The City of Dreaming Books

by Walter Moers

  And then I saw it: the Triadic Circle.

  The Triadic Circle, the mysterious symbol emblazoned on the doors of Kibitzer’s and Inazia Anazazi’s bookshops . . . It glowed before my inner eye, conjured up by the power of the trombophone music, which was now blaring at maximal volume. That fiery circle was the loveliest, most flawless and magnificent thing I had ever seen. My one desire was to serve and obey it.

  Then everything ceased abruptly. The music stopped, the mysterious symbol faded and I plummeted into the depths. I returned to earth, to Zamonia, to my own body. Click! So emancipated only moments before, my spirit had inexorably re-embedded itself in my flesh and was sandwiched between my molecules.

  I opened my eyes. The Murkholmers had lowered their trombophones and begun to replace them in their instrument cases. Everyone stood up. No applause. I looked around in bewilderment. What a strange end to such a sensational concert! I turned to ask the dwarf some questions, but he had already left. I saw Kibitzer and the Uggly hurrying off with the rest of the audience as they scrambled over the rows of seats. I alone remained sitting on my collapsible chair in Bookholm’s Municipal Gardens.

  Then it came to me: I, too, had no time to lose - I must go at once! How could I have forgotten? My sole aim in life was to acquire as many books as I could gather together and carry. Quick, quick, before the others got there! I simply had to buy some books! Books! Books! And, of course, they had to be Dreaming Books from shops that bore the sign of the Triadic Circle. I dashed off after the rest.

  Book Rage

  We pushed and shoved and jostled our way along, eager to quit the gardens as soon as possible.

  I soon found myself in a group near the front. It included Ahmed ben Kibitzer and the Uggly, but we barely noticed each other. I was engaged on a mission: I had to buy books, masses of them, and nothing else mattered. As if the trombophone music had emptied my brain of everything but that one overriding thought, I strode along as smartly as a soldier, repeating it to myself again and again: Books, books, I must buy some books! Books, books, I must buy some books!

  We came to a street at last, but it didn’t boast a single bookshop. We’d happened on what was probably the only street in Bookholm without one! What a waste of time! I panted with impatience, others swore. On, on!

  The next street . . . Four second-hand bookshops, but none of them bore the sign of the Triadic Circle. Damnation, they were no use! On we went!

  The next street . . . A dozen bookshops, two with the Triadic Circle. Impetuously, we charged into them like a horde of drunken barbarians, uttering such loud, triumphant cries that the other customers beat a hasty retreat and the proprietors took refuge behind their counters, looking apprehensive.

  I peered around feverishly. Books at last! Which ones should I buy? No matter! They were books, that was the main thing! I must buy, buy! I seized a large shopping basket and filled it indiscriminately, sweeping books off the shelves regardless of title or author, price or condition. I couldn’t have cared less if they were valuable first editions or cheap trash, if they concerned my fields of interest or were worth acquiring for any reason at all. I had been smitten with an insatiable hunger for books and only one thing could cure it: buy, buy, buy!

  An unpleasant incident occurred when the Uggly and I chanced to grab the same book simultaneously. We tugged at it for a while, baring our teeth and snarling as we swayed to and fro, until she suddenly lost interest and swooped on another pile of books like a vulture pouncing on a dead sheep.

  We were in the throes of book rage! The concertgoers around me shoved and jostled, snatching up armfuls of books as if there would be none left tomorrow. One or two of them came to blows, but most reserved their energy for the task in hand. I staggered across the shop weighed down with books, pausing only to load my basket with still more printed matter.

  The first of us made for the cash desk, unable to carry any more, and dramatic scenes ensued when the cost of their intended purchases exceeded their ability to pay. Many wept and rent their clothes when the dealer withheld books to the value of the deficit, and I found their behaviour quite understandable. How could he be so hard-hearted?

  At last I myself tottered up to the counter with my basket, which was a dead weight. The bookseller announced his intention of withholding a large proportion of its contents - expensive first editions for the most part - merely because I couldn’t pay for them! I wept and wailed, appalled by his mean, small-minded attitude, but he was adamant. Having cursed him violently and stuffed as many books into a huge bag as my purse would stretch to, I departed, broke but blissful.

  Back at the hotel I tipped out my haul in the middle of the room and spent a while gazing at the mound of books with a contented grin. Then I slumped down on the bed and lapsed at once into a long, dreamless sleep.

  Four Hundred Frog Recipes

  My first thought on waking was that I was in the wrong room, or that some lunatic had dumped a mountain of books there during the night. Then it all came back to me: the concert, the Murkholmian trombophonists, the primal note, Ilfo Guzzard’s Comet Wine, the Shadow King, Moomievillean Ophthalmic Polyphony, the fiery Triadic Circle, my fit of book rage.

  Sleepily, I went over to my haul, picked up one of the books and checked the title.

  Chimney-Sweeping for Advanced Students by Darko Lum.

  I picked up another.

  Two Dozen on the Bare Butt - A Flagellator’s Manual by Sistomach Owch.

  I tossed it aside and picked up another.

  A Hundred Hilarious Anecdotes from the Gloomberg Mountains.

  What was this trash? I picked up one book after another and examined it, shaking my head.

  A Little Book of Knots for Left-Handers.

  Glass-Blowing with Bellows.

  All You Need to Know about Chronic Flatulence.

  The Prehistoric Mummification of Insects in Subtropical Peat Bogs (24 volumes).

  Applied Cannibalism.

  How to Comb a Chicken.

  Corrosion Tables for Rust Technicians.

  Beard-Washing with Marine Sponges.

  An Encyclopaedia of Wood-Planing.

  Four Hundred Frog Recipes. Who had bought this load of rubbish? Could I have done so?

  I continued to rummage through the mound, becoming wider awake and more desperate with every title I came to. I hadn’t acquired a single interesting or valuable item, just waste paper and junk. I’d blown all my savings on books fit at best for a bonfire.

  In despair, I tottered back to the bed and lay down again. It was only then that I became aware of the throbbing pain in my head. I hoped it wasn’t an incurable brain disease. Perhaps the music had triggered a latent psychosis that would shortly land me in a padded cell in Bookholm’s lunatic asylum, attired in a straitjacket. It had already ruined me financially, so why shouldn’t it drive me insane? Listen! Was I hearing voices? Yes, I could definitely hear voices inside my head - dementia already had me in its icy clutches and was whispering its crazy commands in my ear. But no, it was only the chambermaids dusting the room next door. I strove to calm down.

  How could I have come to this? Was trombophone music really so potent? Well, if it could make a Lindworm whimper and roll around on the ground under the impression that he was Colophonius Regenschein, it was bound to be capable of a few other things as well.

  I would have no choice but to return to Lindworm Castle hanging my head in shame, a ruined, broken dinosaur. I didn’t even have enough money to pay my hotel bill or buy myself some breakfast. Would the bookseller take the books back? No use, I couldn’t even remember where his shop was.

  Then I thought of Pfistomel Smyke. My manuscript was valuable, he had told me. Perhaps I could sell it to him.

  I turned over with a groan. How low I’d sunk! If I was prepared to sell Dancelot’s bequest for a bite of breakfast, I might as well go to the Graveyard of Forgotten Writers and move in right away. Shutting my eyes, I saw the fiery Triadic Circle. Not as bright and respl
endent as yesterday but in full colour - a beautiful, fascinating sight. I could use a little more trombophone music, I thought.

  Then I wrenched my eyes open and jumped out of bed. What had that music done to me? I stared disconsolately at the worthless pile of books. I simply had to get some fresh air, so I washed and made my way downstairs.

  Having slunk past the reception desk under the hotel-keeper’s suspicious gaze - he had witnessed my return in the small hours, laden with the huge bag of books and uttering triumphant cries - I went outside. It surprised me to see how busy the streets were. I must have slept for an exceptionally long time. To judge by the position of the sun, it was almost midday. This was quite convenient, because it meant that I could take myself off to Pfistomel Smyke’s typographical laboratory without delay.

  Smyke’s Inheritance

  Pfistomel Smyke had a sumptuous brunch ready for me - apple juice, poached eggs, bread and honey (sans bees), oven-warm Poet’s Ringlets and coffee - as if he’d guessed that I would arrive in a famished condition.

  We sat in the literary scholar’s small, snug kitchen. He grinned to see the way I fell on my food. I drank several pints of coffee and demolished three slices of bread and honey, four eggs and two Poet’s Ringlets. While eating I told him about my experiences of the previous night.

  Smyke laughed. ‘I ought to have warned you. Those musicians are Murkholmers, after all - one has to be prepared for anything. I once attended a concert after which the entire audience - including yours truly - desecrated Bookholm’s Ugglian cemetery. That’s Murkholmian humour for you - everything has its price. But tell me, wasn’t it worth going?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I said, chewing busily, ‘in a way. But now I’m broke.’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That manuscript of yours - I’ve examined it thoroughly and I think it’s considerably more valuable than I assumed at first sight.’

  ‘Really?’

  My spirits rose abruptly. I took another swig of coffee.

  ‘Certainly, my friend,’ said Smyke. ‘Its value is immense, especially here in Bookholm. There should be no difficulty in selling it for a substantial sum. I can help you to dispose of it if you like - without charging a commission, of course. If you preferred to hang on to it your credit would be good anywhere in the city.’

  ‘That’s wonderful. Were you able to identify the author?’

  ‘I was indeed.’

  ‘Really? Who is it?’

  Smyke gave another grin and rose. ‘May I keep you on tenterhooks for a bit - and, at the same time, show you one of Bookholm’s best-kept secrets? Come with me, please.’

  He left the kitchen. I stuffed another Poet’s Ringlet into my mouth and followed him. The literary scholar led me into his typographical laboratory and pointed to the shelf with the Leyden Manikins on it. I looked at the bottles, gave a start, and looked more closely. The Manikins were floating in their nutrient fluid - lifeless.

  ‘They’re dead,’ said Smyke. ‘Your mysterious author was responsible.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Last night I read them some passages from your manuscript to check the quality of the intonation. At first they broke into song, then they wept. Finally they sank to the bottom of their bottles, one by one, and expired. The quality of the writing killed them. It was too great for such little creatures.’

  ‘Incredible,’ I said. ‘Has anything like that happened before?’

  ‘No,’ said Smyke, ‘never.’ He went over to the trapdoor, which was wide open. ‘Follow me, please.’

  The trapdoor gave access to a decrepit wooden ramp that groaned as the corpulent Shark Grub slithered down it. I gingerly climbed down after him. Below ground it was cool and damp - and utterly uninteresting: a typical old cellar with a few dusty shelves on which reposed some bottled fruit, jars of honey and bottles of wine. I could see nothing else apart from cobwebs, firewood and a few broken gadgets from the laboratory.

  ‘Is this one of Bookholm’s best-kept secrets?’ I asked. ‘Are you afraid someone will discover your aversion to dusting?’

  With a smile, Smyke gave one of the shelves a gentle push. It swung back, together with the wall behind it, and disclosed a long underground passage filled with pulsating light.

  ‘Are you prepared to enter the catacombs of Bookholm?’ Smyke asked, pointing along the tunnel with his seven left arms. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be a guided tour. Return journey guaranteed.’

  We entered the passage, which was discreetly lit by jellyfish lamps. The prevailing atmosphere resembled the one in my trombophone vision, except that here there were no shelves and no books. Hanging on the walls at long intervals were some large oil paintings, all of which depicted Shark Grubs in various costumes.

  ‘They’re all Smykes,’ the literary scholar said with a touch of pride as we made our way past the portraits.

  ‘My ancestors,’ he went on. ‘There! That’s Prosperius Smyke, formerly chief executioner of Florinth. The one with the crafty expression is Harimata Smyke, a notorious spy who died three centuries ago. The ugly fellow beyond her is Halirrhotius Smyke, a pirate who resorted to eating his own children when becalmed in the doldrums. Ah well, we can’t choose our relations, can we? The Smyke family is scattered the length and breadth of Zamonia.’

  One of the portraits aroused my particular interest. The subject was exceptionally thin for his breed. He displayed none of the obesity typical of Shark Grubs and had piercing eyes in which I seemed to detect a glint of insanity.

  ‘Hagob Salbandian Smyke,’ said Pfistomel. ‘An immediate forebear of mine. It was he who . . . But more of that later. Hagob was an artist. He produced sculptures. My home is full of them.’

  ‘Really?’ I interposed. ‘I haven’t seen a single sculpture on your premises.’

  ‘No wonder,’ Smyke replied. ‘They’re invisible to the naked eye. Hagob made microsculptures.’

  ‘Microsculptures?’

  ‘Yes. He began with cherry stones and grains of rice, but his works steadily diminished in size. He ended by carving them out of the tip of a single hair.’

  ‘Is that possible?’

  ‘Not really, but Hagob managed it. I’ll show you some of them under a microscope when we get back. He carved the whole of the Battle of Nurn Forest on an eyelash.’

  ‘You come of unusual stock,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ Smyke sighed. ‘Alas!’

  The further we progressed along the steeply sloping passage the older the portraits became. One could tell this from the hairline cracks in their layers of oil paints and glazes, their increasingly primitive technique and their subjects’ style of dress.

  ‘We Smykes can trace the roots of our family tree to the edge of the Zamonian Ocean and beyond. They even extend beneath its surface - down, deep down to the ocean floor itself. But I’m not indulging in false modesty, truly not, when I say that my ancestry means little to me. The Smykes have always kept their distance from each other. Love of solitude is another inherited family trait.’

  The passage changed direction but remained as featureless as ever. We passed an occasional jellyfish lamp on the ceiling or portrait on the wall, but that was all.

  ‘Habibullah Smyke,’ said my companion. ‘Also called “The Desert Scorpion”. He used to drown his enemies in sand - you can do that, as long as it’s quicksand.’

  He pointed to another painting.

  ‘Okudato “Godfather” Smyke, once the underworld boss of Ironville. He got a blacksmith to forge him a set of steel dentures and devoured his rivals alive - the only Smyke to have sunk to the level of the Demonocles. And that’s Termagenta Smyke, who skewered all her husbands with a red-hot . . . Ugh, it’s too distasteful. I’ll spare us any further details, we’re nearly there in any case.’

  The passage had been descending steeply all this time, so we must have been pretty far below ground, but I still hadn’t seen a single book. Suddenly it ended and we f
ound ourselves confronted by a dark wooden door with ironwork fittings.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Smyke. He bent down, put a hand to his mouth and muttered something unintelligible at the rusty old lock.

  ‘A Bookemistic incantatory lock,’ he explained almost apologetically when he straightened up. The door creaked open by itself.

  ‘An alchemistic falderal from the last century,’ Smyke went on. ‘Nothing magical about it, just a gravity-operated mechanism activated by sound waves, though they have to be the right sound waves. Saves messing around with a key. After you!’

  I walked through the doorway and abruptly found myself standing in the biggest underground chamber I’d ever seen. Devoid of any shape that could have been defined in geometrical terms, it stretched away in all directions, upwards, downwards and sideways. Chasms yawned, stone ceilings soared to an immense height overhead, terraces rose in tiers, caves branched off with other caves branching off them, huge dripstones hung from above or jutted from below, the latter with spiral staircases hewn into them, stone arches spanned ravines - and everywhere jellyfish lamps dispensed their pulsating glow and candelabra were suspended on chains or let into the walls. This was a chamber composed of many chambers - one in which the eye could roam without end until all was engulfed in darkness. I had never felt so disorientated. But the truly astonishing feature of the place was not its shape, size or lighting; it was the fact that it was full of books.

  ‘This is my library,’ Smyke said as casually as if he had opened the door of a garden shed.

  There must have been hundreds of thousands if not millions of books - more than I’d seen in the whole of Bookholm put together! Every part of the monstrous dripstone cave had been used as a repository for books. Some of the shelves had been hewn out of the living rock, others were made of timber and soared to dizzy heights with long ladders leading to them. Mountainous piles of books stood in rows like endless alpine ranges. There were plain raw deal bookcases, valuable antiquarians’ cabinets with glazed doors, baskets, tubs, handcarts and crates full of books.