There was nothing evidently protean about the combined gentleman that couldn't be settled with a series of strokes and dashes; who smoked, smiled, made wry and playful gestures with the ballet of his hands and eyes. His presence had the peculiar effect in others for them to turn away, to hold dark thoughts at arm's length in the daylight, to be troubled by enigmatic nightmares as vivid as those experienced only in the vividness of childhood, to bear the unmistakable taint of seeing oneself reflected too honestly in another. But the world would give sway to the man, for there was a charisma about him, a terrible charm. In every life, there are those we meet whom we just know carry in them a destiny; it is in their bearing – what more mystically minded people may call an aura. People of this stripe are unsettling at the best of times, and so magnetic. There is that tacit understanding that it is they who will one day come to rule, pressing their dark and deep tracks in history. Such people had free passage, for there was no obstacle as they relentlessly pursued their vision.
And what perhaps irked others about the man, the man who had celestial music playing in his head, was his chosen way of viewing the world. It was his process of abstracting from the most complex to the smaller and more simple, a movement from an outer enclosure of generality to the particular, and then striking back out again to the contours of the concept. The man did not have the need or capacity to love in any petty sense, for love to him was merely an analyzable structure, at times biologically and socially determined by preconditions continuously reinforced by the glut of compounded experience. The love he respected was the blind and transcendental adoration he would inspire in others, a love no less itself a kind of fear. He knew that amor and timor were one and the same thing, a parallel act of cognition. The man found the subconscious most fascinating, the dark and hidden twin of mind. Most people only occasionally heard its whispers. The artist had the courage to turn and face it, to engage it. The zeal to repress it was incongruous with the mounting hunger to release it. Instead, far too many people floundered in a world now designed for the tepid, the weak, the untroubled, the mediocre – all of these damp newsprint wrapped around that which would not be mummified. Beneath the surface surged a rhapsody blindly seeking a leader, someone to give the amoebic drives a purpose and direction. Until now, the desire to emancipate the atrocity in each being had merely been seething to no effect. It needed to be teased out, trained, put to a definitive end under one who would act as its conductor.
The newly made man knew what his appointed role was meant to fulfill. He would cure the people of their sickness, heal them from being at odds with themselves, unleashing that primitive force that would violently consume the constraints of their enfeebled lives, bringing to the fore a blinding luminescence that could make a new history.
In his right hand was the Red Lion sketchbook, revised and severely edited to become the tablature of his proposed new moral laws. Perhaps many before him had tried and failed, but their failure was in allowing their will to flag, or else making crucial mistakes in their methodology. The people were all of a single web, and he had the skill and insight to know how to pluck at their connective threads to make them resonate in a pitch and harmony of his own making. His predecessors had quit their stations too soon, and so the new man felt it was up to him to be the enjambment of their enterprises, bringing to fruition all that they had started but failed to sustain.
To say that he was extraordinary almost to the point of being impossible would be to neglect the fact that he was necessary, that the cruelty of people had summoned a person of his type. For most, destiny is a light that catches someone in its fleeting freeze-frame before letting go and drifting away to someone else – the synthesized man had a kind of preternatural knack for arresting that light. Perhaps prior to this, he had but the seeds of greatness that were not properly nourished or were too untimely. All that had changed, the right concatenation of events had conspired to make his passage into the now a necessary act, a fait accompli. Manipulating the masses could only occur with any success if all the particular conditions were satisfied, and he knew that this had finally happened. He had in his hand the answer to that largest of questions, “What do the people want?”
16
Law
One will, one voice, one outcome. This was the law of the synthesized man. He was already in a good position to merge his practice with a renewed sense of patrimony, appealing to the craven hunger of the Volkgeist. Indeed, his was the mastery and skill of manipulating and directing the spirit of the people.
38
Setzer Relocates
It was too late. The synthesis had already occurred. Whatever nefarious and fiendish plan (desired and designed by whom, it is not certain) was now achieved. There would be little else to do but to watch and wait.
If things could not be any more bizarre in their hidden cluster of coincidences, Anton Setzer sent me an invitation in the mail – an advertisement for his new base of operations, a used book store in Toronto boasting an introductory 40 percent off selected titles in a grand opening customer pull. The ad detailed the five-story building it now occupied, the transport of its entire stock from its former Detroit location, and the fact that it had “books for all types and tastes, popular or obscure.” Without being able to help myself, drawn by both the prospect of a new bookstore and the connection to this ongoing mystery, I paid Setzer a visit.
The storefront sign read: COLOPHON BOOKS: NEW, USED, RARE & COLLECTIBLE – A. Setzer, Licensed Antiquarian Dealer. His facade was back in full force, and so I wasn't all that surprised when I pushed the door open and heard the tell-tale sound of little bells and the smell of old books all used bookstores seem to have. Behind a suspended desk, surrounded by piles of books, Setzer was pricing them with his antique bifocals dangling comically from the end of his aquiline nose. He looked up and smiled.
“Gimaldi! What brings you here? Do you like the new digs? Did you read about my grand opening sale? I can outfit you with anything you like.”
“I hardly think your bookstore has the books I am looking for, or the ones I have become accustomed to reading.”
“Yes, you're probably right... Although, you look like a bird man. You should most definitely peruse the ornithology in history section – some very exciting acquisitions. Picked them up on the cheap from an estate sale.”
He was adamant to shoot the shit with me as if all were normal.
“Anton, I don't think I'll be perusing your ornithology collection today.”
“No? Pity. That's all right, though. I'm sure I'll have something that would pique your interest. I am pretty sure you like libraries, and I have just created a whole new section devoted to the history of the greatest European libraries in the section 'books about books'. Some rather fine facsimiles, too, I might add. They do wonders in those German institutes with faithful reproduction of Boehme's works especially.”
Ignoring his ridiculous sales pitch, I launched right into him: “Is your labyrinth tucked away in here somewhere, or did you relocate that to your new apartment?”
“Labyrinth? Oh, that. Walked away from it, really. Abandoned it, the machines, the works. Not much call for it anymore.”
“So you're just giving up your long war with Castellemare? Seems a bit odd... “
“Gimaldi, could you come with me a moment?” he asked.
Setzer was no longer operating solo, and asked a new employee – an obvious college stereotype of a bibliophile destined to work in bookstores forever – to mind the front while he “dealt with a client.”
Setzer led me to a back office which was more cluttered than the front desk. He hastily moved a few piles of books from off the chairs and bade me to sit.
“Gimaldi,” he began seriously. “There have been some very big changes, and there are certain branches of my operation that I have had to let go of. The artifice plan was just one of the many things I had to set aside. You might say that, in terms of magical libraries and plans of sabotage, I'm out of busin
ess. I'm what you would call retired. As for our dear mutual friend, I am sure he would be very pleased to hear that his former employee and thorn in his side has bowed out – not that I am in any way involving myself in anything remotely connected to his operations or the Library.”
“I don't understand, not to mention that I don't believe you.”
“It isn't that you don't believe, but that you don't want to believe. Gimaldi, I think you are getting addicted to this mystery. You will not be able to let it go. You need your phantoms to chase, but I'm afraid I'm out. Out, out.”
“Just like that?”
“Gimaldi, I don't have any obligation in explaining anything to you. My reasons are my own, but I will say that at a certain point a man gets tired. I, like all mortal men, have lost my energy and patience for endless pursuits. I love books. I love to give them new owners and see the joy and satisfaction in their purchase. I am amazed at the Library, too, but it isn't my concern anymore.”
“I think you've fed me lines before, Anton, when I first visited you.”
“This time what I am saying is legitimate. Gimaldi, I like you a little – not enough that we'll be having summer barbecues together or any such thing. I more than welcome you to be a patron of my store, and I'd be inclined to be of extra help and give you much more of a discount than I would regular patrons if only because I respect your tastes and reverence for books. But, I have to insist that you revise your tendency to connect me to the Library or any of its associated events. If you can agree to this, I know we can continue developing a good and prosperous merchant-customer relationship – which is where I want the boundary to be.”
“Pardon me, but this feels like another carrot was dangled in front of my nose and yanked away. Recently, you phoned me and were reciting from a book that was an eerie document on all that I had done and will do... And now you just want me to forget about all that? When you have the clues, you decide to pull out and repose in this farce of being some kindly old book hawker?”
“That's exactly what I'm asking. I've severed my ties to all that intrigue. My only desire is to connect people to books, and books to people.”
“Then connect me to the book you were reciting to me over the phone. Can you do that?”
“You know I can't, Gimaldi,” Setzer said. “That book is gone. I gave it back to the Library. I couldn't tell you where it is shelved, or even if you would have the permission to access it. But, really, why the hell would you want to have such a damning book in your possession in the first place? It would be so defeatist. Life ought to at least appear entirely unscripted because otherwise it is so hard to look surprised. Please, Gimaldi, I know I have been terribly unfair to you... I did indeed drop heavy clues in your path, led you along a little, and am partially responsible for your current obsession. I apologize for that, but I see no better way of apologizing than by breaking my connections with that way of life. I'm out.”
“Could you at least give me a parting gift of some kind, something I can work with?”
“I cannot, and please don't ask me to. This is my clean break. I am free. What you ask of me would only fuel your obsession, and I simply cannot have that on my conscience.”
“It does seem rather abrupt.”
“I know. I know it does, but I was faced with rather abrupt circumstances.”
“Such as?”
“You won't be mollified, will you? Let us just say my rather abrupt circumstance concerns the fact that I am, in fact, a mortal man. Terminally so.”
Setzer leveled his eyes with mine in a way that conveyed unmistakeable and genuine sincerity. I felt suddenly very foolish pestering him.
“I'm very sorry,” I said sheepishly.
“Don't be. The advances in medicine are a marvel these days, and I still have a good deal of time left. It is events like these – real ones here in the now, and not in mystical libraries – that force us to reassess our priorities and what legacy we choose to leave behind. By comparison, these games we have played are so pale, so frivolous. I suppose on some level I deserved this illness for lying about being dead in the first place, and so now the lie will become self-fulfilling prophecy.”
“I am still very sorry.”
“How quickly others rally themselves around pity and pessimism. I understand, by the way, that you are still in hot pursuit of what you believe will be truth in the end. Pursue it no more – that is my advice, for what it may be worth.”
“It seems to be rather common and frequent advice.”
“Well, it should be heeded,” he said roundly. “Really, this goose chase of yours will mostly likely result in you falling into his hands.”
“His hands? Whose?”
“The bulb over your head appears to be dimming. The doctor's, of course.”
“The synthesized man?”
“Yes, yes,” he said with emphatic impatience. “The doctor.”
“What manner of doctor?”
“Psychoanalyst, of the worst sort. The kind that uses the tricks and techniques of the trade to impose a narrative for the ease of manipulation. The synthesis is taking light in him now, if it hasn't already. You will end up in his cruel care before long. Oh, drat... I promised myself that I'd stay out of this, and look at what you managed to do! I have to go back and mind the store. If you are not here to browse or buy, then I'm afraid you should go.”
We left the office, me in the lead, and him closing the little door on the papered chaos within. He took a different tone with me all of a sudden.
“Gimaldi, I would like your opinion about a few books I saw listed for auction. Would it be possible for me to call or email you the titles so you could give a rough appraisal of their value so I am not taken for a ride? - And, no, Gimaldi, there is nothing mysterious about these books, so don't get your hopes up. I just know that you have quite the head for the value of things.”
“Yes, of course, any time. It will depend on their condition.”
“The list says they are in very good condition.”
“Sale Lists have a funny way of taking liberties with fact.”
“That they do. I've had my eyes on these for a while. One in particular: a reproduction of Hervaeus Natalis' De secundis intentionibus.”
“On second intentions? Are all your choices somewhat comically coincidental to current states of affairs?”
“It is purely of interest to me. Don't be such a dot-connector, Gimaldi. It is a sickness to think that everything in this world conforms to some single pattern.”
“The Library -”
“That is quite enough. I am getting tired. Let us keep this to business. I can pay you a modest amount for your time and expertise. If you could also put me in touch with a reputable restorer, there are some rather battered editions I would like to see rebound.”
I agreed to act as a consultant for this one potential sale and to cease pestering him. Of course, I was now left with another irritant: a psychoanalyst? Was I supposed to believe the most evil human being to make his presence felt in this world was someone who read Freud and told people at a hundred dollars an hour that they wanted to sleep with their parents?
Anton Setzer never made good to tap me for my services, perhaps finding that he did not require them or that my obsession was too burdensome for a man undergoing difficult medical treatments. The sad end would come about a year later. When all of this had long come to an end, I had learned that Setzer had died. The bookstore still kept his name, but was now under the ownership of his employee, Peter Ibsen. There was a tasteful memorial in the shop window – a black and white photograph of a pensive Setzer, beneath which were a few of his most favourite and recommended titles. If the news were not sad, perhaps there would have been some comedic value in the fact that Setzer was a fond and closet admirer of the works of Arthur Conan Doyle.
The one text he did bequeath to me was posted shortly before his death: another short fiction which was as much a warning lesson as it was an explanation. He sent it in an
envelope with a brief note:
Gimaldi: Some while back, I dropped your name to Heinrich Hermann, and old friend, which then resulted in Greg Pickman contacting you about library phenomenon. Hermann passed away last year, but I think you might find this tale as touching as I did. Be well. -AS
Sanscript
The terrible elegance of the guttering fire has now captured my attention since I had attempted to sample my bed for but a fleeting hour or two. It was that fire, riveting orange spumes curling into themselves, that kept me rapt – perhaps my only anchor to that ramshackle port of sanity.
It is an undeniable truism that any number divided against itself will always result in that single digit unity, just as any number subtracted from itself will result in the authority of null. It is into this binary silence I have read, and have since regretted it; and to this style of seeing and reading I have had to forcibly turn from. A one and a zero, a white space and a black one: this is the Manicheanism of reading, but of a hidden variety that was revealed to me at too unripe an age, in Lisbon.
To say that shadows are a thing of fright for me now is to only journey halfway toward the full truth which is equally shadowy. That I have by dint of chance performed some prodigy is something I would have gladly done better without. For now it is only the flame, my fixed and unbroken gaze with it, that spares me from seeing everything in its motley of shadows.
I can safely say that there exists in all texts a tenebrous and invisible world most of us are thankfully spared from ever glimpsing, a terribly secret realm that is entirely visible, but only for the eyes trained to see it.
I feign at being a man of letters with the convenient and implacable mask of scholarship. This, of course, means my work is overburdened with a cleverness it does not attempt to tastefully conceal. It could be worse, and it has been in previous bouts of my pen: I could perform my own exegesis, lauding my work with long-winded explanations on the stylistics and mechanics, the forcibly imported metaphors, the elitist pomp of making classical allusions...But that is the way some people tend to tell jokes, committing the faux pas of laughing at their own wit before it is judged by the laughter of others, and then trying to relive the punchline with boorish explanation and reiteration. But this is not a story about my errors as a failed writer, nor about the allegiances I maintained so that I could gladhand my way toward receiving literary prizes I certainly did not deserve.
The Infinite Library Page 51
