The City of Dreaming Books (23 page)

‘To all intents and purposes,’ he went on, ‘this cave doesn’t exist. It’s known only to me and a few very close associates of mine - people I trust implicitly. Colophonius Regenschein too, of course. And now you.’

I was speechless for a moment.

‘What made you confide in me, of all people? A total stranger?’

‘I’ll explain in due course - it’s partly to do with your manuscript - but first let me come to the really interesting part of my story.’

‘You mean there’s an even
more
interesting part?’ I couldn’t help laughing.

Smyke let go of the handrail and grinned at me. ‘You know, people in the city still regard me as dealer with a specialised stock, a fortunate heir and parvenu with a nose for valuable books and excellent connections with collectors and Bookhunters - one who never keeps more than a crate of books on his premises.’

He suddenly assumed an expression I couldn’t interpret.

‘But down here I’m a different person. See that bookcase over there, the one filled with first editions from the fourth century? Each of them would buy me a whole urban district, or bribe a politician for life, or get a mayor elected by financing his campaign. I don’t do any of those things, of course.’

‘Of course not,’ I said. I had no idea what he was driving at and hoped he would soon get round to my manuscript.

‘No, of course I don’t. I get my underlings to do them for me.’

What was he talking about? I was starting to feel uneasy.

Smyke looked at me intently. ‘I don’t buy books, I buy whole bookshops. I sell vast consignments of books. I flood the market with cheap offers, ruin my competitors and, when they go broke, buy up their businesses for peanuts. I control rentals throughout the city. I own most of the publishing houses and nearly all the paper mills and printing works. All of Bookholm’s Master Readers are on my payroll, as are all the residents of Poison Alley. I dictate the price of paper and the size of editions. I determine which books succeed and which don’t. I make successful authors and destroy them at will. I’m the ruler of Bookholm.
I’m Zamonian literature personified.
’

Was this a joke? Was this literary scholar submitting me to a test of some kind? Was he giving me a sample of his curious sense of humour?

‘And this is just the start. I shall extend my network of antiquarian bookshops from Bookholm to the whole of Zamonia. I’ve already opened branches in Grailsund, Florinth and Atlantis, and they’re all doing splendidly, take it from me. One day in the not too distant future I shall control Zamonia’s entire book trade and property market, and from there it’s only a short step to political dictatorship. I think on a grand scale, as you see.’

‘You’re joking,’ I said in dismay.

‘Not at all. Better take me seriously, because I can assure you of one thing: it’s going to be far from funny for people of your kind when I come to power.’ Smyke’s voice had taken on an edge that made me shiver.

‘People of my kind?’ I said.

‘Artists!’ cried Smyke. He uttered the word as if it meant ‘Rats!’

‘Artists will come off worst under my regime, I fear, because I shall abolish literature.
And
music,
and
painting,
and
theatre,
and
dance - all the arts, the whole decadent, redundant caboodle! I shall have every book in Zamonia burnt, every canvas stripped of paint with acid, every sculpture smashed, every sheet of music torn up. I shall erect bonfires out of musical instruments. Violin strings will be knotted into hangmen’s nooses. Then peace will prevail - cosmic peace and good order. We shall be able to breathe freely at last and venture upon a new beginning unencumbered by the scourge of art. It will be a world in which reality alone exists.’

Smyke heaved a voluptuous sigh.

If he wasn’t joking, I told myself, he could only be rehearsing for a stage play. Either that, or he’d been smitten with some grave mental disorder. It seemed to run in the family, after all. Hagob Salbandian’s eyes, too, had blazed with insanity.

‘Can you imagine how lucid our thoughts will be once we’ve liberated them from the arts?’ Smyke demanded. ‘Once we’ve swept our soiled brains clean of senseless dross? Can you imagine how much more time we’ll be able to spend on the things that really matter in life? No, of course you can’t. You’re an
author.
’

He positively spat the word in my face.

‘It won’t be possible to eliminate the arts without eliminating their exponents. I shall regret that, because many of my acquaintances are artists, and some of them are really nice people - friends, even. However, one has to observe certain priorities.’

Smyke’s face hardened.

‘Yes, friends will have to die. Doubtless you’re wondering why I’m prepared to shoulder such a burden of guilt. Don’t I suffer from pangs of conscience? The short answer is: “No!” In my position I simply can’t afford pangs of conscience. Fortunately, they fade the more power one acquires. It’s an entirely natural process.’

I’d had enough.

‘I’d like to go now,’ I said. ‘Please could you give me back my manuscript?’

Smyke acted as if he hadn’t heard the question.

‘The only form of art I shall continue to permit is trombophone music. That’s because it’s a science, not an art at all. You probably suppose that what you heard last night was music. Allow me to correct you: it was acoustic alchemy, hypnosis by means of sound waves. Music is the least resistible of all the arts, so I simply had to make use of it. Try getting an audience to dance by reciting a poem! Try getting them to march! Impossible! Only music can do that. I discovered Doremius Fasolati’s scores down here, the Optometric Rondos, and recognised their potential at once. Their circular arrangement made sense to me even before I’d read a single note. Everything goes round in circles, my friend! With the aid of the Murkholm Trombophone Orchestra I’ve succeeded in converting music into power, notes into commands, instruments into weapons, concertgoers into slaves! You thought you were listening to music, but it was really a series of posthypnotic commands. Yesterday I induced you to buy books, tomorrow I may get you to burn the city to the ground. If I’d instructed you to eat one another you’d have done so with relish.’

Unpleasant though the situation was, I didn’t feel threatened. I was physically more than a match for a Shark Grub and I knew the way back.

‘Now would you please return my manuscript?’ I asked again, as politely and firmly as I could. If he didn’t comply I would simply leave and turn his house upside down until I found it.

‘Oh, do forgive me,’ said Smyke, every inch the kindly host once more. ‘The manuscript! I’m afraid my tongue ran away with me.’

He leant towards me and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. ‘I’m sure you’ll treat my confidences with discretion, won’t you? I wouldn’t like any of them to become public knowledge.’

He was a screw loose, that was beyond doubt. I nodded to be on the safe side.

‘Of course, the manuscript,’ he said, undulating over to a bookcase. ‘That’s why we’re here, after all. But first I must show you something.’

He reached into the bookcase and removed a black book with the ominous Triadic Circle blocked in gold on the cover.

‘It’s an immensely old book, so I had to have it rebound. I designed the Triadic Circle myself. What do you think of it?’

I didn’t reply.

‘It symbolises the three components of power: power, power and power.’ He laughed and handed me the book.

‘What am I supposed to do with it?’ I asked.

‘You have three questions for me. First you’d like to know why I’m telling you all these things, right? Secondly, you’re wondering what they’ve got to do with your manuscript. And, thirdly, you’d like to know if what I’ve told you is true. All good things come in threes, don’t they? You’ll find the answer to all three questions in this book bearing the Triadic Circle. On page 333, of course.’

I was loath to open the book.

‘How can the answer to today’s questions be in such an old book?’

‘The answers to almost all of today’s questions can be found in old books,’ Smyke retorted. ‘If you want to find out, look them up. If not, forget it.’

Was this another manifestation of his mental illness? It was thoroughly symptomatic of such cases to cherish a belief in hidden textual signs and commands, numerology and disembodied voices. That would fit. But why in the world shouldn’t I simply look up the page? At least that would enable me to satisfy myself that I really was dealing with a lunatic. If the text on page 333 had no bearing on our present situation, my diagnosis would be correct. Then all that remained for me to do would be to get out fast and hope the condition wasn’t catching.

I opened the book at random. Page 123. It was blank except for the page number. I looked at Smyke. He was smiling.

I turned over some more pages.

Page 245. No text, no illustration. The opposite page was just as blank.

Page 299. Blank.

‘There’s nothing there at all,’ I said.

‘You’re looking in the wrong place,’ Smyke replied, raising three fingers. ‘Try page 333.’

I went on turning.

Page 312. Blank.

Page 330. Blank.

Page 333. I was there at last. This time the page really did bear some text in very small type. Resting my paw on the paper, I screwed up my eyes and peered more closely. My fingertips felt strangely cold. Printed on this page and the one facing it was the same short sentence repeated ad infinitum: