“This isn’t a night library, right?” I said in a hushed voice. “This isn’t a book of life, either. It’s my dossier. And you are some kind of secret police, spying service, or whatever you’re called. I don’t know much about such things. Congratulations. You’ve done a wonderful job. I had no idea that such surveillance was possible. Truly unbelievable. And terrifying. All right, now what? You know literally everything about me. There’s nothing you can accuse me of, but you’ve collected more than enough to keep a hold over me. So you can blackmail me. That’s what you’re up to, right? The only thing I don’t understand is why you had to invent that fantastic story about the billions of life stories since time immemorial, when you could have done perfectly well without it. Particularly since it’s not the least bit convincing.”
“Nothing has been invented, although I don’t blame you for thinking so. Almost everyone who reads his own book of life reaches the same conclusion as you. It’s quite understandable.”
“But the story has its weak spots. You overlooked some details. How, for example, did you know which binder to bring? I didn’t introduce myself beforehand.”
“We knew. Everyone goes to the night library sooner or later. It was your turn today. We were waiting for you.”
“Really? Are you waiting for someone else after me, perhaps? If you are, I’ve got bad news for you. The entrance is locked. No one else can come in. And what kind of a night library is it that’s locked at night, huh?” I hoped I sounded caustic enough.
“You’re mistaken,” replied the man behind the counter softly. “It’s open. You’ll see for yourself when you go downstairs.”
We looked at each other for several moments in silence. The smile lingered on the stranger’s face.
“Do you mean to say,” I said finally, “that I am free to go?”
“Certainly. How could you be stopped? Libraries are free to enter and exit as you like. That’s how it’s always been. Night libraries are no exception. Unless there’s something else you would like to read, nothing prevents you from leaving.”
I didn’t think twice. “I don’t think I care to read anything else. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. We are pleased that you visited us. Good night, sir.” He took the binder, stood up, nodded to me, then walked into the back room.
“Good night,” I replied, when he was already on the other side of the door.
I stayed in front of the counter a little while longer. The silence began to thicken around me. I could feel the ghostly eyes from the darkness stabbing me in the back. The man did not return. I turned and headed down the long, dark carpet at a faster pace than I had intended. I stopped at the end of the room and turned around briefly. The lamp had been turned off.
Holding onto the rail, I descended to the ground floor. I grabbed the doorknob, but didn’t twist it. For the third time, the outcome of this simple movement filled me with apprehension. The previous times had been easier. I would not have been in any serious trouble if the door hadn’t opened. It would only have caused a minor inconvenience. I would have been without anything to read over the weekend, or I would have had to call the police to come and get me out.
Now, however, I didn’t dare think about my fate if the door turned out to be locked. I would be trapped with no way out. But I couldn’t hesitate forever. The doorknob slowly turned. When I pulled the door, it glided smoothly towards me and wrapped me in a whirlwind of large snowflakes. I quickly went out and took in a deep breath of cold winter air. The door closed automatically behind me.
I stood in front of the library, hands in my pockets, collar raised. I had no reason to stay there, but somehow I didn’t want to leave. Before I finally left, I turned once more towards the entrance. Not much could be seen through the glass. Just beyond the door rose an opaque wall of darkness. The clock hung from its very edge; the rod that attached it to the ceiling could not be seen in the darkness, so it seemed to float. My gaze passed fleetingly over that round, white surface with its hands and numbers. At first, I didn’t realize the problem.
The nature of my new disturbance only became clear after I had taken a few steps away from the library. I stopped in my tracks, then rushed back to the entrance. I pressed my face against the glass and sheltered my eyes with my hands. A shiver ran down my spine. I stood back from the door, took off my glasses and raised my left wrist. The conviction that I would see something different was fragile and unstable, but what else remained? The feeling disappeared instantly, as happens to futile hopes. Both clocks, the one inside and mine outside, showed the same time: three minutes after eight.
I shook my head in disbelief. This simply could not be. I had spent at least an hour in the library. Maybe even an hour and a half. That was quite certain. Every moment was still vivid to me. My experiences could not have been imaginary or an illusion. On the other hand, time cannot stand still. Regardless of their power, the secret police still cannot stop time. So what had happened? There had to be an explanation.
There was only one way to find the answer: by entering the library a second time. The thought did not appeal to me at all, but reliving an impossible mystery for the rest of my life would have been even harder. A shiver went through me when I reached for the doorknob. I pushed the door but it didn’t move. I tried once again, harder, but it didn’t budge. The library was locked, just as it should have been. Libraries don’t stay open at night. There are no night libraries. Working hours were over and the personnel had gone home. I was too late.
I had to resign myself to the situation, particularly since I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t break into the library, of course. Even if I’d wanted to, how could I have done it? I was no burglar, I hadn’t the talent for it. I hushed the voices inside me that opposed my withdrawal. What else could I do? What was the point of standing there in the darkness and the snow? I would only catch cold needlessly or appear suspicious to some cop on his beat. I put my hands back into my pockets, hunched my shoulders, and headed down the street through the thick swarm of snowflakes.
I didn’t get very far this time, either. I stopped in mid-step, next to the nearest lamppost, although I couldn’t figure out why at first. The vague feeling came over me that I had missed something. I had overlooked some detail. I racked my brain, but it was just out of reach, like a word on the tip of your tongue that you can’t remember. I looked toward the sky. The wide, orange beam of light from the street lamp was dotted with innumerable flakes, slowly floating downwards, carried by the wind. The moment they started to fall on my face, it dawned on me.
I turned and hurried back to the library entrance, almost slipping in the slush. I no longer needed to shield my eyes from the outside light. I no longer truly needed even to look inside because, even before I did, I knew what I would see, in spite of the darkness within the library. The handle of my umbrella was sticking out of the cylindrical brass stand.
21. Infernal Library
The guard escorting me stopped before a door in the hallway and knocked. He waited for a few moments and then seemed to hear permission to enter, although nothing reached my ears. He opened the door, pushed me forward without a word, and stepped inside after me, grabbing hold of my shoulder to keep me there as he closed the door behind him. His grasp was unnecessarily firm since I had already stopped, not knowing what else to do. He probably didn’t know how to be more gentle. We stood by the door, obviously awaiting new orders.
As with everything else I had seen so far, the ceiling was extremely high. This impression was accentuated here because the distance to the ceiling was considerably greater than the length and width of the room. I was suddenly overcome by the dizzying feeling that it would be more natural for the floor and one of the side walls to change places. But, of course, I could not expect the natural order of things to be maintained in this place. That time had passed for good. Who knew what unusual experiences were in store for me. I had to prepare myself for much worse.
The room was poorly li
t and sparsely furnished. Hanging from the ceiling on a long wire, a weak bulb covered by a round metal shade shed most of its light on a backless wooden chair that stood by itself in the middle of the room. A man sat at a desk opposite the door, his back to the wall. Only visible above the shoulders, he concentrated on the computer screen in front of him. By the indistinct glow of the monitor, which created no shadow, his long face seemed almost ghostly pale. His short, thick beard appeared grizzled in the odd light and he wore semicircular reading glasses. I could not determine his age. He might have been anywhere from his early forties to his late fifties.
He didn’t seem to notice us. The guard and I stood patiently by the door, as motionless as statues. Finally, without taking his eyes off the screen, the man raised his left hand and made a brief, vague gesture, which nonetheless had a clear meaning for the guard. He grabbed my shoulder roughly once again and led me towards the chair under the light. He released me only when I had sat down, then stood directly behind me.
While I waited, my gaze began to wander. The feeling of confinement caused by the height of the room was intensified by the uniformity of color around me. A sickly shade of olive-gray covered everything: the walls, the ceiling, the floor, the chair, the table. Even the monitor was olive-gray. The paint on the walls was cracked and peeling in places, showing patches of dry plaster the color of a stormy sky. It felt as if we were inside a faded and worn shoebox, once green, placed on end.
The room might have been less gloomy if there had been a window, even one with bars. But there were no windows. Working in a place like this could only be considered punishment. I looked at the person behind the monitor with a mixture of pity and dread. Even if I disregarded all the rest, there was certainly no reason to expect good of someone forced to work here for any period of time.
The deep silence in the room was suddenly broken by fingers tapping on a keyboard that I couldn’t see. The rapid typing did not last long. When he was finished, the man raised his head, took off his glasses and laid them on the desk next to him. Then he squinted and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He remained in this position for several moments before opening his eyes and nodding to the guard. The guard moved off at a brisk pace. The metal door opened with a squeak and then closed behind him.
We looked at each other without speaking for some time. I felt uncomfortable under his silent inspection, which expressed more aversion and bad temper than harshness or threat. I quickly realized that he wasn’t the least bit happy about the upcoming conversation with me. He behaved like someone who has been doing the same job for too long to be able to find anything appealing in it. I had seen that expression on the faces of some older investigators and judges. Finally the man sighed, drew his fingers across his high forehead and broke the silence.
“You realize where you are, don’t you?” He had a deep, drawling voice.
“In hell,” I replied after hesitating a moment.
“That’s right. Although we don’t use that name anymore. Are you aware of why you have come to this place?”
I didn’t answer right away. It was clear to me that there was no sense in hiding or denying anything, but I didn’t exactly have to incriminate myself, either. “I can guess . . . ”
“You can guess?” He raised his voice. “Even here we rarely see a dossier like this.” He knocked the crook of his middle finger against the screen.
“I might be able to explain . . . ”
“Don’t!” he said, cutting me off. “Spare me, if you please! How inconsiderate you are, all of you who sit there. It isn’t enough that I have to learn about the disgusting things you’ve done; you want me to listen to your phony, slime-ball explanations, too. They make me even sicker than the crimes themselves. In any case, there’s nothing to explain. Everything is perfectly clear. We know all about you. Every detail. Would you be here if that weren’t the case?”
“Mistakes do happen . . . ” I noted softly.
“There are no mistakes,” replied the man. “And even if there were, it’s too late to rectify them. There’s no way out of here. Once you’re in, you stay for good.”
I knew that, of course. Everyone knows that. But I still had to try.
“What about repentance? Does that mean anything?” I asked in the humblest of voices.
This time he didn’t have to say anything. His expression told me exactly what he thought about my remorse.
“Don’t waste your breath. I have no time for such nonsense. I’m inundated with work. The world has never been like this before. Can you imagine the burden on my shoulders?”
I could imagine, but since the question was rhetorical, I just shrugged. For a moment I thought the man wanted to complain to me about his hardships, but then he changed his mind.
“Forget it. It’s not important. Let’s get to the point. We have to find out what would suit you best.”
“As punishment?” I asked cautiously.
“We call it therapy.”
“Burning in fire is therapy?”
“Who’s talking about burning in fire?”
“Maybe being boiled in oil or drawn and quartered . . . ”
“Don’t be vulgar! This isn’t the Middle Ages!”
“Sorry, I didn’t know . . . ”
“It’s simply unbelievable how many people come here with preconceived notions. Do you think we live outside the times? That nothing changes here? Would this go along with such barbaric brutality?” He tapped the side of the monitor.
“Of course not,” I readily agreed.
“Every age has its own hell. Today it’s a library.”
I blinked in bewilderment. “A library?”
“Yes. A place where books are read. You have heard about libraries? Why is everyone so amazed when they find out?”
“It’s a bit . . . unexpected.”
“Only if you give it perfunctory consideration. Once you delve into the matter, you see that there’s nothing unusual about it.”
“It never would have crossed my mind.”
“To tell you the truth, we were also a bit surprised at first. But what the computer told us was unequivocal. It is quite a useful machine.”
He paused. Several moments passed before I understood what was expected of me. “Quite useful, indeed,” I repeated.
“Particularly for statistical research. When we input data about everyone here, the trait that linked by far the greatest number of our inmates, 84.12 percent to be precise, was their aversion to reading. This was understandable for 26.38 percent, since they are completely illiterate. But what about the 47.71 percent who, although literate, had never picked up a single book, as though fearing the plague? The remaining ten or so percent read something here and there, but they’d wasted their time since it was totally worthless.”
I nodded. “Who would have thought?”
He looked at me askance. “Why does that seem strange to you? Take yourself. How many books have you read?”
I thought it over briefly, trying to remember. “Well, er, not a whole lot, to tell the truth.”
“Not a whole lot? I’ll tell you exactly how many.” The rapid sound of typing on the keyboard was heard once more. “In the past twenty-eight years of your life you started two books. You got halfway through the fourth page of the first, and in the second you didn’t get beyond the introductory paragraph.”
“It didn’t catch my interest,” I replied contritely.
“Really? And other things did?”
“I never suspected that not reading was a mortal sin.”
“It isn’t. Although the world would be a much better place if it were. No one’s ever been sent to hell because they didn’t read. That’s why this trait was overlooked until we brought in the computer. But when, thanks to the computer, we noticed this connection, we were able to take advantage of it. In several ways. You might even say that it led to a true reform of hell.”
“No one knows anything about that.”
I sniffed the air around me. It was dry and stale, a little musty. “No,” I had to admit.
“We were simply a jail. With a few special features, that’s true, but the system here differed very little from what you found in your jails. We treated our inmates here the same way you treated yours. Why should we be any different? If there was brutality and abuse here, that meant we were following your example. As conditions improved over time in your jails, the situation here became more bearable. Things went so far there was a danger of going against the basic idea of hell.”
“What do you mean?”
“Recently your jails have almost been turned into recreation centers. You might even say they’re modest hotels. You’re the best judge of that; you spent a lot of time in jail, and it wasn’t the least uncomfortable, right?”
I thought it over. “No, you’re right, although the food wasn’t always that good everywhere. Especially dessert.”
A fleeting sigh escaped from the man behind the monitor. “There, you see. Well, now, we couldn’t allow some of those privileges here. Weekend leaves, for instance. Or using cellular phones. How would that look?”
“But that would make it much easier to serve your time . . . ”
“Perhaps. But it must never be forgotten that this is hell, after all. So we found ourselves in a bind. We couldn’t follow the liberalization of conditions in your jails any longer. We were threatened with the one thing we have been accused of since time immemorial: being the incarnation of inhumanity and jeopardizing human rights. Luckily, that’s when we found out about people not reading.”
“Excuse me, but I don’t see the connection.”
Impossible Stories Page 28