the picture is still so grievously incomplete.”

  “I like the picture I have and am satisfied with it.”

  “We are veering too far off topic. What is information on the deceased worth to you?”

  “Not much, but I'd charge someone like you dearly for it.”

  “Name your price.”

  “I have already: knowledge for knowledge. Everything you know about the synthesis and my role in it.”

  “I meant money, Gimaldi.”

  “I have enough money to sustain myself, thank you. I don't feel comfortable taking money from you – servants take money. You know what I think? I think you know squat about this synthesis and are just prancing around as if you do.”

  “Oh, very nice, Gimaldi... Trying to goad me to prove you wrong. The price you name is completely off-balance; the information I have is worth a fortune compared to the paltry news you may have. The only reason I need to know so badly is because I hate that feeling of being cheated.”

  “So do I.”

  “Gimaldi, are you implying that I had in some way cheated you? Did I not pay you promptly for your services? If you're going to say that I cheated you out of information about the Library and other like matters, well, that was not yours to have in the first place. You simply aren't entitled to that.”

  “I've named my price, and if you reject my final offer, I'll be on my way.”

  “Fine, Gimaldi. You drive a hard bargain. Listen to me, there are just some things you are better off not knowing. You will regret learning of the synthesis. There is nothing you can do to stop it.”

  “That will be my choice and responsibility to bear.”

  “Yes, we are all responsible for what we know, even if it brings sorrow. Come with me; we will sit ourselves down somewhere more comfortable and swap stories like good gentleman.”

  Castellemare chose a quiet licensed bistro up the street and ordered an elaborate coffee. As if expecting to bear the brunt of terrible news, I ordered a scotch.

  “Fairness and honesty,” he said. “For the purpose of expediency, I would recommend that you give me what I want to know first since it will be most likely a shorter tale, and then I will commence with my own. I promise on my word to honour this trade.”

  “That's fine by me,” I said. “It won't involve much talking. Here.”

  I fished the letter to Angelo from my pocket and handed it to Castellemare who, with the very first few words he scanned, was turning red. Defusing his mounting anger, he let out a laugh.

  “Fabulous work, Gimaldi. A pious snake in the grass! You certainly weren't lying.”

  “Your side of the bargain, now.”

  “Ah, yes, the synthesis. Well, as the story goes, it follows what you have in your possession. Consider it a somewhat allegorical fable of the things to come. Of the six archetypes that will form one man, Leo – the artist – will be the crown. There is a prophetic character by the name of Ensopht who, I must remind you, is not entirely real. He is the facilitator of this synthesis. There is a scientist who will occupy the second tier of importance alongside the madman, for the synthesized man will have his origins in science – psychology, to be precise, despite the scientist in the story being a geneticist. The other members are like nuances of the man's character: the philosopher, the 'third man', and the madman. Each play their roles, six in all. They will all form to make a single person.”

  “But if these figures are not people, and only aspects of a personality, then what is Leo?”

  “This is where it gets a bit blurry and complicated. Leo represents the artist in the synthesized man, but it is the work that Leo does that truly operates in the sy
nthesis. Suffice it to say, the synthesized man will prove to be like an avatar of a new age, one modeled after the distillation of all human history's atrocities. He will be an atrocity artist. He will augment bodies, he will commit unspeakable acts, and he will have the charisma and power to attract a multitude of devout followers. Picture, if you will, a mixture of Francis Bacon, Adolf Hitler, Charles Manson, Josef Stalin, and any other dark figures in history with great power matching an even greater madness.”

  “This sounds horrifying. Why would I stand idle as such a thing takes place?”

  “I feel safe in telling you the man's name if only because it is too late for you to do anything about it. There are certain moments in history that are necessary, regardless how tragic they may be or what lives are lost. The synthesized man will tap into a collective subconscious desire for cruelty. This is supported by an uneasy global peace, increased religious intolerance, widespread economic disaster, diminishing resources, environmental degradation, stagnation in the domain of creativity and fashion, all of which are not only supports for, but also representative of, a deep yearning for bloodshed. He is the chosen figure to bring this to term. We cannot forestall the narrative of history no matter how ugly events might turn out. When we take a longer view, we realize that certain dark episodes are required to push on further. The Second World War is a fine example of how it made history progress: the formation of a more viable global body like the UN, the progress in genetic sciences, development of atomic power, the meteoric rise of Communism, the creation of the US as a superpower... Yes, I know, these things don't sound very tasty, I admit, but even these are necessary steps to what comes after. You see, war is simply not enough to make history blow its load.”

  “What is this man’s name?”

  “Can’t tell you.”

  “So what is my role in all of this?”

  “Ah, the ego question. Much of what we do happens for a reason, a reason dictated by texts written and unseen. Your role could have been as small as choosing a particular coffee shop on a particular morning which may have caused a chain of events, or it could be as nobly important as writing the next part of the tragedy. Now that you've read the Backstory, you have a better narrative comprehension as to where we stand in relation to each other.”

  “As diametrically opposed enemies.”

  “Not enemies, Gimaldi. Opposed forces. Forces inhabit bodies, and we are merely the actors being worn by the masks. The fact that you also no longer possess that book has also been ordained, perhaps in the knowledge that you may have altered the course of events by referring back to it, rereading some vital passage.”

  “Did you take it back?”

  “No, I can honestly say that I have no idea where it is, nor did I arrange for someone to take it from you... Well, I did, once, but I called it off as you'll remember.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Sudden change of heart? In actual fact, it proved important to the synthesis that you kept and read it. I couldn't have known this previously, and you must not be under any illusion that I'm not also playing things as they land. I may get more information quicker than you, but I'm as equally distanced from the greater narrative controlling this state of affairs.”

  “Why are we opposites?”

  “Did you not read the Backstory? I thought it was plainly obvious – so plain as to spoon-feed the reader with the meaning. You are the force of the rational, of order... I am your shadow, the principle of chaos, entropy, play... You can consider me the court jester, if you like. The fool. And the fool always knows more than he tells, and tells with an impunity because, well, no one suspects the fool of being anything more than foolish.”

  “How do the Devorants factor into this equation?”

  “Again, I don't have all the details; that may be an auxiliary matter. Perhaps little more than a loose thread in the plot, a red herring to keep your attentions occupied and your fingers out of the pudding.”

  “You continue referring to real events like they were a novel... Narrative, plot, characters... “

  “As Billy Shakespeare said, 'all the world's a stage', my friend. The Library is what determines. The narrative is the glue that keeps our memories together, what makes history possible.”

  “You have been vague about my role in this synthesis.”

  “I have. I wanted you to have the proper context. We will preside over it, each in our own way. It was essential that you sought Jakob out, for one.”

  “But that was only because he was mentioned in connection with me in the book. That was purely accidental.”

  “Gimaldi, there are no accidents save the ones we fashion. You taking those two books was the Library's plan all along. There was something in your character which predicted your likely behaviour. The Library knew you could not resist taking those books, and in so doing, you moved the narrative of the synthesis progressively forward. The Library has its ways. This is the way it all began:

  “Angelo, as well as my other employees at the time, were already occupied with a sudden surge of missing books they had to reacquire. The Library pushed out a very dangerous book in Vatican City, and it was geographically inconvenient to assign the task of reacquisition to anyone. The Library must have known you would be there doing research. I was forced to take the task on myself, but before I left, the Library gifted unto me a book describing our first encounter and that it was necessary. The Library has a keen knack for placing certain texts in our hands at the right moments, which I recall telling you in the labyrinth. It was ordained that we would meet and I followed the book's recommendation to take you under my wing. It also ordained that you would betray me, seek out Setzer, commit theft of books that the Library gifted unto you, and so forth. Books choose us, my friend, and that is my point. A few other volumes came to my attention about the synthesis. A long, and occasionally fatal, chain of events were prompted by merely the select releasing of books at their proper times in the right hands. All that I have done, Gimaldi, has been dictated by a narrative I do not control, nor can predict. Just when you think you have control, the Library proves ten steps ahead.”

  “The world and all that is in it... Nothing more than characters and events in one of many books in a library,” I paraphrased.

  “You get the picture. Even the events that led us to this conversation, if not this conversation itself, already written down in a book tucked deep in that Library. I am not a villain any more than you are a hero, unless the narrative of the Library determines it... And even then our roles may be variable and temporary: I am a hero in one act, and a villain in the next. I'm sorry I can't be more precise about your role, but I honestly know nothing more. We will play our parts. It is cold consolation, but hopefully you will note that my information on this matter has proven invaluable, despite my not having a precise idea of what your role actually is in the synthesis.”

  “So much for free will,” I said.

  Castellemare smiled. “Perhaps better to be ruled by a Library's narrative than an old man in a flowing white beard who condemns those who would rather sleep in on Sundays.”

  “But there are a few more inconsistencies with what you say here that I would like to clear up.”

  “I'm sure there are contradictions a-plenty, but our time is up. I grow tired and there is much to do. I hope we both come away satisfied with our little chat. As for the Angelo incident, I can't say that I am upset with you in light of this new knowledge you've furnished me with. As for you, perhaps the Devorants are still on your trail, still desperately trying to sabotage the synthesis. The Library's reasons are its own, and if it decides to give the Devorants a temporary feeling of victory in your death and the theft of that book, the synthesis may in fact be made the better for it. We know not how long we have in the narrative. But, I must fly! Ciao, Gimaldi.”

  And then he left, without paying.

  Without fail, the Library provided. I was convinced there must have been a sick genius operating it, wan
ting to torment me with a predictable narrative event. A group of old and stern faces were waiting for me outside my apartment, and I had already turned the corner on the stairs so that they saw me, making an escape seem too obvious.

  “Can I help you?” I asked the closest one since it was hard to say given their sameness who was the leader of the group.

  “We've come for the book. You will give it to us,” was the sanctimonious reply meant to be intimidating.

  “Have you checked inside my apartment for it again? I lost it. Funny story, actually. You see, there was this guy who worked for the office of the Grand Inquisitor – a double agent – who also worked for a crazy librarian retrieving books. Well, anyway, he tried to murder me near the bottom of what seemed to be an endless stairway. So, anyway, there's this struggle and -”

  They were not pleased, but I was not exactly trying to be accommodating.

  “The book, now,” snarled another in the group.

  “Give me back the rest of my books you stole. Now. And my computer as well.”

  They weren't expecting such cheek, but I was more in the mood to give rather than receive orders. They furtively glanced at one another, searching for what to do next. Certainly, this was not the narrative they had anticipated, perhaps banking on their air of mystery, their affectations of being secretive and dangerous. I followed through with another taunt: “Clear off. Secret society or band of goofs, the cops will haul you in regardless. You can have all the knowledge you want, but unless any of you have close relatives at the police station... “

  “You needn't be so difficult,” one of them in the group said, almost hurt. “Maybe we can have a conversation, let you know our point of view. Our work is very important to us, and we apologize for the inconvenience we have caused you. We aren't exactly adept at breaking and entering, or harassing people for that matter. Our domain proper is study.”