The City of Dreaming Books (12 page)

‘You believe in all those legends?’ I asked with a smirk. ‘The Shadow King, the Fearsome Booklings, Shadowhall Castle and so on?’

He looked at me gravely.

‘No one in this city doubts that things exist down there which Bookholm would be better off without,’ he said. ‘Lawlessness, anarchy, chaos. Don’t run away with the idea that we spread these rumours to attract tourists. Just imagine what we could make of the catacombs if they were fully accessible! Eighty to ninety per cent of the city is unexploited - out of bounds and controlled by who knows what weird creatures. You think that’s desirable from a commercial point of view? Far from it!’

Harpstick was growing agitated. His face registered genuine indignation.

‘On the other hand, we can’t shut our eyes to what keeps happening there. I’ve seen a few of those who have ventured into the catacombs and made it back to the surface again. People with limbs torn off, people covered with bites and incapable of doing more than scream or babble inanities before they died. One of them drove a knife into his heart before my very eyes.’

Harpstick’s porcine eyes were unnaturally big and bright. They seemed to look right through me at the frightful scene he had just recalled. Feeling embarrassed, I sipped my coffee and stared at my distorted reflection in its surface.

Harpstick gave himself a little shake and swigged at his own cup. Then he leant over, punched me playfully on the arm and grinned.

‘But enough of that. Bookholm has its good sides too. What brings you to our city?’

I didn’t feel like talking about my sad bereavement.

‘I’m looking for someone,’ I said.

‘I see. A publisher?’

‘No. An author.’

‘Name?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What has he published?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What does he look like?’

‘No idea.’

‘Aha, then you can’t fail to find him.’ Harpstick gave a jovial laugh.

I briefly debated the Nocturnomath’s warning. Then I fished out the manuscript.

‘This is a short story of his.’

‘Fine, that’s almost as good as a calling card. May I see it?’

I hesitated for a moment, then handed it over. Harpstick began to read. Unobtrusively, I leant forward so as to study his reactions. He betrayed no emotion at all, humming softly to himself. He read quickly, joylessly, with the corners of his mouth turned down, like most people whose profession entails a great deal of reading. I searched his face for signs of amazement or enthusiasm but could detect nothing of the kind. Halfway through the story he broke off and stared at me uncomprehendingly.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘Why are you looking for him?’

‘Surely you can see why?’

He gave the manuscript another glance.

‘No. Have I missed something?’

‘Don’t you find the writing exceptional?’

‘Exceptional in what way?’

‘Exceptionally good.’

‘This? No.’ He handed the manuscript back.

I was speechless.

‘I’ll let you in on a secret,’ said Harpstick. He looked around furtively and lowered his voice as if about to make some compromising confession.

‘That story may really be exceptionally good. It may also be the worst trash ever written. If there’s one person
utterly and completely
incapable of judging which it is, it’s me. I can’t tell good writing from a slice of bee-bread. I dread to think how much great literature I’ve held in my trotters without realising it. You want to know what really interests me?’

‘Yes,’ I lied politely.

‘Bricks.’

‘Bricks?’

‘Bricks and mortar. I adore bricklaying. Every evening I go out into my garden and build a little brick wall. It’s my way of unwinding. Next morning I knock it down, the following evening I rebuild it and so on. I love the smell of damp mortar, the fresh air, the exercise, the aching muscles. I get nice and tired, that’s why I sleep so well.’

I nodded.

‘In my profession it isn’t a question of telling good literature from bad. Really good literature is seldom appreciated in its own day. The best authors die poor, the bad ones make money - it’s always been like that. What do I, an agent, get out of a literary genius who won’t be discovered for another hundred years? I’ll be dead myself by then. Successful incompetents are what I need.’

‘That’s honest of you.’

Harpstick looked at me anxiously.

‘Have I been
too
honest?’ He sighed. ‘I’m far too quick to speak my mind - it’s my weak point. Many people find the truth hard to stomach.’

‘I’m determined not to let the truth spoil the pleasure I take in my work,’ I said. ‘Writers have a hard time and very seldom get their due, I realise that.’

‘An admirable attitude. Stick to it and you’ll save yourself a lot of grief. Me, I’m good with people. That’s my principal asset. I’m as good at dealing with sensitive authors as I am with hard-nosed publishers. I’m like a lubricant: almost unnoticeable and invisible but ubiquitous and indispensable. Nobody thinks I matter and plenty of people despise me - even a few of my best clients! - but the printing presses wouldn’t roll without me. I’m the oil in the works.’

Harpstick took another hefty swig of coffee and dabbed his lips.

‘This could be the finest short story in Zamonian literary history,’ he said, tapping the manuscript. ‘It could also be the maunderings of an untalented hack - I’ve no idea. I can read the words but I can’t assess them. To me, every manuscript is the same: blah-blah-blah, just words strung together, nothing more. It could be my wife’s shopping list or the most exquisite poem by Photonion Kodiak, I couldn’t care less. And do you know what that means to someone in my profession? It’s a boon. If I were capable of it, I might fall in love with this story, just as you have, and devote my life to tracing its author. I might even find him and make an unsuccessful attempt to market him. Then I wouldn’t do what I’ll be doing tomorrow morning, which is to secure Sandro Trockel a lucrative contract for three more books in his
Illiterate
series.’

I was familiar with Trockel’s work. His books, which contained no text whatsoever, bore a large, simplified line drawing of some object or animal on every page. They were extremely popular with illiterates and sold in vast numbers.

‘I may possibly -
possibly
- be able to help you even so,’ Harpstick went on. ‘I can give you the address of an antiquarian bookshop in the city centre. The owner is Bookholm’s foremost expert on manuscripts. Here.’

He handed me another business card. It read:

‘Pfistomel Smyke?’ I asked in surprise. ‘You mean . . .?’

‘Exactly. The person from whose premises Regenschein descended into the catacombs. One of Bookholm’s most distinguished citizens. His shop is really worth seeing. Pay him a visit and you’ll be setting foot on historic ground.’

‘I’ll make a point of it,’ I said.

‘Go there tomorrow. He doesn’t open till noon and closes early as a rule. The antiquarians in the city centre can afford to indulge in such whims. Take a look at his stock while you’re there, it’s truly unique.’

‘Many thanks for the advice - and, of course, for the delicious snack.’

‘It was a business investment. Buy a budding author a meal and he may pave the rest of your journey through life with gold. That’s a literary agent’s motto. In my case, alas, it has yet to prove well-founded.’

I hurriedly popped the last morsel of bee-bread into my mouth and was just about to get up and say goodbye when I felt a stab of pain in my gum.

‘Akk!’ I said.

‘Is anything the matter?’ asked Harpstick.

I pointed to my mouth. ‘Akk!’ I said again.

The Hoggling gave a start. ‘A bee sting? Don’t move! Open your mouth wide! Don’t panic! The bee is dead, so it can’t inject any more of its poison, but the slightest pressure on its body could be enough to force the toxin into your bloodstream and turn you into a blithering idiot! Let me take a look!’

I opened my jaws to their fullest extent to enable Harpstick to reach inside. My face was streaming with sweat. Grunting, he fumbled around inside my mouth. I held my breath and didn’t move. Then I felt another brief stab of pain in my gum and the Hoggling sat back. He was holding up the dead bee and grinning again.

‘You won’t forget this bee-bread in a hurry,’ he said. ‘But I did warn you. The risk is part of the pleasure.’

I mopped my face. ‘Many thanks,’ I gasped. ‘I don’t know how to—’

‘You must excuse me now,’ Harpstick said abruptly, flicking the bee onto the floor. ‘It’s been a long night, the poetry reading was execrable and I could use a wink or two of sleep. Perhaps we’ll meet again.’

I shook him by the trotter. He gazed into space and muttered: ‘Hm,
A Wink or Two of Sleep.
A good title, don’t you think?’

‘To be honest,’ I said, ‘no. It sounds boring.’

‘You’re right.’ He laughed. ‘I really must be overtired.’

I sat on for a while after he left, checking my pulse for palpitations in case some of the apian poison had found its way into my bloodstream after all, but my heart continued to beat with metronomic regularity.

I
walked back to my hotel. Although the hour was late, many of the bookshops were still open and a lively atmosphere prevailed in the streets. Knots of people were standing on every corner, reading aloud to each other, laughing, chatting and drinking wine, mulled beer or coffee. I looked at a few shop windows and could scarcely resist the temptation to go inside and start rummaging.

It was quite an effort to leave this animated scene behind and return to my hotel room. The Bluddums next door seemed to have calmed down, because they were snoring and wheezing like congested bagpipes. I lay down on the bed, intending to put my feet up and grab a few minutes’ repose. I stared at the bat in the corner and it stared back. Then I fell asleep.

In my dreams I was wandering along an endless tunnel whose walls were lined with shelves full of ancient tomes. Dancelot, a transparent phantom, was flitting restlessly along ahead of me. ‘Down!’ he kept calling. ‘Down into the depths!’

We passed all kinds of characters from books I’d read: my boyhood hero Prince Sangfroid, who galloped past on his horse Blizzard; Prospopa Thonatas, the consumptive carpet dealer from
The Rajah’s Ravioli
; Koriolanus Korinth, the smuggler-philosopher from
Pomegranates and Pumice Stone
; the twelve brothers from
The Twelve Brothers
and many other figures from popular novels. ‘Back! Back! Go back!’ they all cried, but Dancelot floated straight through them and so did I, because I too had become a disembodied spirit. Out of the depths of the tunnel came a huge, white, screeching one-eyed bat accompanied by a swarm of angrily buzzing roasted bees. The bat opened its hideous jaws and prepared to devour me. I remember thinking, ‘Hey, you can’t possibly eat me, I’m a disembodied spirit!’ - but by that time it had.

I awoke. The bat was still dangling motionless in its corner, staring at me. It was probably dead, having died with its single eye open and hung there like that for ages. The Bluddums in the room next door were making a rumpus again. They had just woken up and engaged in another noisy free-for-all, smashing furniture and dislodging a picture from my wall. I got up with a groan, drowsily repacked my bundle and left this house of horrors.

The cool morning air cleared my head and refreshed me as I strolled through the streets. Feeling like a bite of breakfast, I betook myself to a café for a cappuccino and a bookling, a book-shaped pastry filled with apple purée and topped with almonds and pistachio nuts. Strangely enough, this local speciality bore the same name as the fearsome creatures rumoured to have established a reign of terror beneath the city. Before handing me the oven-warm pastry, the proprietor of the café deposited it on a page torn from some old book and thrust a long skewer into the side. The little ribbon of cinnamon-scented filling that oozed out resembled a liquid bookmark.