The Labyrinth of Dreaming Books (13 page)

‘Everything had gone back to zero. In the old days people would simply have ignored another’s plight, but now they helped each other. Acts of friendship were the universally valid currency of the time. One person might design a house, another lay the foundations, yet another mix cement, and five former neighbours would collaborate in raising the roof. Bookholm arose from the ashes, restored from the bottom up, and grew at breathtaking speed. You walked along a street that had been nothing but soot-blackened ruins yesterday and today a new house – or more than one – would be standing there, built overnight by torchlight and by people who once wouldn’t have given each other the time of day. The city never rested for the length of a heartbeat and work went on continuously: stones were knapped, ruins cleared, charred beams sawn up, soup kitchens provided for labourers, burnt earth turned over. The air was filled day and night with the sound of hammering and sawing and the ringing of anvils, with shouts and
laughter
and cries and oaths. Nobody really slept at this period.
You can sleep in your funeral urn; sleepers get eaten by Nurns!
– that was a favourite saying. There have been no legally prescribed closing times in Bookholm since then and many bookshops still stay open all night, even today.’

Laughter could always be heard somewhere in the Fumoir. Sometimes it was the resonant bass of a giant printer with a handlebar moustache, sometimes the hoarse giggle of a dwarf, and sometimes an abrupt peal of laughter from a whole group. The good mood seemed to be infectious.

‘But the most surprising thing,’ Ovidios went on, ‘was that hardly anyone moved away. Only a few disheartened individuals turned their backs on the city even during the darkest chapter in its history, the ban on fire. You’ve heard of that, I suppose?’

‘Yes,’ I said, nodding.

‘Perhaps it was because everyone knew that, although the devastation was terrible, the city still possessed a unique substructure comparable to a huge diamond mine, an inexhaustible treasure chamber: the Labyrinth, with its catacombs and vast store of precious books. It was paradoxical. The evil realm down below, of which many are more afraid than of death itself – the darkness from which destruction arose in the shape of the vengeful Shadow King – was at the same time the glue that bound us all together. It was as if we were reoccupying a volcano that had recently erupted. No, no one ran away, in fact, the opposite occurred. The Great Conflagration occasioned no exodus; it led to an influx of immigrants such as the city had never known before. Adventurers, bibliophiles, authors and would-be authors, publishers with no premises, unemployed editors, translators without commissions, printers, glue boilers, masons, bookbinders, roofers, book dealers – in short, intellectuals and craftsmen of all kinds were magnetically attracted to the half-devastated but newly flourishing city. Nowhere but in Bookholm could people make such a fundamentally fresh start, whether with the pen or the bricklayer’s trowel. Only in this crazy city could they participate in a collective renaissance and nowhere else, if fortune smiled on them, could they become so stinking rich!’

The ashtrays danced, Ovidios thumped the table so hard, but no one took any notice. One of the gnomes raised his head briefly, blinked in a bewildered way, then slept on.

‘The influx of people in search of fresh opportunities simply didn’t dry up. Once the adventurous pioneers and the old inhabitants had relaid the foundations, more circumspect individuals – those who had cautiously observed the phenomenon from afar – also moved in. They
had
capital and business acumen to offer as well as physical strength and the will to work. Experienced chefs opened restaurants, leading publishers opened branch offices and established authors from other cities moved to Bookholm, all eager to share in this fresh start. Only here, it was believed, did
true
literary creativity flourish. At night the taverns teemed with young and still unknown but boundlessly garrulous and ambitious writers, with financiers, scouts and agents eager to discuss their ideas for new business models and publishing houses. They all wanted to reinvent Bookholm, to make it bigger, more beautiful and even more lucrative. Simultaneously naive and greedy, and sometimes even laughable, their efforts were also touching and inspiring. It was impossible to escape the new city’s positive energy; it swept you along as soon as you set foot in its streets. Viewing the matter quite objectively, one could say that we owed it all to the Shadow King.’

I pricked up my ears. ‘How do you mean?’

‘Let’s face the facts. He purified the city with his avenging fire, preserved it from impending decline, and halted the insidious process of decay initiated by Pfistomel Smyke and his henchmen. We’re in his debt. Indeed we are, even though the vengeful bastard burnt down half the city! The Shadow King nearly killed me, damn it! He was responsible for nearly boiling me to death in my pit like a lobster!’

Ovidios roared with laughter.

‘But to me he’s Bookholm’s greatest hero, the true ruler of this city and our secret king. We ought to put up monuments to him, one in every street! That’s my opinion, anyway, and I’m certainly not alone.’

And then, my beloved brothers and sisters, something truly remarkable happened. At the mention of the Shadow King and Pfistomel Smyke, the fumes around Ovidios began to dance. At first I thought this was caused by a gust of air from the flue above our heads, but it was something different.

The smoke assumed ever more concrete forms. The swaths and clouds of vapour became bodies and faces. I rubbed my eyes and the
apparitions
disappeared. I breathed a sigh of relief, sat back, looked again – and there they were once more, the billowing clouds. And this time they actually resolved themselves into familiar figures!

‘Something wrong?’ asked Ovidios.

‘No, no,’ I said evasively. ‘The smoke’s stinging my eyes a bit, that’s all.’

It was as if the ghosts of my past were dancing around Ovidios’s head. Were those some Booklings peering over his left shoulder? Was that Ahmed ben Kibitzer winking at me over his right shoulder?

I rubbed my eyes again, opened them wide, closed them again, reopened them – and they were still there, those phantoms, more distinct than ever! That was Pfistomel Smyke who had materialised behind Ovidios with his arms folded, grinning impudently at me! Some Animatomes emerged from the fog, fluttered around my fellow Lindworm’s head and disappeared into it once more. Were those speaking death’s heads beside him and, if so, was I losing my mind? Before I could say anything to the disturbing apparitions, the door of the Fumoir opened and a noisy group of newcomers entered, creating a draught. The smoke swirled and dispersed, and the phantoms danced up the chimney with it.

I heaved a sigh of relief. What diabolical herbs were being smoked in here? Did they accord with legal regulations?

‘Go on,’ I urged Ovidios. He gave me a worried look but complied.

‘It was the fire,’ he said, ‘that turned medieval Bookholm into a modern city and replaced outmoded Bookemistic hocus-pocus with up-to-date Biblionism.’

‘Biblionism?’ I said. ‘Sounds like a disease you can catch in public libraries.’

‘My, it really is a long time since your last visit! You’ve missed out on a few important things, Optimus. All that antiquarian book alchemy is old hat. Biblionism is
the
new thing. Everything’s biblio these days. Biblio-this, biblio-that!’

‘I may rather have lost touch,’ I conceded, ‘but I can learn. I’m sure you’ll bring me up to date.’

‘It isn’t complicated. Complex, though. Ours is a city governed by books.
Biblionism
is the umbrella term covering all book-related scientific disciplines, professions and social phenomena – plus one or two other things. Simply imagine the whole of daily life lumped together in a paper bag: that’s Biblionism. Look around you. What do you see?’

I complied with his injunction. ‘A bunch of total strangers smoking too much,’ I replied, rather disconcerted by the question. The truth was, I could still see a few Animatomes fluttering beneath the ceiling, but I preferred not to mention that.

‘Exactly,’ said Ovidios. ‘And they all look different in their own ways, right? There are gnomes, Moomies, Demigiants, Froglets, Norselanders, Viridians, Moories and Midgard Midgets – not forgetting Lindworms, eh? How can one keep one’s perspective? I’ll tell you: through Biblionism, because what unites us all is our close relationship to books. It’s like a sentence in print: it consists of different-looking letters seemingly jumbled up at random, but you can read it all the same. And it makes sense! You can even laugh at it if it’s funny. That’s how Bookholm works. That’s Biblionism.’

‘Bookholm makes sense?’ I said.

‘Now don’t be pedantic! Biblionism isn’t a religion or association or political party, nor is it a really exact science with fixed rules. It’s the
ethos
of modern Bookholm. Not a sinister alchemistic spirit like old-time Bookemism, but a spirit in the sense of understanding and enlightenment. Would you like a few examples?’

I nodded. What was he talking about?

‘Then I hope you’ve got some time to spare. No one Biblionist is like another,’ said Ovidios, looking around him enquiringly. ‘That’s why it’s important to know what differentiates us, so we get along better together. Let’s see … You see that Vulphead over there in the long raincoat?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s no Bookholmer. He’s got a shopping bag from
Leafwood Antiques
. No local inhabitant would buy anything there, it’s only for tourists. On the other hand, few tourists ever stray into a Fumoir. That means he’s a Bibliomaniac.’

‘Really?’

Ovidios drew a deep breath, which in this room was the equivalent of a lungful of smoke from a well-filled hookah. ‘The Bibliomaniac’, he went on, ‘embodies one of the most popular types of visitors to Bookholm. He’s animated by a desire to buy as many books as possible and take them home with him. An average book collector, in other words. As long as he does this within the limits imposed by law and refrains from shoplifting, the Bibliomaniac is the city’s most welcome visitor. We all live off him. Bibliomaniacs are a very sizeable group.’

I could do this myself now, I thought. Recognising someone as a Bibliomaniac by a shopping bag full of books wasn’t particularly hard.

‘But that was no feat of deduction,’ said Ovidios. ‘Nearly everyone in Bookholm is a Bibliomaniac of some kind. From now on it gets harder. Let me see …’

He scanned the smoky Fumoir, craning his neck in an impressive manner so as to peer into every corner. ‘Well now,’ he muttered, ‘in this room at present are … a Bibliophrene … two Bibliots … a Biblioclast … a Bibliopath … a Bibliophobe – no two Bibliophobes!
Three
Bibliomancers—they’re unmistakable. And, er … yes, a Biblioscope, over there by the bar! And that’s only at first glance. Visibility is pretty limited in here. No Biblionnaires today? No, not one. They tend to be rare.’

Quite apart from the fact that I didn’t know the meaning of those terms – except that they were obviously Biblionistic subcategories – I hadn’t the slightest idea how Ovidios managed to distinguish so eloquently between the Fumoir’s various occupants. What were Bibliots? What were Bibliomancers? Was he pulling my leg in some subtle fashion?

‘Well, well,’ I said cautiously, sounding faintly sarcastic.

‘Don’t you trust my Biblionistic powers of discernment?’ Ovidios demanded, raising his eyebrows. ‘You ought to, I’m pretty good at it. I’m a Lindworm of private means and a professional idler, so I’ve plenty of time and leisure for people-watching. What’s more, I’ve read all Doylan Cone’s
Hermes Olshlock
novels umpteen times. They’re a great aid to training one’s eye and powers of deduction. Listen, I’ll prove it to you. Look at that Demidwarf in the green loden coat two tables further on.’ He indicated where he meant with an almost imperceptible jerk of the head.

‘The one with four books parcelled up beside him?’ I asked.

‘Exactly. You see the cloth bag at his side with the neck of a bottle protruding from it? That fellow is a Biblioclast, ten to one.’