I Am the Messenger

by Markus Zusak

  My head rolls back.

  The Ace of Spades slips from my hand to a crack in the couch.

  I dream.

  It's a long night, where I'm trapped inside a dreamworld and can't decipher whether I'm awake or asleep. When I wake up near morning, I'm still in the Sledge Game, and I'm chasing the woman who brought the card and arguing with the kid. Bargaining.

  Later, I dream that I'm in school again, but no one else is there. It's only me, and the air in the classroom is dusty yellow. I'm sitting there with books strewn on the desk and words on the board. The words are in running writing, and I can't decipher them.

  A woman walks in.

  A teacher with long skinny legs, black skirt, white blouse, and purple cardigan. She's nearly fifty but sexy in some way. She ignores me for the most part, until a bell rings, loudly, as if it's right outside the room. That's the first time she even acknowledges my existence.

  She looks up.

  "Time to start, Ed."

  I'm ready. "Yes?"

  "Could you read the words behind me please?"

  "I can't."

  "Why in God's name not?"

  I focus harder on the words but still can't make them out.

  She's shaking her head at me now. I don't see it but feel the disappointment as I glue my eyes to the desk. I stare for a long time and actually feel upset that I've let this woman down.

  A few minutes later.

  I hear it.

  A whipping noise followed by some creaking reaches into my ears.

  I look up, and what greets my sight is a shock. It boots the breath from my lungs--the teacher is hanging from a rope in front of the blackboard.

  She's dead.

  She swings.

  The ceiling's gone and the rope is tied tightly around one of the rafters.

  Horrified, I sit there, suffocating on air that seems to have no oxygen as I breathe it frantically in. My hands stick to the table, so much that I need to pry them off when I stand up and attempt to run out for help. My right hand hits the door handle when, slowly, I stop and turn again to the woman hanging from the rope.

  Slow.

  Almost creeping.

  I walk over to face her.

  Just when I think she looks even vaguely peaceful, her eyes shock open and she speaks.

  It's strangled and coarse, her voice.

  "Recognize the words now, Ed?" she says, and I'm left standing there, looking beyond her at the board. Now I see the title at the top and understand what it says: "Barren Woman."

  That's when the body tumbles to the floor at my feet, and I wake.

  Now it's the Doorman at my feet, and the dusty yellow air is in the lounge room from the rising sun outside.

  The dream lunges at me a few seconds after I open my eyes and I see the woman, the words, and the title again. I feel her falling at my feet and hear what she said. Recognize the words now, Ed?

  "'Barren Woman,'" I whisper.

  I know I've heard it before. In fact, I know I've read a poem called "Barren Woman." I read it in school because I had a depressed English teacher. She loved that poem, and I recall some of the lines even today. Words like "the least footfall" and "museum without statues" and comparing her life to a fountain that rises and falls back into itself.

  "Barren Woman."

  "Barren Woman."

  I rise fast when it comes to me. I nearly trip over the Doorman, who, by the way, is not impressed. He gives me a look of You just woke me, pal.

  "'Barren Woman,'" I tell him.

  So what?

  I repeat the title, and this time I grab him joyously by the snout because now I know the answer to the Ace of Spades. Or at least I'm on the way.

  The poem "Barren Woman" was written by a woman who committed suicide, and I'm pretty sure of it--her name was Sylvia Plath.

  I search the couch for the card and see her name again, third on the list. They're writers, I think. They're all writers. Graham Greene, Morris West, and Sylvia Plath. It surprises me that I've never heard of the first two, but then you can't know of everyone who ever wrote a book. But I know for sure about Sylvia. We're even on a first-name basis now. That's how proud of myself I am.

  I rejoice in the moment for quite a while, feeling like I've unlocked some great mystery by accident. I'm incredibly stiff now and my ribs are killing me, but I'm still able to eat cereal with milk that's dubious, to say the least, and loads of sugar.

  It's around seven-thirty when I discover that I've only solved part of the problem. I still have no idea where I have to go or what messages I need to deliver.

  I'll start at the library, I think. It's a shame it's Sunday. It won't open till later.

  Audrey comes over.

  We watch a movie she highly recommends.

  It's good.

  I refrain from asking where she was last night.

  I tell her about the spades, the names, and that I'm heading over to the library in the afternoon. I'm pretty sure it's open on Sunday between twelve and four.

  When she drinks the coffee I made, I look at the redness of her lips and wish I could just stand up, walk over, and kiss them. I want to feel the flesh of them and the softness against my own. I want to breathe in her and with her. I want to be able to put my teeth to her neck and have my fingers touch her back and run them through the lovely, mild yellow color of her hair.

  Honestly.

  I don't know what it is this morning.

  But soon I understand why I feel like this--I deserve something. I'm going around fixing people's lives, even just for a moment or two. I'm hurting people that need hurting, when inflicting pain goes against everything that comes naturally to me.

  I at least deserve something, I reason. Audrey could love me just for a second, surely. But I know. Without doubt, I know nothing will happen. She won't kiss me. She'll barely touch me. I'm running all over town, getting trodden on, beaten up, abused, and for what? What do I get out of it? What's in it for Ed Kennedy?

  I'll tell you what.

  Nothing.

  But I'm lying.

  I'm lying, and I vow, right this instant, to stop. I've been through all this and thought I'd really turned a corner after the Ace of Clubs.

  I stop.

  Stop everything.

  And I do something stupid.

  I stand up completely on impulse and walk over to Audrey and kiss her on the mouth. I feel the red lips and the flesh and the air inside her, and with my eyes closed I feel her for just a second. I feel all of her and it rushes past me. Through me and past me and over me and I'm hot and cold and shivering and shot down.

  I'm shot down by the sound of my mouth slipping away from hers till silence staggers between us.

  I taste blood.

  Then I see blood on Audrey's lips that are on Audrey's surprised face.

  God, I couldn't even kiss her properly. I couldn't do it without opening up and bleeding on her.

  I close my eyes.

  I clench them shut.

  Soon I stop everything and say, "I'm sorry, Audrey." I turn away. "I didn't know what I was doing. I'm..." And the words stop now, too. They cut themselves down before it's too late, and the two of us stand in the kitchen.

  We both have blood on our lips.

  She doesn't want to feel that way about me, and I can accept that, but I wonder if she'll ever know that no one will love her as hard as I do. She wipes the blood from her mouth, and I say again how sorry I am. Audrey is as gracious as ever and takes the apology, explaining that she just can't do that sort of thing with me. I think she'd rather do it without any meaning or truth. Just what it is, without the risk of any of that. If she doesn't want love from anyone, I have to respect that.

  "Don't worry, Ed," she says, and she means it.

  One great thing is that Audrey and I are always okay. Somehow, we manage it. It doesn't seem to matter what happens. I consider this fact for a moment, and to be perfectly honest, I wonder how long it can possibly last. Surely not for
ever.

  "Give us a smile, Ed," she says later, when she's leaving.

  I can't help it.

  I give her one.

  "Good luck with the spades," she says.

  "Thanks."

  The door closes.

  It's nearly twelve now, and I put on my shoes and head for the library. I still feel stupid.

  Now it's true that I've read a lot of books, but I bought them all, mainly from secondhand bookshops. The last time I actually used a library, they still had big long catalog drawers. Even at school, when the computers came in as stock standard, I still used the drawers. I liked pulling out the card of an author and seeing the books listed.

  When I walk into the library, I'm expecting an old lady behind the counter, but it's a young guy, about my age, with long, curly hair. He's a bit of a smart mouth, but I like him.

  "You got any of those cards?" I ask him.

  "What kind of cards? Playing cards? Library cards? Credit cards?" He's enjoying himself. "What exactly do you mean?"

  I can tell he's trying to make me look uneducated and useless, though I don't really need his help. "You know," I explain to him, "the cards with all the writers and authors and that."

  "Ohh," and he laughs fully now. "You haven't been in a library for a long time, have you?"

  "No," I say. Now I really feel uneducated and useless. I might as well wear a sign that says Total Dropkick on it. I act on it. "But I've read Joyce and Dickens and Conrad."

  "Who are they?"

  Now I have the upper hand. "What? You haven't read those guys? You call yourself a librarian?"

  He acknowledges me now with a devious smile. "Touche."

  Touche.

  I can't stand that expression.

  Nonetheless, the guy becomes a lot more helpful now. He says, "We don't use those cards anymore--it's all on the computer. Come on."

  We go over to the computers and he says, "Right, give me an author."

  I stutter because I don't want to tell him one of the people on the Ace of Spades. They're mine. I give him Shakespeare.

  He types it in and all the titles come up on the screen. Then he types in the number next to Macbeth and says, "There it is. You got it?"

  I read the screen and understand. "Thanks."

  "Just yell out if you need me."

  "No worries."

  He goes off, and I'm alone with the keys, the writers, and the screen.

  First up, I go for Graham Greene. I'll go in the same order as they're listed on the card. I search my pocket for some paper but all I've got is a decrepit napkin. There's a pen tied to the table, and when I punch the name in and hit return, all the titles of Graham Greene come up on-screen.

  Some of the titles are brilliant.

  The Human Factor.

  Brighton Rock.

  The Heart of the Matter.

  The Power and the Glory.

  Our Man in Havana.

  I write them all on the napkin, as well as the call number for the first one.

  Next, I type West, Morris. Some of his titles are just as good, if not better.

  Gallows on the Sand.

  The Shoes of the Fisherman.

  Children of the Sun.

  The Ringmaster.

  The Clowns of God.

  Now, Sylvia.

  I must admit, I have a soft spot for her because I've read her once and it was her writing that came to me in the dream. If it wasn't for her, I wouldn't be sitting here, closer to knowing where I have to go. I want her titles to be the best, and whether it's biased or not, to me, they are.

  The Winter Ship.

  The Colossus.

  Ariel.

  Crossing the Water.

  The Bell Jar.

  I take the napkin to the shelves and look them all up again, in order. They're all beautiful. All old and hard-covered in plain red or blue or black. I take all of them. Every one, and I go and sit down with them. What now?

  How the hell am I going to read all of these in a week or two? The poems of Sylvia, maybe, but the other two have written some pretty long books, to say the least. I hope they're good.

  "Listen," says the library man. I'm at the counter with all the books. "You can't borrow this many. There's a limit, you know. Do you even have a card?"

  "What kind of card?" I can't help it. "A playing card? A credit card? What kind of card do you mean?"

  "Okay, smart arse."

  We both enjoy the moment, and he reaches under his counter and gives me a sheet of paper.

  "Fill this out, please."

  Once I receive the card, I try buttering him up a little to get my hands on all the books.

  "Thanks, mate. You're doing a hell of a job."

  He looks up. "You still want all those books, don't you?"

  "That's right." I pile them up onto the counter from the floor. "Basically, I really need them, and one way or the other, I'm going to get them. Only in today's sick society can a man be persecuted for reading too many books." I look back into the emptiness of the library. "They're hardly jumping off the shelves, now, are they? I don't think anyone else wants them just now."

  He allows me to talk, going through the motions. "Look, to be honest," he says, "I personally couldn't give a pinch of shit how many you borrow. It's regulations. If my boss catches me, I'm in it."

  "In what?"

  "I don't bloody know, but I'll be in it deep."

  Still, I look at him, not giving an inch.

  He caves in.

  "All right, give 'em here. Let's see what I can rig up for you." He starts scanning them. "My boss is a total knob anyway."

  When he's done, there are exactly eighteen books on the other side of the counter.

  "Thanks," I tell him. "Much appreciated."

  How am I going to get them all home? I ask myself.

  I consider ringing Marv for a lift, but I manage on my own. I drop some along the way, rest a few times, but in the end, each book makes it home.

  My arms are killing me.

  I didn't know words could be so heavy.

  All afternoon, I read.

  I fall asleep once as well, no disrespect to the writers. I'm still worn out from the Rose beating and the Sledge Game.

  As I read, I enjoy the work of Graham Greene. I don't pick up any clues as to where I have to go, but I think it must be simpler than this. I look over at the small book mountains I've built. It's demoralizing, to say the least. How am I ever going to find what I need among those thousands of pages?

  When I wake up, a southerly's blowing outside and it's actually pretty cool for this time of year. It being early December, I feel a little strange going to put a sweatshirt on. I walk past the front door and see a piece of paper lying there.

  No, it's a napkin.

  Anxious, my eyes close for a second, and I bend down to pick it up. It really brings home the fact that I've been followed all this time. They watched me go to the library. They watched me in the library and on the way home. They knew I wrote the titles on the napkin.

  My eyes read it.

  Just a few words, in red.

  Dear Ed,

  Good work--but don't worry, it's simpler than you think.

  I go back and sit with the books. I read "Barren Woman" until I know it word for word.

  The Doorman wants a walk later, so we go. We meander through the streets of town, and I try to guess where the next addresses will be. "Any clues, Doorman?" I ask.

  There's no reply. He's far too busy carrying out his casual, investigative style of sniffing.

  What I haven't recognized till now is that the answers are signposted. They're everywhere, at the top of every street and at every intersection. What if the messages are hidden in the titles? I wonder. The book titles. All I'd have to do is match the street to one of each writer's books.

  Simpler than you think, I tell myself. The napkin's still in my pocket, along with the Ace of Spades. I pull both out and look at them. The names watch me, and I swear they
see it when I understand. I lean down a moment and speak excitedly to the Doorman.

  "Come on," I say. "We have to get moving."

  We run home, or at least we go as fast as the Doorman will allow. I need the books, the street directory, and, hopefully, a few minutes.

  Yes, we run.

  Each book waits and I sit there with my old Gregory's, trying to find a match with any of the titles. I go through Graham first again. There's no Human Street, no Factor Street, no Heart Street.

  After a minute or so, I find it.

  I hold the book in my hand.

  It's black, and the title's written in gold on the spine. The Power and the Glory. There's no Power Street, but my eyes grow large with realization when I go back a few pages. The name greets my eyes like a fist. Glory Road.

  I grin and ruffle up the Doorman's fur. Glory Road. That's bloody brilliant. I'd love to live on Glory Road.

  On the map, it's way up on the edge of town.

  Now I go through the Morris West titles. It's faster this time.

  The Clowns of God.

  I find a Clown Street in the upper part of town.

  Last of all, Sylvia's one is Bell Street, from The Bell Jar. According to the directory, Bell Street is one of the small side streets off the main street of town.

  Now I check that none of the other titles also match, but I'm safe. They're the ones.

  Just one question for each street.

  What number?

  Now I have to dig.

  This is spades, so I have to dig.

  The clues must be in the books, so now I shove the other ones to the side and focus on the three finalists. I feel kind of sorry for the ditched ones, to be honest. They look like the losers of a dramatic, tumultuous race, sitting on the floor. If they were people, they'd each have their head in their hands.

  First, I reach for The Power and the Glory. I read well into the night, and it's one o'clock before I look up from the pages. I have no clues yet, and I can feel frustration starting to creep in. What if I've missed it? I wonder, but I'm certain I'll know it when I see it. For all I know, the numbers on Glory Road might only go up to 20 or 30, but I read on. I feel I must. This is what it's all about. Quitting now would be a sin.

  At 3:46 a.m. (it's burned into my memory), I find it.

  Page 114.