The Labyrinth of Dreaming Books (16 page)

‘One moment,’ I broke in. ‘What the devil is a Biblionaut?’

‘He eyed me gravely. ‘A shame our conversation has to end on such an unpleasant note,’ he said. ‘But you’d have found out sooner or later. Besides, I can relieve you of your worst fears.’

‘What does that mean? What fears? Are you telling me he really was a Bookhunter?’

‘Yes and no. Well, I’d best give you the bad news first. Around a dozen years ago, the authorities permitted Bookhunting once more.’

‘What?’ I said dully. That was bad news indeed.

‘They didn’t publicise the fact, and they don’t call it Bookhunting any more. It’s termed Biblionautics, as if it were a literary method of trawling for fish, and today’s Bookhunters are now called Biblionauts.’

‘But why? Everyone was so relieved when Bookhunting was abolished! Nobody missed those fellows.’

‘I must go back a bit further,’ said Ovidios. ‘It’s rather like the Bibliocists or the Bibliocrats. People aren’t particularly fond of them, but sometimes they’re glad they exist. Like dentists.’

‘Who on earth welcomes the presence of Bookhunters?’ I growled. I was more agitated than I would have cared to admit.

‘I told you, they’re called Biblionauts these days. You must learn to make the distinction. I know you can’t accept the situation yet, but look at it this way: Biblionauts are a necessary evil.’

‘That’s what people used to say about the Bookhunters.’

‘Well? Wasn’t it true? The city made money out of them. The authorities keep quiet about that today because it smacks of complicity. You’ll have to say goodbye to your former fears sooner or later. The Bookhunters are dead – have been for two hundred years. They live on only in your nightmares. The Biblionauts are quite another kettle of fish.’

‘Bookhunters, Biblionauts – what’s the difference?’ I insisted. ‘They look just as martial and menacing as those criminals of old.’

Ovidios sighed. ‘But they aren’t dangerous any more. Not to us, at any rate. They’re an entirely new generation – they operate in accordance with a strict code of conduct and the methods espoused by Colophonius Regenschein. They don’t bump each other off down below. They don’t kill or injure anyone except the dangerous creatures they have to deal with in the catacombs. They’ve retained the martial attire because it’s essential in the Labyrinth, as a deterrent and for personal protection. They venture far deeper into the catacombs these days. Areas are being explored in which no one ever set foot in the old days. Those who are bold enough to enter them need more than just audacity. They need the heart of a Bookhunter.’

‘Bookhunters have no heart,’ I said coldly. Ovidios had no idea what he was talking about.

‘I meant to say they need the heart of a Biblionaut. I still keep mixing up those terms myself.’

‘Perhaps you should simply start again from the beginning,’ I suggested. ‘Since when have you believed that Bookholm can’t get by without Bookhunters – or Biblionauts?’

‘It was a gradual process. You never saw it, Optimus, but please try to visualise the streets of Bookholm without any Bookhunters. That might sound a welcome state of affairs from your point of view, but it’s also rather boring, isn’t it? Something would simply be missing. I experienced it for myself. I didn’t know
what
I was missing on my walks until one day it dawned on me: walking through Bookholm after the Bookhunters had disappeared was like visiting a zoo devoid of wild animals. They were as much a part of Bookholm as thunder and lightning are of a storm. They supplied the drama in our city. The kick. The salt in the soup and the sugar in the coffee! At least admit that their costumes were great!’

I naturally understood what Ovidios was getting at and he was right. But he would never persuade me to say a good word about that gang of professional cut-throats.
He
hadn’t come up against them in the catacombs.
I
had.

‘The municipal authorities thought up a remedy. They engaged clowns from Florinth and mimes from Grailsund. Brass brands, too. Can you imagine it? Ludicrous, made-up buffoons and brass bands as a substitute for Bookhunters! Imagine Florinth without its museums! Ironville without its rivers of mercury! There was a dramatic drop in hotel bookings and sales in the antiquarian bookshops stagnated. Worst of all, however, there were no discoveries of books on the
Golden List
, because these had traditionally been made by the Bookhunters. And without any fresh
Golden List
discoveries the really affluent customers stayed away – people like the book-collecting biblionnaires and industrialists who used to come to Bookholm to bid at
Golden List
auctions and nonchalantly bought up whole bookshops or city blocks. The really big money stopped coming. We suddenly lacked the crowd pullers that had lent the book trade its glamour. And we also, shameful though it was, began to realise how important to us the Bookhunters had been. Bookholm was threatening to become a city like any other. And then a miracle occurred! All at once, from one day to the next, they were back.’

‘Who were?’ I asked slow-wittedly.

‘Why, the accursed Bookhunters! Or the Biblionauts, as they now styled themselves. It was like a dream. As if conjured into being overnight or sprung up like mushrooms, heavily armed, mask-wearing figures in bizarre suits of armour stalked the city’s streets once more! Awesome beings from a darker, deeper world, none resembled any other. It was initially assumed that they were a trick on the part of City Hall: that they were simply costumed actors hired to reactivate the tourist trade – and indeed, plans of that kind did exist. But then some
Golden List
books suddenly turned up – in substantial numbers, what’s more. Biblionauts would march into up-market antiquarian bookshops and plunk a copy of
The Yellow Almanac
down on the counter, say, or Wimpersleake’s long-lost, handwritten diary of his boyhood! Things of that kind! It truly did seem like a miracle and the Biblionauts were hailed as saviours.’

Ovidios leant forward.

‘Of course, their new professional name was only a little subterfuge, which the Bibliocrats at City Hall were happy to go along with. Even though Bookhunters had been banished from Bookholm, it wasn’t forbidden to go around there in bizarre suits of armour or search the catacombs for rare books. Business picked up again within a few months.’

Ovidios gathered his smoker’s paraphernalia together and prepared to leave.

‘And that’s all there is to the Biblionauts – or the latter-day Bookhunters, if you prefer. Not a very edifying story, I grant you, but I’m afraid you’ll have to come to terms with it, because they’re still very popular in Bookholm. And now I fear I must take my leave – the family calls, you understand. I enjoyed our conversation – perhaps we can resume it some time soon. Come and see us.’

Having handed me a card bearing his address, he rose and walked out with measured tread.

‘Like a king in exile,’ I thought as I watched him go. It was nice to have met him again and to see that he was prospering.

Then I myself set off. I was genuinely the last to leave the Fumoir, which was empty apart from me and swaths of toxic fumes. At the door I paused, suddenly aware that I’d forgotten something of great importance. I thought for a moment, then it came to me. I had forgotten the real purpose of my visit: I’d omitted to smoke my very last pipe.

Book Wine from Bookholm

ANYONE WHO HAS
already visited a tavern or two will know what I mean. You’ve propped up the bar for hours and indulged in some heavy drinking, but you still feel comparatively sober. Then you emerge into the open air and – wham! – that’s when the alcohol utterly unexpectedly takes full effect as it mingles with the oxygen in your blood. You’re suddenly as drunk as you deserve to be.

That was more or less what happened to me when I left the Fumoir. Although I’d drunk no alcohol, my lungs had semi-involuntarily absorbed vast quantities of intoxicating substances, some of exotic provenance. All at once, I could hardly keep my feet. I lurched out into the street and came to a brief, swaying halt. The ground tilted first to the left, then to the right, as if I were aboard a ship in rough weather, and the stars were whirling overhead. The stars? Yes, night had fallen during our conversation.

I tottered along unsteadily for a few steps and clung to a wall, feeling sure I was about to pass out. Instead, my circulation and sense of balance stabilised themselves, and I was overcome by a surprising feeling of happiness – indeed, of absolute euphoria. The state of intoxication I’d acquired in the Fumoir was probably unique in its way. Where else could one try out such an unpredictable and experimental cocktail of drugs without – at least in my case – really meaning to? This was probably the secret of the Fumoir’s obvious popularity. You didn’t go there to smoke at all, but to be surprised by what the others had to offer. The most significant feature of my condition was
that
I couldn’t have described
how
I felt. I didn’t even know a word for it.

Once I had more or less regained control of myself, I looked around. The nocturnal streetscape glowed with unreal colours, almost like a painting by Edd van Murch, the great exponent of
Grailsundian Devil-Painting
. The buildings were swaying gently to and fro, and the air was filled with the sound of countless whispers. None of this alarmed me; on the contrary, I found it entertaining. When I tried to catch the ethereal voices in the air, I saw I had ten claws on each paw, but it didn’t dismay me, it made me giggle stupidly. The paving stones beneath my feet felt soft and warm, almost hot, which also amused me. I’d never found walking so interesting! I felt I was taking giant strides across an endless feather bed on grotesquely long legs, like a gigantic stork. The people who passed me were transparent, their only response to my humorous remarks being wholly unintelligible quacking sounds. I felt I was in an echo chamber that multiplied every sound: my footsteps on the pavement, the rattle of horse-drawn vehicles, the slamming of doors. Perhaps I’d left the Fumoir by the wrong exit and was walking through another dimension in which everything was more vivid and interesting – and funnier!

Heavens alive, how thirsty I was! My throat was so dry, my tongue was cleaving to my gums. I simply had to have something – anything! – to drink, so I strode on through the darkened streets in search of a tavern, continually shaken by uncontrollable paroxysms of laughter. Was I feverish? Yes, but in a
delectable
way! If this was a symptom of some disease, I never wanted to recover from it! I firmly resolved to visit every Fumoir in Bookholm regularly from now on, one after another.

In these streets there were numerous shops full of souvenirs: cheap tourist trash such as snowstorm paperweights containing city sights, poor copies of books on the
Golden List
, coloured postcards bearing greetings from the
City of Dreaming Books
and the inevitable puppets
resembling
famous authors in appearance. This junk amused me as immensely as everything did at that moment and, although my thirst was urging me on, I paused in front of every other window, sometimes roaring with laughter. I passed one window whose display was hard to make out in the darkness, but I spotted something out of the corner of my eye that struck me as familiar and captured my attention. Looking more closely, I discovered that the window was full of Booklings!

I stood rooted to the spot. A sign hanging above the door of the shop announced that it specialised in
Literary Sculptures
, in other words, carved, sculpted or modelled bookends, paperweights, authors’ busts, or scale models of printing presses. But the window itself was exclusively devoted to miniature effigies of Booklings of the highest quality. I was amazed. The artist had succeeded in making his miniature figures so incredibly lifelike, he had to be intimately acquainted with the Booklings. This greatly surprised me, because very few people apart from me had ever been privileged to see this subterranean species in the flesh. Or had that, too, changed since my last visit? I found one group sculpture particularly admirable. It represented two Booklings engaged in printing, complete with a scale model of a press and printed pages lying around.

Yes, that was just how the Booklings looked in the bowels of the Labyrinth. I had witnessed such scenes with my own eyes. Then I discovered a small handwritten notice in the window. It read: