Before commencing my immodest sleuthing, I first went and had breakfast and subsequently, in the mounting heat of morning, I looked for a cheap little hotel. I found the Albergo al Porto not far from the docks, a small, tall building that had not been painted for a hundred years but which, from my rickety balcony, did indeed give, only just, - almost miraculously bit of a view on the harbour and the Mediterranean that stretched out beyond it.
A problem occurred when, that afternoon, I asked the proprietress of my Albergo the way to the Calle delle XV Settembre where, according to the address on the envelope, the Libreria Maccari had to be situated. Everybody was dragged into it - brothers-in-law, neighbours, sisters - but no one appeared to know precisely this street or that bookshop, though some had lived for fifty of fifty years, Sir - in this town. All the names of all the bookshops were read out aloud from the telephone directory but there was none called Maccari. Only the old father-in-law, wakened from his afternoon nap by the clamour, was able to solve my simply-meant question. Despite the clear manner in which the letter had been addressed, Maccari turned out not to be a bookshop at all, and the Calle delle XV Settembre was not such a long walk away: the old gentleman would show me the way, no trouble at all.
At the time of writing this continuation to my tale, I'm on Argentera, in the garden room of the Bibliotheca Sarrazina where I enjoy the greatest hospitality possible. Before, however, passing on to a description of life here and of this extraordinary institute, I must first explain what has happened in the intervening weeks and in what manner I have, you might say, made Dr Sarrazin's existence my own, or rather Raoul's, as he has permitted me to call him.
Once arrived in the unprepossessing Calle delle XV Settembre, having thanked my elderly guide and rung the bell at Maccari & Co., the door was presently opened by the proprietor himself. He was visibly delighted by a possible new customer presenting himself and invited me in with many words and gestures. In my best Italian, I lied that I was a close acquaintance of Dr Sarrazin's and that he had asked me a friend's favour to take back a fresh order for twelve books for his library to Argentere in a fortnight's time. Standing among high piles of magazine-copies and series of, on the face of it, scientific and technical bulletins, Mr Maccari frowned. He said, in all innocence, that he believed that the orders were always delivered freight to Dr Sarrazin, weren't they, and that no other persons were required for this. Dr Sarrazin did pay extra for postage as well as for discretion, after all.
Until that moment, I had not, to be honest, fully realised what the mysteriousness of this consignment of books might mean. Put on the spot a little, I looked round until I managed to answer Mr Maccari, in a fortunate bit of improvisation, that not only had I known my good friend Raoul a long time and had even worked for him a while, but that, moreover, I, in my own name, should like to order a few books of similar kind from the firm as well. This made all further doubt evaporate and it was now possible to settle matters of business apace. I ordered some three additional books, all with my own name as being the authors, for which I wrote the titles down on a note which was slipped attentively towards me across the counter: Anthologica Poetarurn Maritima, Descriptions des Iles Franco-Italiennes and - why not - my Poesies de Circonstances. Mr Maccari was convinced of the importance of the commission and no less of my trustworthiness. Payment was not even due until delivery. After all, it was already exceptionally kind that I had declared myself prepared, as an act of kindness between friends, to advance the invoice value for Raoul, too. We parted most cordially and I hurried from the chill little alley towards the warm afternoon sun.
Except for viewing Livorno and its surroundings, I had just three things to do during the next two weeks. The books, fifteen in all, would have to be collected ere long; I had to book my passage to Argentere but not letter would have to be written to the Bibliotheca Sarrazina to announce my coming to the island.
My letter, addressed to M. le Professeur Dr R. Sarrazin was, though I say it myself, a rather well thought-out piece of work. I wrote to him that I had learned he was an authority in the field of the history of Argentera and that, apparently, he had written a number of indispensable works on the subject which, however, were hard to obtain on the mainland. I myself was a young poet who, on the basis of a historical interest in 'his' island, was considering devoting a long epic poem to Argentera, a task for which his help and documentation would be of the greatest possible value to me. In short, also given the laborious postal communications and the fact that I now happened to be in the neighbourhood, I dared hope that I might come and visit him by the next ship to arrive after his receiving this letter, to request his hospitality and co-operation for a number of days. At the same time, I would have the opportunity to hand him a package which our common acquaintance Guido Maccari wished to give to me to take along, destined for his renowned Bibliotheca Sarrazina, rightly famed in all comers of, et cetera, et cetera, and, please, would he be assured of my sentiments of highest esteem and deepest respect. I wrote the letter in French and sent it by the weekly mail packet in the direction of Marseille. I could not possibly expect a reply for, when in just under a fortnight's time the scheduled service Marseille-Livorno would call at Argentera again to collect his possible reply, I would already be on the ship crossing in the opposite direction on its way to the island. Sarrazin could not refuse my request, therefore; he probably would be suspicious, though. And rightly so.
A good week and a half after my first visit, I stood once again in the dark workshop of no. 11, Calle delle XV Settembre. Mr Maccari packed all fifteen books very carefully, my own works separate from the pile destined for Sarrazin. He showed each one to me before it disappeared in wrapping paper, proudly displaying the cover-toolings on the smooth linen and the tinted endpapers. Doing so, he could not stop himself each time from lovingly allowing the hundreds and hundreds of blank pages to fan out between thumb anu index finger. He visibly relished his own bookbinding work and I, in my turn, relished the perfectly serious comedy brought to light here, the precise and rapt attention that, craftsman-like, had been given to the execution of nothing but a farce. In other words, I was looking forward to conversation, face to face, with the so-learned librarian who collected these pseudobooks around him like a phantom collection of soulless works.
Next day, I bore the heavy packages as well as my suitcase to the harbour, there to take the ship to Argentere. Once again, I was surprised at the almost complete lack of clear instructions for passengers to Argentere and, moreover, it turned out that, as a non-inhabitant of the island, I would have to pay full passage to Marseille. That official obstruction, however, I gladly endured for my surprise voyage. And I was in an exceptionally light-hearted mood. Mindful of my learned host, I'd had myself fitted out in Livorno with a classic, pale-grey suit. In some way or other, I was sure that the old-fashioned gentleman in the sand-coloured suit I had seen two weeks earlier on the berthing pier of Argentera had been none other than Sarrazin, and I wanted to try to gain his confidence the moment we greeted one another.
My surprise was great, therefore, when upon the ship's arrival in Argentera's little harbour there was no Dr Sarrazin to be seen at all to meet me. Instead, I was awaited by two gendarmes. They declared that they had been given instruction to accompany me to the notary of the island who had been charged with the execution of the last will and testament of their most learned fellow citizen, Dr Sarrazin, who had tragically met his death six days ago now. If I wouldn't mind following the two gentlemen? In order to render this easier, they both took a heavy package of books under an arm and with the shock of the news still in my three of us walked in the direction of the village, watched by a group of children who had been standing there waving off the ferry which had already departed again. The blank-paged books for the Bibliotheca Sarrazina, all guilt and regret, haunted my head.
The notary did not know the secret of Dr Raoul Sarrazin; this, at first, I believed I could read from his almost ageless face. We were sitting in his
study on either side of a large, old, clerk's desk, and he spoke continually of the tremendous learnedness of Sarrazin, much lamented by all; of the enormous importance of the Bibliotheca Sarrazina he had founded for the knowledge of the political and natural history of Argentera; of the occasionally absentminded yet always affable academician himself who, selflessly, had put his talent, indeed his entire life in service of the historiography of the island and its inhabitants. What had the community been able to set against this in reward? Too little, far too little. True, the library was housed in one of the most beautiful villas on the former town hall which had been made available for the purpose - and the librarian had been the guest of the Pensione Minatore, the culinary pride of the island, for his hot meals each day and, lastly, he had received a modest monthly stipend from a legacy purposed to that end, in order to be able to carry out his historical and literary work and to fund the necessary purchases of books. But these were trifles; they paled by comparison with the great worth such a unique man as Sarrazin had had to Argentera, the island where he had lived and worked from his fifth to his eighty-second year. Thus, still, the notary, speaking in solemn tones and leaving no space for any interruption. I should, therefore, he continued, pressing his fingertips together, consider it an exceptional honour that Dr Raoul Sarrazin, born, then and then, in Montpellier, unmarried, last residing at 15, Rue Sarrazin, Argentera, deceased, then and then, ditto; that Dr Raoul Sarrazin, that is, by his last will and testament, drawn up the same day upon which his life was broken off so abruptly, had left all his possessions and privileges to none other than me. Though still burdened with the tragic events of the previous week that had led to all this, it was nevertheless a privilege for the notary to be the first to congratulate me now in my new capacity as the custodian of the Bibliotheca Sarrazina.
To say that I was perplexed is to put it mildly. I had been expecting all kinds of things, but not this. I had assumed that Sarrazin would be something of an elderly eccentric, with his library of blanks, and I had not really wished to do him any harm. He would have had those three empty books from me as a present, inscribed with a dedication, if need be, in which I would assure him of my great admiration, and afterwards I would have bid farewell again to the island with its extraordinary chronicler. What exactly had my letter brought about in him? And to what extent was this notary acquainted with everything? Or was the library most definitely a serious place of study and documentation and had I brought a cruel misunderstanding into being? Thus I tormented myself with feverish questions. The ship would only be going in a week's time; I had not a clue as to what was in store for me, and an expectant silence was being maintained on the opposite side of the desk.
A little dumbfounded, I stammered that I felt deeply honoured and filled with gratitude, but that at the same time I regarded the prospective post as probably too elevated an assignment. Without heeding the contents of my response, the notary got up energetically, shook my hand at great length, and handed me a sealed envelope originating from my illustrious predecessor. Repeating good wishes and congratulations, he then saw me with my packages and luggage, as I on parting the wooden house situated two hundred metres further on, to which he solemnly handed me the key. Bibliotheca Sarrazina, Dr R. Sarrazin, I read the by now familiar imprint on the envelope, as I walked along.
By now, I have been staying some considerable time already as resident and custodian of the late Dr Raoul Sarrazin's house, filled to the rafters with volumes of books. Everywhere I am treated with the greatest respect as one who is so learned and gifted that he has been singled out to be his successor by the founder of the Bibliotheca Sarrazina in person. The circumstance that I was already in situ only a few days after old Sarrazin's tragic death, to take over the responsibilities entrusted to me, has only reinforced everybody's esteem and my immediate succession has, moreover, emphasised once more, so it seems, that the work in the library may in no possible way remain unattended.
The letter from he had signed the epistle in friendship - handed to me across the grave, was of such a directness and lucidity one would almost not expect from an eighty-two-year-old. The tone, too, with which he bids me welcome and gives me a few bits of practical advice is one so remote from the fact that, when writing, he was barely separated by a day from the moment of his death, that I harbour some doubts about the entire tale of his sudden demise. According to the official version, confirmed by several inhabitants upon my enquiry, Sarrazin fell from a rock during a walk, probably in search of rare stones, and plunged into the sea. I, for myself, question whether Sarrazin did indeed die or, for instance, whether he is hiding somewhere, hand in glove with the notary who wields control over the means of the Bibliotheca Sarrazina. But what relevance have these insinuations now that I have made life and work here so much my own that a return is barely imaginable any longer? My sole, be it luxurious problem, is absolutely not financial in live, eat and drink for free, and receive my monthly stipend on top of rather one of having practically nothing to do. The entire Bibliotheca Sarrazina - consisting, apart from my living accommodation, of four rooms, all walls filled from floor to ceiling with volumes of nothing but bound, blank paper. All these imposing volumes, in leather, in linen, with tooled gold-leaf, in octavo or god-knows how finely and variedly executed, are locked away behind sturdy little doors with glass or mesh in front, so no one other than myself ever takes one out.
I walk across the island a lot, which gets explained as being 'scientific investigations'; my conversation is attended to most gravely, and everyone wishes to be on the right side of me, for they know that I am at work on a new volume of the Description de la vie quotidienne en Argentera. It is barely possible to obtain a newspaper here, let alone a recent one, so that my supposed descriptions of daily life on the island have authority ahead of events. I generally get up quite late in the morning, have some fruit from the garden belonging to the house, and bread that is set out ready for me. In the afternoons I mainly stay inside, away from the hot sun, and in the evening I will take a short walk and subsequently dine in the only restaurant here, Pensione Minatore, where I am given friendly but, in awe of my thoughts, silent service. I will then sit smoking till late in the balmy evenings on the veranda of my house which offers a view out to sea.
Honesty compels me to say that I do leaf through one of my thousands of books at times, homing in on a title which stirs my curiosity. Almost without exception, these are sound volumes of splendour, full of creamy white paper. From time to time there are questions to be answered, too: people who drop by about something, or a tourist, once in a blue moon, who wishes to view the Bibliotheca Sarrazina. For a small consideration, I will then show them round and without exception they will be astounded by the temple of learning which this teeny-weeny island appears to house. At a given moment, I will have to write to Maccari in Livorno to have some new books shipped out. It is expected, of course, that I publish something from time to time. With the first three works I already carried with me at the time of my arrival here - years ago, it can seem to me, now and then - I can make do for a while, though. Last month, my Poesies de Circonstances were released in public. In Pensione Minatore, the notary presented me with the first (and sole) copy and read out (ostensibly) the personal dedication on the title page: A mon cher maitre, Dr Raoul Sarrazin, le bienfaiteur regrette de notre tie d'Argentera. Upon which the proprietress of the pensione burst into tears and general applause ensued. That same evening, the book was solemnly given its place in Room IV of the Bibliotheca Sarrazina, Case 9, third shelf from the bottom.
On rare occasions, I have tried to actually write something, a poem or a bit of a diary entry, but from sheer awe I do not feel capable, indeed, not even entitled to put all those white pages surrounding me to the test. What I might say flows away at once, as it were, in this sea of blank paper, a sea from which rises, like a minute protuberance, the secret of Dr Raoul Sarrazin.
Belcampo
By two men who did not speak his language but
who could clasp his arms in an immovable grip, he was chucked down the stone stairs into the darkness. There he lay and bled. With a booming blow the iron hatch slammed shut above him.
By the reverberation he gleaned that he had been cast into a large space. It could be a hall. He was lying on a stone floor; he could feel damp sand here and there. There was nothing he could see; it seemed pitch dark there. He could hear something. Shuffling sounds now and then, other ones too occasionally, as if a paw was being put down, a body turned over. Breathing, too.
He was not alone there. Animals? Would he be eaten later on? Had they already smelled his blood? His teeth chattered with fear; his knees, too, began to tremble and he no longer had the power to subdue them.
Though he did not know yet whether the end of his life was imminent, his fear was already accompanied by the feeling of complete desolation each dying human being experiences in his last moments of consciousness. No one any longer could do anything for him; all of humanity had turned away from him: he was alone. All his past experience appeared to have been deception. To be betrayed by life itself: this is the bitter end of every man.
Yet, the space he was lying in seemed gradually to clear up a bit; perhaps his eyes, blinded at first by the sudden darkness, were slowly getting used to it. He began to discern something, to distinguish between things in the dark. The pale gleam of limbs, it would seem. Dim movement, here and there. He recognised human forms, mainly lying down, a few sitting up. No, he had not ended up in an animal pit but in a human one. It grew ever clearer. The entire floor of the subterranean hall seemed covered with a curious life form, with a layer of the living.
Slowly, the terrible truth penetrated his tortured brain: here, in this bottom most darkness, the warriors of vanquished peoples were left to their own devices.
The Dedalus Book of Dutch Fantasy Page 5
