“Could you get me out,” I said.
“Yes of course, I’ll show you how. You pull up hard with your foot, and I’ll keep the dog away.” I pulled and he blew on a whistle made from dried willow. As soon as the dog heard, it ran off. I persisted with the pulling until the sole came away and that foot was shoeless.
“But where are we?” I asked.
“Eh!” he said, “this is a bad area. This area has slipped out of our control,” he pointed to an open door off its hinges, “from here on you’ll find nothing and nobody.”
I nodded towards the corridor.
“I don’t advise you to go there; there’s been a bookslide due to erosion of the load-bearing columns of the stacks.
We heard a rumble and then the crash. It was a disaster.
All the books in area running for hundreds of metres collapsed producing dust clouds and ruin, and for days no one could get near. The cloud might even be a little radioactive. You never know. Even other rooms at some distance were affected: walls, ceilings, floors, people…”
I looked in the opposite direction.
“I would not recommend going in that direction either,” he said. “There is a hole in the ground that goes directly into a sewer. It is not a nice smell, and anyone who slips in out of carelessness will not be coming back amongst the living. Such people adapt to their environment and become unrecognisable – resembling dead people in colour and appearance.”
I looked around.
“My advice to you would be to avoid rummaging around amongst the books. There are moulds that when you breathe them cause asthma, hay fever, skin allergies, acne, infections, and even worse. There are moulds that damage the ears and the eyes: they get inside and the eyes swell up like those of a toad; the ears shrivel up and become deaf. If they go in the mouth and the saliva, then these moulds cause hallucinations: for instance one guy believed that the examination committee were hot on his heels and wanted to capture and interrogate him, and the saliva was gluing up his mouth like an adhesive paste, and he couldn’t articulate words but only borborygmi and mastic bubbles.
As he could not breathe, he fell helpless to the ground, and for a while he breathed through his pores and improvised gills. Eventually he succumbed without ever saying another word.”
“But I’ve got to read something before tomorrow morning,” I was sweating.
“I would not advise reading: with so little light and so much disorder anyone would lose heart and despair. None of the books in here are intact, no one knows what they’re about, they only contain jumbles of words that confuse people, and whoever wrote them was just trying to put on airs. In fact I would advise against any kind of exertion or labour, and you’ll get yourself bitten: dogs that live in the darkness suffer from rabies and can bite. There is no point in playing the part of the hero; you’ll just get a reputation for stupidity and you’ll be risking your neck if you haven’t been inoculated.”
“What do you mean? Not even reading?”
“That’s right, and I even advise you against opening them. You might have some nasty surprises: vendettas left by other people such as needles for a Pravaz syringe, sharp devices with spring mechanisms, arsenic, carnival bombs and razor-blades with the resulting dangers of serious infections, intoxications, septicaemia and death.”
“Does no one have any idea of what’s going on? Isn’t there anyone in charge?”
“There’s a director, but he’s not much use.”
“Take me to see him, for God’s sake!” I gave him a coin no longer in circulation. It was the last one I had in my pocket.
“I can take you there,” we set off towards a small door camouflaged in the wall, “although I do assure you that it will be a waste of time. He’s not interested in the library itself; he has other interests.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“This director is called Perbeni; some people think he is a genius, but I am not one of them. He spends all his nights inventing things, perhaps even important things, but in the meantime he is letting the library go wild and it is becoming a danger to us all. Who knows! Perhaps it’s better that way. He has gathered together an experimental scientific laboratory in his box room and wants to come up with the great invention of the century, so that his name will live on forever in books and human memory. Accetto’s son, who has the unfortunate name of Feltpad, is his pupil and assistant. His father, being a widower, forced him into that career when he was little, so that he could make something of himself. Every night he goes to the director’s box room, where they keep a camp bed. Consequently, the poor soul has grown pale and thin, because he eats and sleeps very little. You can hear them bustling about all night long. Smoke and vapours can be seen filtering out.
Every now and then Feltpad inhales toxic fumes, and when the director does, he swears a lot. He invents at a variable rate, perhaps according to his metereopathies, and when he invents something, he calls for everyone, and they come running in the midst of the racket made by chickens, cats and dogs. ‘I’ve done it, I’ve done it,’ he screams, ‘this is the invention of the century!’ Even Accetto runs over, beaming with joy because he hopes that a little glory will be reflected on his son and a little also on himself. He runs over with his assistants who lift the director up high in jubilation. As usual they go too far and drop him badly, almost crippling him. In their enthusiasm, they also throw the son in the air, and as he is light, he goes all the way up to the ceiling, where he bangs his head and falls back down semiconscious stuttering, ‘Thanks, but that’s enough now.’ Then his father intervenes: on the one hand, he is content about the glory that is now for all to see, but on the other, he is a little vexed by the hardly scientific exuberance of Santoro and Fischietti. There are squabbles and protests, Accetto hits out all over the place with his ruler until calm is restored. Then Professor Rasorio is summoned to adjudicate. Do you know him?”
“Yes, I do.”
“The fact is that the director Perbeni has so far only invented things that have already been invented. Or so it seems. When Rasorio points this out to him, he immediately flares up, ‘Shit! How can that possibly be? I just invented it, this very night!’ After having observed boiling water for a long time, given that he drinks about ten coffees in a night which makes him really edgy, he invented the piston and the steam engine. ‘This will lead to an industrial revolution,’ he declared self-importantly. ‘But it has already been invented,’ said Rasorio. ‘Bloody hell!
When was that?’ he demanded to know. ‘They invented it two hundred years ago,’ the professor said. ‘Good gracious!
I thought I wouldn’t get there in time. But who says this?
Could it be unreliable information?’ ‘I can assure you,’ Rasorio repeated, ‘it’s even in the encyclopaedia.’ Then the director generally goes silent and inside him he feels the increasing pressure of a dull anger against the speed of progress, and occasionally he takes it out on Accetto’s son, because he sees the anaemic boy lying on the camp bed:
‘Wake up, the world is rushing onwards, you layabout!’ On hearing this, Accetto also attacks his son, ‘You’ll always be a nobody! Just like Fischietti and Santoro.’ He summons them and to demonstrate how little they amount to, he threatens them with his ruler and then gives the order:
‘Laugh! Now cry!’ and they laugh and cry. But then they don’t want to stop and they try once more to carry the director in triumph, but as he is irritated and in violent mood, he shouts at Accetto to have them desist. There follow very unedifying scenes, particularly for the boy. For the director is a very rational man, but not when he is angry.
“Then he invented something like a helicopter: he did not construct a whole one, but he did the calculations. He collected pieces of tin, measured the air resistance in relation to the revolving surface, designed the shape of the propellers, and ascertained the required elasticity of the material. He then displayed a toy that was a clockwork prototype. ‘But it’s already been done,’ th
ey tell him. He started to swear and for two days he was livid and liverish.
‘It was invented by Sikorsky in 1909.’ ‘Who’s this Sikorsky?’ he asked. Accetto wanted to calm him down, ‘Above all, don’t swear; Feltpad might learn.’ ‘Yes, but the propeller is my patent,’ he argued. ‘No, John Ericsson invented it,’ Rasorio replied. ‘But when?’ ‘In 1837.’ ‘Hah,’ he said, ‘son of this and son of that.’ And he indulged in his verbal intemperance. One night, he disassembled several pairs of glasses, put the lenses in a tube on top of a tripod, and said, ‘This is a telescope.’ They didn’t even bother to call Rasorio; Accetto took him aside and said, ‘Galileo Galilei invented it in 1609.’ He didn’t want to believe it: ‘Who says so?’ ‘Everyone knows it. They make you learn it by rote in school.’ ‘So I’m supposed to be an ignoramus? Nothing I invent ever counts for anything!’ and he started to shout that it was all a mafia, that freelance inventors are treated like dirt. They count for nothing, while those in charge are the mafia who produce encyclopaedias. They’re the ones who sow the tares and spread false rumours; who knows what shameful interests lurk beneath?
“One night, for instance, a cooking stove blew up, but according to him he had written down the formula. ‘It’s another invention,’ he declared and everyone came running. He repeated the experiment and the door blew up.
‘Now you believe me,’ he said, but Rasorio put him right, ‘That must be dynamite. Nobel invented it in 1862.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I mean that you’re a bit late. Dynamite already exists.’ ‘To hell with it! Why does something always have to meddle with things? Who is this Nobel anyway? He must be some loafer, a gangster who exploits the simpleminded and bribes the ministers to provide him with propaganda in books and dictionaries.’ ‘He’s dead.’ ‘Serves him right.’ And the whole business took its usual course: endless swear words, rambling diatribes against encyclopaedias, an unseemly chaos and reprimands for Feltpad because he wouldn’t get off his camp bed.”
Chapter R
We got there just as the director invented the electric motor. It was a table fan. Accetto, his assistants and other people were crowding round in a circle. Perhaps they were employees and readers, as some were in uniform and others in pyjamas or threadbare and seedy-looking clothes.
The fan spun at a great speed creating such a draught down the entire corridor that those present kept their jackets closed and had the red eyes of a motorcyclist.
Santoro and Fischietti were all excited and their hair stood up on end. An incredible number of feathers and a great deal of dust floated in the air. Seated in front of it on a chair buffeted by the current of air, Rasorio was explaining at that very moment, “… the electric motor working on alternating current was invented by Tesla, an American engineer, in 1892.”
“What’s that? What’s that? Engineer, you say?” said a choleric little man whom I immediately took to be the director Perbeni. “This time you’re just making fun of me!
An engineer! But who ever heard such nonsense?”
Accetto was listening to the conversation with a fierce expression, while his two assistants put their faces near to the blades so that they could watch them turning close-up and prod them with pieces of straw which were noisily chopped up and sent flying in different directions. Then Santoro, at Fischietti’s instigation, tried putting his finger in, but he removed it immediately. He then studied it carefully, before showing it to Fischietti.
“You just want to make fun of me,” the director repeated, while he increased the fan’s speed to everyone’s admiration, “but I would say that it works outstandingly well.”
“There is no doubt of it,” said Rasorio, “but if you ask me whether it has already been invented, I have to tell you in all honesty that it has.”
The director was indignant, “Give me your proof, because I have provided proof of my part.” He switched it on and off, to the enormous satisfaction of both himself and his witnesses.
“The proof,” replied Rasorio, “can be found in just any encyclopaedia.”
When he heard these words, the director’s bony and obstinate face quivered. “Let’s see it then,” he said, and the assistants echoed him, “Let’s see it, let’s see it.” They were very happy with the direction the conversation had taken.
Thus, after a little more scurrying about, an enormous volume was produced and Rasorio set about thumbing through the pages, while keeping it inside an open drawer in the desk to shelter it from the proof-providing draught, which was blustering and unrelenting. “Here we are,” he said, “Nikola Tesla, an American of Croatian origin, and so on… high-voltage currents… carried out research… created the first electric motor…” On hearing these words, the director, who had stood next to Rasorio to peer at the book, suddenly closed the drawer on the professor’s hands and kept them hermetically sealed in there by putting his whole weight sideways against it, and in that instant Santoro and Fischietti grabbed the fan, as though that was all they were waiting for, and placed it at full speed next to one of his ears, so that the blades just brushed against the ear, while making the noise of a salami-slicer.
Rasorio shouted and protested, “I shall never adjudicate again. From now on, no more adjudications.”
“You belong to the encyclopaedia mafia, and it’s time you confessed,” screamed the director; “you’re an international menace. You want to lay down the law, but not to me, you won’t.” In the meantime, you could hear the fan brushing the ear at various speeds, and all the bystanders were shocked and a little frightened by the offensive power of a fan and its improper use on human beings. The readers were more frightened than the others. Then Fischietti said he wanted to shave him and he passed the fan along his cheeks like a mower. Santoro pushed, so that he would shave more deeply and against the growth of the poor man’s beard.
“This is what always happens,” said Bisolfo with a slight tone of disgust, “if Feltpad doesn’t get all the blame, then poor Rasorio does.”
Eventually someone tripped on the cord or perhaps the two assistants pulled on it too much, and the plug came out of the wall. During the ensuing turmoil, Rasorio freed his hands, and he wandered off with an offended and urticated face, while gingerly pressing his auricle and grumbling that he would no longer give either judgements or marks. The others continued to tinker around.
I glanced into the director’s office, which had a neon light.
It was not an office as you would normally imagine it. It contained all manner of things piled up on the floor, chairs and two tables, and also attached to nails in the wall or hooks on the ceiling. There were open drawers spilling over with stuff, and the long and contorted items were poking out from under a bed. A small glass cabinet, which probably should have contained books, was packed on each shelf with a tangle of junk. Everything was covered with slimy filth and either dull or rusty. There were dismantled parts that no one could even name. If they had a hole or a ring, they were tied together with wire. On the floor there was a path that led to a table and to the bed, but it was strewn with cogs, springs and washers.
There was someone in the room, lying on the bed and smoking. I inferred that this must be Accetto’s son. His face and person resembled a celery stick, diaphanous and white tending towards light green, with hair and ears splayed and tasselled like celery leaves.
“This place is a midden!” I said. “What is this room supposed to be? Isn’t it supposed to be the director’s office?”
“It is,” he replied.
I stood there. I had trampled on glass and touched an old piston which had dirtied my sleeve. He had lifted himself up a bit, and was looking at me quizzically.
“Well then,” I said, “how did all this happen?”
He put out his cigarette and said something along these lines: “When all you do is pile up a whole lot of words and names on one side, as in the case of a library, then somewhere else you have to create a whole lot of trash. I’m not the only one who’s saying this: you go for a litt
le stroll around the city and open the dustbins, which are all over the place and always overflowing and foul-smelling. Just go ahead and open those bins and have a good rummage around inside; and all you’ll find is things with no identity, things that have no name. You are unable to call them anything other than rubbish. They are the remains, whereas their names – the lustrous ones they had in the past when they were specific, nicely coloured and recognisable objects – continue to exist elsewhere and on their own inside books. Oh yes, you can find them all shiny and in perfect order in a dictionary, and there they remain indifferent to time, acids and atmospheric agents, even when the things from which they were taken are battered and completely corroded, or buried in grass until they have entirely dissolved away.”
I listened. I leant against a small table, but coated my hands and pyjama bottoms with black grease. On shifting away, I tore the bottoms on a nail. I was trying not to tread on some needles with my naked foot.
“Well,” he continued, “Perbeni, the director, says that to invent he needs not words but things, and nothing can be excluded a priori. So he sends me to a place around here – not far from the library – where there’s an enormous tip that has been piled up against the city wall, and there I pick up anything that comes to hand. If he can, he too comes secretly when it’s still dark to root around in that great mass of rubbish. He has a preference for things made of tin, gears, pipes, but also bottles with dregs of acid, turpentine and zinc sulphate. Lorries come every day to dump tons of unserviceable stuff. Then we discovered that many of these academics are collectors; in other words, they gather stuff from the rubbish within bins, on the ground and in skips. Some things meet with their approval and they keep them in their pockets. The director proposed that they should come and hand in what they have found in exchange for perks and special privileges such as a place reserved for them in the library, the right not to be woken up or as compensation for damage they have inflicted on the books, chairs and fittings.
The Nocturnal Library Page 16