The Labyrinth of Dreaming Books (14 page)

‘A Biblioclast?’

Ovidios nodded gravely. ‘You bet your life he is! The books are relatively inexpensive second editions, probably unsigned – not top-notch, in other words, but certainly the most expensive he could afford. The bottle may contain some paper-dissolving chemical, possibly hydrochloric acid. You can tell that from the wax-sealed glass stopper with the death’s head on it – Bookholm pharmacies are legally obliged to use those. You see his unhealthy-looking, yellow-tinged eyes? The tremor in his hands? The yellow eyes indicate liver damage caused by regularly inhaling toxic fumes. So does the tremor, but that’s also a sign of anticipation. He can hardly wait, the swine.’

‘Hardly wait for what?’ I asked.

‘To go home and
kill
those books lying beside him.’

‘What!’ I couldn’t suppress a puzzled laugh.

Ovidios sighed. ‘Biblioclasts are obsessed with a compulsion to destroy books. You can bet that individual will go up to his room, open a good bottle of wine, toss the books into a bathtub and pour the hydrochloric acid over them. That’s his idea of heaven.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘He may set light to them, put them through the mincer or tear them into little pieces by hand, and
then
pour acid over them. One thing’s for sure:
I
wouldn’t like to be one of those four books of his.’

I was shocked. ‘Is this really true?’ I said.

Ovidios leant across the table and lowered his voice.

‘Biblioclasts’ behaviour can have many causes. The most frequent is a disease that any good psychiatrist could cure completely. Another is more ideological. Biblioclasts of that type don’t hate books as such, just certain books selected for their contents. Many of them are political crackpots or members of religious sects. Then there are also some inspired by purely personal motives. We have a well-known Biblioclast here in Bookholm who only hates a certain book and tries to destroy whole editions of it. The book is his own
un
authorised biography.’

Ovidios sat back with a grin. I took another look at the fellow in the green raincoat, but this time with different eyes. I felt sorry for the books at his side.

‘Don’t look now,’ whispered Ovidios, ‘but there’s a Bibliomat sitting right beside us. Three chairs further along.’ He rolled his eyes in the relevant direction.

The person sitting there appeared to hail from Watervale, to judge by his translucent skin and greenish hair. He had a great stack of books beside him, as well as several publisher’s catalogues, probably free of charge. He was feverishly leafing through one of one of the latter.

‘Bibliomats’, Ovidios said softly, ‘are mechanical readers. ‘It doesn’t matter to them
what
they read, they couldn’t care less. They read while walking around or standing still, sitting or lying down. They read while eating or having a coffee, while shopping or standing in a queue; they simply read all the time. They lead an obsessive, joyless, futile existence and display no noticeable emotional reaction to what they read. Ants would read that way, I imagine! Ask a Bibliomat what he’s just been reading and he’ll be terribly embarrassed because he’s instantly forgotten it. Hardly surprising, if a person can’t tell the difference between a sonnet by Aleisha Wimpersleake and a list of chlorinated cleaning fluids.’

I gave a start. The mere mention of Wimpersleake’s name was a painful reminder of the Booklings – and of the manuscript I had with me. But Ovidios was already continuing his exposition. ‘And that couple two tables away – they’re Bibliots. You can easily recognise them by their identical clothes.’

They were two Yellowlings in orange habits, both of whom had shaved their skulls. I’d seen some of their kind in the streets and wondered if they belonged to a sect.

‘If it were up to me, I’d drive the whole bunch out of the city!’ Ovidios’s voice had taken on a note of uncompromising indignation. ‘Bookholm needs those parasites like it needs Kackertratts! Bibliocy is the worst form of ignorance about books. Bibliots not only read no books on principle, they flatly deny their existence – and that while actually standing on a pile of them.’ He directed a fiery glance at the Yellowlings.

‘You’d have thought they could propagate their pathological ideology more plausibly anywhere other than Bookholm, where it’s constantly reduced to absurdity by the visible presence of so many books, but far from it, my friend! It only spurs them on. Bookholm has the highest concentration of Bibliots anywhere in Zamonia. Imagine that! There’s a fanatical, wild-eyed, loud-mouthed Bibliot on every other street corner in the city, indefatigably denying the existence of
the
millions of books around him. And it’s all at the expense of the honest taxpayer. Why? Because those morons are so busy preaching their idiotic, misguided doctrine, they don’t have the time to do a respectable job. Oh no! At night they queue up outside the free soup kitchens and clog the hostels for the homeless. Toleration has its limits, my friend!’

Ovidios was visibly infuriated. I found it both amusing and gratifying that a Lindworm who had once occupied the lowest rung on the Bookholm ladder should now conceive of himself as an honest taxpayer defending the rights of the homeless. To calm him down a little I pointed at random to another smoker. ‘What about him over there?’ I asked. ‘What sort of Biblio is he?’

‘Eh?’ said Ovidios, following the direction of my paw. He subsided only reluctantly. ‘Him? Erm … He’s a Biblioklept.’

I peered more closely for the first time. A little old gnome with brown, leathery skin, the Biblioklept was defiantly smoking a gnarled pipe carved from a root and emitting clouds of greenish smoke. It made me cough just to look at him.

‘Biblioklepts evolved from common book thieves and ultimately did away with themselves, so to speak.’ Ovidios laughed. ‘It’s an interesting chapter in Bookholm’s legal history – Bibliojuristics, in other words. It happened like this. When book thieves were caught, some of them tried to justify their theft by pleading a pathological compulsion. They even made that stick – if they had a good lawyer. They were quickly released or given extremely lenient sentences by judges who had probably sat their law exams at Crook University. That opened the door wide to book theft, because nearly
every
defendant charged with shoplifting books pleaded diminished responsibility and cited precedents. I’m sure you can imagine what that meant for a city like Bookholm. The authorities had to think of something quickly.’

‘They changed the law?’ I hazarded.

‘Exactly. Someone hit on the simple idea of forbidding Biblioklepts
to
enter the city. It was as simple as that. Since then, every entrance to Bookholm has had a sign hanging above it. The gist of it is:
“Travellers suffering from a pathological addiction to book theft (Biblioklepsia) are prohibited from entering Bookholm and advised to turn back at once. In the event that they infringe this ordinance and steal a book or books, they will be subject to draconian punishment, not only for their theft, but for contravening this prohibition. Turn back, Biblioklept, while you still can.”
Or words to that effect. Understand?’

I nodded. I had seen such a sign on entering the city.

‘A Biblioklept isn’t all that easy to recognise, of course, but anyone charged with stealing books and stupid enough to try to blame the theft on Biblioklepsia is punished twice over – for theft
and
for entering the city illegally. The result has been a dramatic decline in Biblioklepsia, but that doesn’t mean there are no Biblioklepts left in Bookholm. They’ve simply become ordinary book thieves.’

Ovidios smiled.

‘Just a minute,’ I said. ‘That old man looks completely harmless, surely? He doesn’t even have a book with him. How do you know he steals them?’

‘Because I’ve spotted him at it on three occasions,’ Ovidios replied.

‘Oh, I see,’ I said. Then something occurred to me. ‘But … how could you tell he was just a normal shoplifter, not a compulsive book thief?’

Ovidios’s smile grew even broader. ‘Because he was stealing books written by
you
!’ he said. ‘They’re published in such huge editions, they’re worth almost nothing on the black market. No professional thief would steal that sort of thing. Only a Biblioklept would.’

Touché! That elegant sideswipe at my reputation as a prolific commercial author hit home. Only a Lindworm could have insulted me so charmingly.

The door opened and two Wolpertings came in. One of them I recognised as the one who had shown me the way to the Fumoir. Their manner was ostentatiously inconspicuous, as if they were loath
to
attract attention but at pains to ensure that everyone was aware of their presence.

‘Bibliofficers,’ Ovidios hissed between his teeth in an unmistakably contemptuous undertone. Conversation at the tables didn’t cease but became more subdued. It was as if a teacher had entered a noisy classroom.

‘Are the Wolpertings Bookholm’s new police force?’ I asked.

‘No, peace and good order are still maintained by the municipal constabulary. The Bibliofficers are exclusively responsible for fire. They’re a preventive fire brigade, so to speak.’ The Wolperting with a face like a bulldog gave me a friendly nod as he and his companion passed our table.

‘They seem respectable enough to me,’ I said when they had gone past. ‘They do make a rather intimidating impression, but—’

‘Oh, one can’t really say a word against them,’ Ovidios growled. ‘Minor outbreaks of fire have drastically decreased in number since they’ve been responsible for safety. They set up the Fumoirs and installed hydrants everywhere. Nothing wrong with that, but even safety has its price. They manage to give me a bad conscience whenever they show up. You feel you’re a dangerous pyromaniac when they look you in the eye. They’re like walking admonitory forefingers, if you ask me.’

‘Who pays them?’

‘We all do. From taxes. That’s another consequence of Bookholm’s new-found prosperity. The local authorities have a problem envied by every other municipality in Zamonia: we’ve got too much money. That’s how we can afford a luxury like our own fire police.’

The Bibliofficers left the Fumoir after their brief tour just as ostentatiously and inconspicuously as they had come. I thought I heard a collective sigh of relief when the door closed behind them. Conversation and laughter promptly recommenced at full volume.

‘We’re turning into a Bibliocracy,’ said Ovidios. ‘See those three Norselanders over there, the ones smoking long cigarettes?’

I nodded.

‘Only Bibliocrats can afford to take such long cigarette breaks,’ he growled. ‘But what’s the alternative? A Biblionistic city needs administrators. I strongly advise you never to cross swords with those pen-pushers – by failing to pay a library fine, for instance. They’re even more cold-blooded and vindictive than the old-time Bookhunters. There’s nothing worse than getting mixed up in the toils of the Bibliocracy.’

I was gradually acquiring a better grasp of prevailing conditions, my friends. The old-time Bookholm I’d known had been a medieval city in which most things were left to chance. That was how Bookemism had been able to flourish in such poisonous profusion. That was how professional murderers like the Bookhunters had been able to go about their criminal business in the streets undisturbed. That, too, was how someone like Pfistomel Smyke had almost succeeded in gaining absolute power. For in those days sheer anarchy had reigned in Bookholm. In hindsight, that state of affairs may sound exciting and adventurous, but it was unsustainable in the long run. Biblionism had turned Bookholm into a modern city, with all the advantages and disadvantages that entailed. Everything – from culture to daily life and commerce – was based on books, but in a more open and rational way, not in the secretive fashion dear to Bookemists and upmarket second-hand booksellers. This was a trifle disenchanting, sadly, but you could now walk down dark alleyways without having to fear that some Bookhunter would chop off your paws and sell them on the black market as literary memorabilia from Lindworm Castle. From my own point of view, dear friends, that was a definite sign of progress!

My eye had been caught by two Druids seated at a nearby table. They were poring over an open blueprint, jabbing it with compasses and arguing fiercely. I caught exotic terms such as
joist elasticity
,
substructive statics
and
procedural triangulation
. What really fascinated me, however, was that they both wore similar hats composed of
printed
and skilfully folded paper that made them look sensationally ridiculous. I just managed to suppress a grin. Ovidios noticed my inquisitive glances and protruding eyes.

‘Those are Bibliotects,’ he explained. ‘There are Bibliotects
and
architects in Bookholm, but there are marked differences between the two. Architects build houses such as you can see in any other city, whereas Bibliotects have subordinated their profession to Biblionism. Their buildings are distinguished by elaborate book ornamentation, for example, or they use fossilised books as building materials. Their roofs often resemble open books upside down and their symmetrical proportions are sometimes based on poetic metre. There’s a law in Bookholm that twenty per cent of all new houses must be built in accordance with the rules of Bibliotecture. The silly hats are part of their guild uniform. They consist of pages from second-hand books on architecture. The Bibliotects may know a lot about statics, but they don’t have a clue about fashion.’

‘Sounds sensible, that law,’ I put in. ‘There are enough buildings constructed of ordinary brick. I took to those book buildings on sight.’

‘You’re right, it was a good law. Petrified books make a handsome building material. Vast quantities of them were discovered in the upper catacombs after the fire, though their origin is still a mystery. They’re inexpensive too, being local, but one can also overdo all this goddamned bookery! Imagine you’re a professional bookseller or bookbinder. Would you really like to come home after work to a house built of fossilised books with a roof that looks like an open volume of poetry? I wouldn’t. I like looking at Bibliotect-designed houses but I wouldn’t care to live in one. We can count ourselves lucky that our city isn’t based on the butcher’s trade, say. The Tourist Board would probably insist on our living in houses built of petrified cutlets. Think of it: The City of Dreaming Sausages!’