The City of Dreaming Books

by Walter Moers

  What surprised me most of all was the room’s size. The building had looked so small and skimpy from the street, I could hardly believe that this spacious laboratory fitted inside it. My respect for Bookholm’s ancient architecture increased by leaps and bounds as I strove to memorise as many details of these remarkable premises as I could.

  There was writing everywhere. The velvet curtains over the window were printed with the Zamonian alphabet. Hanging between the bookcases were opticians’ charts in various typefaces and framed diplomas and slates inscribed with jottings in chalk, and pinned to the wall were tiny memos. A huge, freestanding lectern was cluttered with manuscripts, inkwells and magnifying glasses. Printer’s type of all sizes, either of wood or cast in lead, lay around on small tables beside bottles of printer’s ink, each of which was labelled - like a vintage wine - with its year and place of origin. Suspended from the ceiling were strings in various forms of quipu, or knot-writing, from which dangled small plaster tablets engraved with hieroglyphs. Standing here and there were strange mechanical contraptions whose purpose utterly defeated me. The floor was tiled with slabs of grey marble skilfully engraved with various alphabets: Druidical Runic, Ugglian Gothic, Old Atlantean, Palaeo-Zamonian and so on.

  In the middle of the floor was a large closed trapdoor (the entrance to the catacombs?) and standing in a corner was a small crate filled with ancient tomes - the only books I had so far seen on the premises. Hardly a lavish display for an antiquarian bookshop. Was there a library next door?

  ‘I also have a small kitchen and a bedroom, but I spend most of my time in here,’ said Smyke, as if he had read my thoughts. No library? So where were his books?

  It was only then that I noticed the shelf with the Leyden Manikins on it. Six of the little artificial creatures were romping around in their jars and tapping on the glass.5

  ‘I’m using those Manikins to test the acoustic quality of various types of literature,’ Smyke explained. ‘I read them poetry and prose. They don’t understand a word, of course, but they’re extremely sensitive to intonation. Bad verse makes them double up as if they’re in pain, good verse starts them singing. They recognise a sad piece of writing by its sound and burst into tears.’

  We paused in front of one of the bizarre machines, a wooden sphere resembling a terrestrial globe but engraved with letters of the Zamonian alphabet instead of a map. It could evidently be rotated by depressing a pedal.

  ‘A novel-writing machine,’ Smyke said with a laugh. ‘An ancient device once believed to be capable of producing literature by mechanical means - a typical example of Bookemistic idiocy. The sphere is filled with syllables cast in lead. When you operate the pedal they fall out and form a row. Naturally, all they ever produce is sentences like “Pilgeon sulfriger fonzo na tuta halubraz” or something similar. The results are worse than the phonetic verse of the Zamonian Gagaists! I’ve a soft spot for useless junk of this kind. That’s a Bookemistic inspiration battery over there, and that’s an idea refrigerator.’

  Smyke pointed to another two grotesque contraptions.

  ‘If those things were regarded as technologically advanced, it must have been a very unsophisticated age. All those legends about sinister rituals and sacrifices are utter rubbish. The Bookemists were like children playing with type and printer’s ink. When I compare the products of our modern literary industry. . .’ Smyke cast his eyes up at the ceiling.

  I nodded in agreement.

  ‘If you ask me,’ he said, ‘I’d sooner be alive today than in the Zamonian Dark Ages.’

  ‘Except that there weren’t any corrupt reviewers in those days,’ I said.

  ‘True!’ Smyke exclaimed. ‘I see we speak the same language.’

  I pointed to the trapdoor.

  ‘Is that . . . ?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, it is!’ Smyke replied. ‘My own private entrance to the catacombs of Bookholm - my stairway to the underworld. Wheee!’ He waved all fourteen of his little arms at once.

  ‘Is that where Regenschein . . . ?’

  ‘Correct.’ Smyke cut my hesitant question short. ‘This is where Colophonius Regenschein embarked on his quest for the Shadow King.’ He looked grave. ‘I still cherish the hope that he’ll return some day, even after five years.’ He sighed.

  ‘I’ve read his book,’ I said. ‘Since then I’ve been wondering where fact ends and fiction begins.’

  An impressive change came over Smyke’s physique. Previously so flabby and vulnerable-looking, his maggotlike body tensed and grew taller. His expression became stern and piercing, and he clenched his numerous fists.

  ‘Colophonius Regenschein’s credibility is beyond dispute!’ he thundered at me, so loudly that he set the retorts on the shelves around us jingling. ‘He was a hero - a genuine hero and adventurer! He had no need to fabricate his adventures. He underwent them all in person and paid a heavy price.’

  The Leyden Manikins trembled at his tone of voice and some of them burst into tears. I recoiled, intimidated by his sudden transformation. Noticing this, he promptly reverted to his former manner and subsided, both physically and vocally.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said, every inch the literary scholar, ‘but this is still a very painful topic from my point of view. Colophonius Regenschein was a personal friend.’

  I searched for something to say that would enable me to change the subject discreetly.

  ‘Do you believe in the existence of the Shadow King?’ I asked.

  Smyke debated this for a moment. ‘That’s not a valid question,’ he said quietly. ‘No one who has lived in Bookholm for any length of time seriously doubts his existence. I myself have often heard him howling on windless nights. What interests me far more is another question: is he good or evil? Regenschein believed in his essential benevolence. Others assert that the Shadow King killed him.’

  ‘Which view do you take?’

  ‘A million dangers exist down there and any one of them could be responsible for his disappearance. They include Spinxxxxes that can grow to the size of horses, Harpyrs, Fearsome Booklings, vengeful Bookhunters - merciless creatures of all kinds. Why does it have to be the Shadow King who’s responsible for Regenschein’s disappearance? One could speculate on the matter ad infinitum.’

  ‘Do you know how the Fearsome Booklings got their name?’ I asked. ‘Are they really so fearsome?’

  ‘The Bookhunters called them that because they don’t shrink from devouring even the most valuable books. They’re reputed to feed on them when there’s no live prey available.’ Smyke chuckled. ‘To Bookhunters, devouring a valuable book is far more reprehensible than killing a living creature.’

  ‘Bookhunters seem to live by rules of their own.’

  ‘They’re dangerous, so for goodness’ sake beware of them! I occasionally have dealings with them for professional purposes, but I try to limit those contacts as far as possible. Every encounter with a Bookhunter leaves one feeling reborn. Why? Because one has survived!’

  ‘Shall we get down to business?’ I asked.

  Smyke grinned. ‘You have a job for me? Would you care for a cup of tea first? A slice of bee-bread, perhaps?’

  ‘No thank you!’ I said hastily. ‘I’ve no wish to presume on your hospitality. I’m looking for the author of a manuscript. It must be somewhere here . . .’ I felt in my cloak but couldn’t find it at once. I had stuffed it into a pocket at random after my dramatic visit to the Uggly’s bookshop.

  ‘Right, let’s take a look,’ said Smyke, reaching for the manuscript when I finally produced it. He screwed a thick-lensed monocle into his right eye and unfolded the sheaf of paper.

  ‘Hm . . . High quality Grailsundian wove,’ he muttered. ‘Timberlake Paper Mills, 200 grammes. Unevenly trimmed, probably by an obsolete Threadcutter guillotine dating from the century before last. Overacidified.’

  ‘I know all that,’ I said impatiently. ‘It’s the text that interests me.’

  I couldn’t wait to see what his reaction wou
ld be. If he knew anything at all about literature, he would be bound to display some emotion.

  Pfistomel Smyke raised the manuscript until it was within range of his monocle. Even as he read the first sentence, his flabby body seemed to be transfixed by an invisible shaft of lightning. He reared up, trembling, and wavelets of emotion rippled across his masses of adipose tissue. He emitted a sound of which Shark Grubs alone are capable: a high-pitched whistle superimposed on a dull, booming note. Then he drew a deep breath and read on in silence for a while. All at once he gave a roar - of laughter. It was a prolonged paroxysm of mirth that made his torso wobble to and fro like a toy balloon filled with water. He quietened, then squeaked and gasped and giggled inanely. His growls of approbation alternated with phases of mute emotional turmoil.

  I had to smile. Sure enough, he was displaying the whole range of emotions this same short story had evoked in me and Kibitzer. The corpulent creature not only knew something about literature but possessed a sense of humour as well.

  Eventually he lapsed into dull, brooding silence. As far as he was concerned, I didn’t exist. His eyes glazed over and he remained motionless for several minutes. At last he lowered the manuscript and seemed to emerge from a profound trance.

  ‘My goodness,’ he said, gazing at me with tears in his eyes, ‘it’s truly sensational. The work of a genius.’

  ‘Well,’ I asked eagerly, ‘do you know the author? Can you at least point me in the right direction?’

  ‘Not so fast, my friend.’ Smyke smiled as he re-examined the manuscript, this time with a magnifying glass. ‘First I have to conduct a syllabic analysis and draw up a graphological parallelogram. Stylistic mensuration will be necessary, and I must work out the ratio of metaphors to the number of characters, calligraphically calibrating the text with my alphabetic microscope. Next will come an acoustic test with the Leyden Manikins and an analysis of the cutaneous scales adhering to the paper - the full programme, in other words. That will take, let’s see . . . the whole night at least. If you leave the manuscript with me now I shall be able to tell you more by noon tomorrow. Probably not the author’s name, but one or two things about him: whether he’s right- or left-handed, how old he was at the time of writing, what part of Zamonia he comes from, his weight, his personal traits and temperament, the authors that influenced him, the ink he uses, where it comes from and so on. I’ll be able to ascertain his name if he has become a well-known author since writing this, but that will take longer. I should have to do some research in the manuscript library. Will you be staying in Bookholm for a little while?’

  ‘It depends how much your expert opinion costs.’

  Smyke grinned. ‘Don’t worry about that, it’s on the house.’

  ‘I really couldn’t accept,’ I said awkwardly.

  ‘But I work for nothing on principle. It’s the shop that provides my income.’

  I’d quite forgotten about that. What shop did he mean? The crate of books in the corner?

  ‘What I can already tell you is this,’ Smyke went on. ‘We’re dealing with a valuable manuscript here. How valuable remains to be seen, but you must refrain from mentioning it to anyone. There are a lot of shady individuals in Bookholm. People have been knifed for an unsigned second edition before now.’

  ‘You propose to hang on to the manuscript?’

  ‘If you want quick results, yes. Of course, if you’d prefer to consult someone else . . .’ He held out the manuscript. ‘I can give you the addresses of several eminent colleagues.’

  ‘No, no,’ I said. ‘By all means keep it overnight. I’m in rather a hurry.’

  ‘I’ll give you a receipt,’ he said.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ I told him sheepishly. ‘I trust you.’

  ‘No, I insist. I’m a member of the Bookholm Graphologists’ Guild. We do everything by the book.’ He wrote out a receipt and handed it to me.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘That was business, now comes pleasure. Would you care to glance at my stock?’

  ‘Certainly,’ I replied. What stock did he mean? His stock of Leyden Manikins?

  Smyke indicated the crate of books.

  ‘Help yourself, ferret around to your heart’s content. Perhaps you’ll find a bargain.’

  He was probably hinting that I ought to recompense him for his unpaid endeavours by buying something. Well, perhaps I would find a book I could pretend to be enthusiastic about. I went over to the crate, knelt down, took out the first one that came to hand - and almost dropped it. It was The Bloody Book!

  Smyke was pretending to take no notice of me. Humming to himself, he smoothed out the sheaf of manuscript with a heavy paperweight.

  I stared at The Bloody Book. Incredible! It really was the edition bound in Kackertratts’ wing membranes and allegedly written in demonic blood! One of the most sought-after items on the Golden List! Unique! A museum piece! This book was not just worth a row of houses, it exceeded a whole urban district in value.

  ‘Look inside,’ Smyke told me with a grin.

  I opened the big book with trembling hands. My eyes lighted on the following sentence: ‘Witches always stand amid birch trees . . .’ I can’t explain why, but those few words filled me with a terror such as I had never experienced before. Beads of cold sweat broke out on my forehead.

  I shut the book and laid it aside.

  ‘Interesting,’ I said in a tremulous voice.

  ‘Demonistics isn’t everyone’s cup of tea,’ said Smyke. ‘I myself find it too grim a subject. I never dip into the book, I simply own it. Go on looking, perhaps you’ll find something suitable.’

  I removed the next book from the crate, read the title - and gave another start. It was Silence of the Sirens by Count Klanthu of Kinomaz - the signed first edition, what was more. Light fiction, to be sure, but what light fiction! Klanthu’s first novel was his only commercial flop, so the whole of the first edition had been pulped - with the exception of this one copy. Then Klanthu became a success and its value rocketed. The book was later reprinted, of course, but this copy of the first edition with illustrations by Werma Tozler was worth an absolute fortune. I ventured to look for the price inside the front cover. There it was, pencilled in the corner in tiny numerals, a sum so astronomical it made my head spin. I carefully laid the book aside.

  ‘Don’t you care for light fiction?’ asked Smyke. ‘Ah well, it’s more for green youngsters. Try another.’

  I removed another big book from the crate.

  ‘But . . .’ I gasped. ‘This is The Solar Chronicles, one of the most valuable books in existence!’

  ‘Yes,’ Smyke said with a grin, ‘but only because the printer’s ink was mixed with ground-up dust from the Lunar Eclipse Diamond. It’s worthless from the literary aspect, but the print sparkles beautifully in candlelight.’

  ‘I’m afraid these books are out of my financial league,’ I said, rising to my feet. I’d never seen such treasures before.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Smyke. ‘It was only a little joke on my part. I wanted to show off a bit. Those are the minor joys and compensations of my lonely profession. Delve deeper and you’ll find another seven titles, all of which appear on the Golden List - near the top, too.’

  ‘You weren’t exaggerating when you said your stock was worth a look.’

  ‘Hm, well,’ said Smyke. ‘Some antiquarians fill vast premises with umpteen thousand books and employ armies of sales assistants. I prefer to work alone. I’m more of a specialist. Strictly speaking, this is the most highly specialised antiquarian bookshop in the city. I’m sure you now see why I can afford to dispense with a fee.’ So saying, he ushered me out.

  ‘May I make a suggestion?’ he asked when I was already outside in the street.

  ‘By all means.’

  ‘If you’ve nothing better to do this evening, try this.’ He handed me a leaflet.

  Invitation

  ‘From the Primal Note to Moomievillean Ophthalmic Polyphony’

  A
Historic Trombophone Concert at the Bookholm Bowl

  performed by

  The Murkholm Trombophone Orchestra

  Sponsor: Pfistomel Smyke

  At Sunset in the Municipal Gardens

  Admission Free!

  Bring a warm shawl with you!

  ‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘A musical mystery tour?’

  ‘You could call it that, but it’s more than just a concert. Believe me, it would be worthwhile going. It’s a genuine cultural experience, not a tourist attraction.’

  ‘To be honest, I’d meant to attend a literary function this evening. At timber-time, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Timber-time shmimber-time!’ Smyke made a dismissive gesture. ‘Timber-time in Bookholm is a nightly occurrence. You won’t get to hear a performance by the Murkholm Trombophone Orchestra every day of the week. It’s an event! Still, don’t let me talk you into it - perhaps you’re allergic to trombophone music.’

  ‘I couldn’t say. I’ve never heard any.’

  ‘You should definitely go, then. It’s an acoustic adventure. I wish I could go myself, but . . .’ Smyke shrugged. ‘Duty calls . . .’ He tapped the manuscript and sighed.

  ‘Au revoir,’ I said. ‘I’ll come back at noon tomorrow.’

  ‘Good, see you then.’ He waved me goodbye and quietly closed the door.

  It wasn’t until I had quit the heart of the city and returned to its busier neighbourhoods - this time making a big detour to avoid Poison Alley and the Graveyard of Forgotten Writers - that I noticed something: Darkman Street described a series of spirals round the geographical centre of Bookholm, so Pfistomel Smyke’s house, which stood at its focal point, must have been among the very first of the city’s buildings to be constructed above ground.

  Timber-Time

  Timber-time was what Bookholmians called the tranquil evening hours, that snug sequel to a busy day of selling books or writing them. When thick balks of timber blazed in open fireplaces and pipes were lit, when heavy wines developed their bouquets in big-bellied glasses and the Master Readers embarked on their public recitations - that was timber-time. That was when billets of firewood crackled on the hearth, bathing the various venues in a warm yellow glow, when ancient tomes and first editions hot off the press were opened, and when audiences crowded closer to listen to the old and tried or the new and outré, to essays or short stories, novels or collections of letters, poetry or prose. Timber-time was when the body came to rest and the mind sprang to life, when phantoms born of a literary imagination arose from the pages and danced about the heads of listeners and readers alike.