I returned to my study with a feeling of relief, but an unpleasant surprise awaited me. Although I had just thrown it away, the paperback book stood right where I’d found it a moment before: in my library! Blood rushed to my face. What was the meaning of this? Straight from the garbage to the bookshelf? The book was not only where it didn’t belong—it had messed up and contaminated everything else around it. How awful!
This time I threw caution to the wind. I grabbed hold of the intruder and plucked it out, disrupting as I did so the impeccable order of the bona fide books surrounding it. I am always irritable when my bookshelves are out of alignment, but that could wait. I had to take care of this interloper, once and for all. I didn’t hesitate for a moment. I opened the book approximately in half and did something I have never done before: I tore it in two. This, however, failed to quell the anger inside me—on the contrary—so I continued to tear it with undiminished vehemence.
Soon torn up and discarded pages were strewn all over the rug. Under other circumstances, this would have horrified me, but now it only increased my fury. Completely out of control, I sat on the floor and started tearing up the pages into tiny pieces. Almost confetti. I didn’t stop until the last page had met the same fate. When nothing was left upon which to vent my rage, I finally calmed down.
Looking around at the scattered bits of paper, I was ashamed of what I’d done. Such an outburst of anger was highly uncharacteristic of me. But, worse yet, as I’d vented my frustration I’d felt enormous pleasure, almost delight. I had to ask myself if I’d lost my mind. All right, I’d been offended and provoked; it might even be said that a great injustice had been done to me, but even so. A man must restrain himself, after all. What would we come to if we gave free rein to our darkest impulses?
In addition, I had made a terrible mess, I who was so proud, even inordinately so, of my own neatness. I sighed and got up off the floor. I went to the closet in the vestibule, took out the vacuum cleaner and returned to the study. I spent a long time cleaning it thoroughly, as if the machine could suck up the invisible traces of my bad behavior along with the tiny pieces of paper. The vacuum cleaner became quite overheated before I finally turned it off. I detached the hose, put it all back in the closet and then went into the bathroom to take a shower, since I’d broken into a sweat.
I emerged refreshed and calm. I’d been through an unpleasant experience, but at least it was over now. The best thing would have been simply to forget the whole matter. Why obsess over how the book had gotten there? I couldn’t care less. The knowledge would only burden me unnecessarily—and I couldn’t exclude the possibility that I would not find an answer. In any case, now that I had most certainly rid myself of the annoying book, it no longer mattered.
My hopes, however, were premature. One glance at the bookshelf from the door to my study was all it took to realize that my troubles had just begun. As though mocking me, there, between two precious old tomes, stood the paperback, wholly untouched. My face flushed once again. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, nodding slowly.
At first it seemed I was losing control of myself again. But the thought of what I might do were I once more to be blinded by rage helped me keep the upper hand. Blindness would not be a good ally here. I had to keep cool. I’d tried force and it hadn’t worked. Now I had to try something more sophisticated. I had to plan things out. If you can’t beat your enemy, try to outsmart him.
I was, unfortunately, completely inexperienced in this regard. Never once had I faced the challenge of getting rid of any books. Until then I had only tried to acquire them, something I’d become skilled at over time, as evidenced by my library. How was I to get rid of a book? And no ordinary book; rather, one that persistently refused to disappear, one that defied me with its insolence. I sat in the armchair facing the bookshelf and stared at the thin, short spine of the intruder. I began to draw the fingers of my left hand across my brow, as I always do when in deep thought.
Before long, an unusual comparison crossed my mind. I would be having this same trouble if I’d decided to kill myself. I wouldn’t know exactly what to do in such circumstances, either. Although it might not appear so, I don’t believe it’s an easy thing to take your own life. But at least I would have at my disposal the diverse and abundant experience of previous suicides. Particularly the successful ones. Maybe I could use one of their methods on the paperback book.
I liked this idea. It sounded promising. All that remained was to choose the method. Taking stock of the several possibilities that popped into my mind, I decided that drowning would be the most appropriate. If I had decided to commit suicide, I would have chosen drowning. Particularly because there’s no blood. I have an absolute horror of blood. In addition, the act of dying itself takes place under the surface and not before eye-witnesses, so no one suffers any shock on your behalf. Finally, there’s a certain element of romanticism in it. Many great loves in literature have ended by jumping into the water.
Of the two things I needed for the drowning, one I had at home. I went to the pantry, opened the large cardboard box where I keep tools and various supplies, and took out a large ball of twine. The twine was thin and thus could not be used on myself, but would be more than sufficient for the wretched little book. I cut off more than I needed, just in case.
I had to go outside to find the other item I needed, although I wasn’t quite sure where to look for it. Indeed, where can a man find a large rock in the middle of a city? I certainly could not break off a piece of the pavement or the facade of some building. The only place I might find a rock was the park, so that’s where I headed. Before that, I put the book and twine in a large travel bag. They could have fit in my pocket, but I would need the bag for the rock. Walking through the streets with a huge rock in my hands would have been ridiculous. I would undoubtedly arouse suspicion among the passersby.
Finding a rock in the park was no easy matter. There were far fewer candidates than expected, and I had to find the proper moment to take one without being noticed. In the middle of a stretch of lawn lay a round flowerbed surrounded by pieces of chipped stone, half buried in the ground. I had to wait until there was no one nearby, which took quite some time, and then expended considerable effort in pulling one out. I had no time to clean the dirt off the bottom half. I quickly put it in my bag and moved away, leaving a hole in the stone ring similar to the hole left by an extracted tooth.
I was out of breath by the time I reached the bridge. The rock was considerably heavier than it looked; I had to carry the bag under my arm, not by the handle. I headed for the middle of the bridge because the water under that part was the deepest and fastest. Whatever sank there had no chance of surfacing. It turned out, however, that fulfilling my intention was no easy matter. Passersby were scarce, but there were many cars, including occasional police cars. I had to appear as inconspicuous as possible.
Turning towards the railing, I squatted down and took the rock out of the bag. I hoped no one could make out what I was doing from the road. Seeing me in that position, they would probably think I was an oddball or a drunk, but not a suicide. In any case, people in cars rarely care about what’s happening outside. I tied one end of the twine firmly around the rock and the other end around the book.
Then I stood up and put the rock on the top of the railing. I didn’t drop it right away. I stood there motionless for some time, pretending to be a stroller who had stopped briefly to enjoy the view from the bridge. Finally, when there seemed to be fewer cars, I pushed the rock and the book. They took longer to fall than I had expected, and the sound when they hit the water was considerably louder than I would have liked. Dragging the book after it like some sort of tail, the rock hit the surface flatly, producing an enormous splash.
If anyone had been on the bank around the bridge, my actions would have been detected. I quickly moved away from the spot so that no one would connect me with what had fallen. Once I’d put some distance behind me, fear was replaced by the feeli
ng of relief and good spirits that befits a job well done. My hands were dirty from the earth, my coat as well, but I paid no attention to that. I had gotten rid of the book—that was all that mattered. Let it rest in peace amidst the mud at the bottom of the river.
But instead of being wherever the rock had pulled it, the book was waiting for me in my library upon my return. Not the least bit wet and muddy. On the contrary: clean and dry. When I saw it this time, however, I was not filled with anger as before. I only thought dully that things had gone too far. Everything has its measure, rudeness and impertinence as well. No paperback book could string me along like that. This had already become a question of honor.
As I cleaned myself up in the bathroom, I tried with the greatest composure to go through the other possibilities at my disposal. Jumping from a great height was also a favorite among suicides, and in literature. No small number of protagonists had sealed their fate in this way. There would be blood, of course, and eye-witnesses shocked at the none-too-pleasant sight, but this was unavoidable. My conscience was clear. I might have cause to reproach myself if I hadn’t tried drowning first. I wasn’t to blame for the failure of that scheme.
I didn’t need to make any elaborate preparations to set in motion this new idea. I took the book off the shelf again and put on my coat, paying no attention to the fact that it was still wet. I might have dried it a little with a hair dryer, but I had run out of patience. This situation had to be resolved as soon as possible. It had already gotten on my nerves, something not at all advisable considering my high blood pressure.
I decided to climb to the top of the tallest building in town, not because a smaller building would not have served the purpose, but because it was the most suitable for the task at hand. There was a viewing deck at the top. When there wasn’t much wind, like today, they let visitors go out onto it. A high wire fence surrounded the deck so that no one could accidentally or intentionally plunge from the precipice to his death over thirty floors below. If I’d been the suicide, I would have had a very difficult time, but things should have been easier for a paperback book.
I had my share of trouble nonetheless. The only person on the top of the building was a uniformed guard. If there had been other visitors and if my coat had not had a large stain down the front, he most likely would not have paid much attention to me. As it was, however, he kept his eyes glued on me, which was a serious hindrance. I spent twenty minutes or so walking along the fence pretending to look at the city panorama before I had a chance to spring into action.
Someone called the guard on his walkie-talkie; while he turned this way and that, trying to find the best position for reception, I whisked the book out of my pocket and tossed it over the fence. The man didn’t notice a thing. I waited for him to finish his conversation, nodded to him briefly, giving a broad smile, and headed for the elevator. I was filled with elation and pride. It’s no small thing to outwit a professional.
As I approached the ground floor, I imagined I would find a crowd of people around the fallen book. But there was nothing of the sort. The street bustled with people going about their business. What terrible indifference, I thought. Who cared about the fate of a book, even if it was only a paperback? Then I realized that I had _ accused the passersby unfairly. How could they show any compassion when there was no call for it? There was nothing anywhere near the spot where a book thrown off the viewing deck should have landed.
I went home, crushed by an evil foreboding that came true as soon as I entered my study. As before, the paperback book waited for me in the same place in my library. This stubbornness was truly shameful! It left me with no other choice. The time for handling the situation with kid gloves was over. There was a much more gory suicide than the ones I had already attempted. If it had suited an extremely refined literary heroine, I didn’t see why it was out of place for the book. I removed the unseemly copy and headed straight for the train station.
I couldn’t gain access to the platforms without a ticket, so I bought a ticket to the closest destination, although I wasn’t going anywhere. I checked the schedule, found out where the next train would arrive, and went to that platform. I moved away from the passengers waiting for the train so there would be no witnesses. Some ten minutes later, a locomotive pulling a long line of cars started to enter the station. I let the first two cars go past, then turned my head away as I threw the book under the wheels of the third.
After the train had passed, I was briefly tempted to look at the rails, but I held back. I wouldn’t have been able to stand the terrible sight: the completely mangled remains of the little book. Although it certainly deserved to disappear, I felt a certain sympathy for it. There had been no need for this to happen, but the book itself was to blame. In any case, it was all over now. There was no reason for me to stay there any longer. I would only appear suspicious.
This time upon arriving home, I wasn’t even surprised when I found the paperback book where it certainly had no right to be. And in perfect shape. Not a hair missing from its head. What else could I have expected? I would have been amazed, in fact, had it been otherwise. My previously kind thoughts were replaced by deepest loathing. I couldn’t look at it anymore. It was not worthy of being in the same room with me.
Not knowing what else to do, I headed for the kitchen to fix something to eat. This dashing around because of the book had kept me from eating all day long. My stomach growled and hunger pains prevented me from thinking properly about what I should do next. I put the cloth on the table and laid down a plate, knife, fork, spoon and linen napkin, then opened the refrigerator. The choices were rather meagre, however: a piece of dry cheese, a partially eaten sausage, half a jar of mustard and two lemons. It was clearly time to go to the store.
As I was closing the refrigerator, an idea came to me. I didn’t take it seriously at first. Nonsense crosses my mind from time to time, as I suppose it does everyone’s. I tried to drive it away, as I always do in such circumstances, but it refused to go. The longer it stayed with me, the less outlandish it seemed. Finally, I realized I had found the only real solution to my problem. I felt like slapping myself on the forehead. Of course! Why hadn’t I thought of it before?
I went to my study, took the paperback book off the shelf and returned to the kitchen. I put it on a plate, sat down and tucked the napkin under my chin. First, I removed the cover with the knife and fork, as I would with a shell or wrapping. What was written on it promised true enjoyment, but one could certainly not rely on the honesty of whoever had produced it. Who knew what kind of a can of worms might be hiding behind the praiseworthy title The Library.
I could see by the table of contents that the book consisted of six parts. I assumed that each one had a different taste, so it was not advisable to eat them at the same time. I cut out each piece separately. Before commencing my meal, I wondered whether to add any spices. I looked at both sides of the cover, hoping to find some sort of instructions or advice in this regard, but since I found nothing, I decided not to try any experiments lest I spoil things. In the same vein, not knowing which drink would be most appropriate, I decided in favor of plain water. I couldn’t go wrong there.
‘Virtual Library’ was quite reminiscent of a good Russian salad. It might have contained a bit more mayonnaise than suited my liking, though. ‘Home Library’ was like a thick, hearty beef soup with noodles. It seemed too hot, so I blew on the spoon. ‘Night Library’ corresponded to stuffed peppers. They contained the right proportion of meat and rice, which is very important for that dish. ‘Infernal Library’ was an excellent cherry pie. I don’t really care for dessert, but this was an exception. ‘Smallest Library’ brought coffee with cream. I would have preferred something lighter, but one shouldn’t be too picky.
I didn’t know what could possibly follow this, but there was one more piece of the paperback on my plate: ‘Noble Library.’ Although already full, I didn’t want to leave anything uneaten, and I was intrigued by it. I put a small bite
cautiously into my mouth and started to chew. The taste seemed vaguely familiar, though I couldn’t tell whether it was mostly savory, piquant, sweet or sour. It seemed to be all of these at the same time.
I continued eating, striving to figure it out. I was certain I’d tried it somewhere before. I liked it, perhaps more than all the rest. When I had swallowed the last piece, the pleasure that filled me was impaired somewhat by the fact that I could not recognize what I had eaten. But I didn’t let this slight dissatisfaction spoil my good mood. I had accomplished my purpose. Not a crumb of The Library remained on my plate.
I got up from the table and headed towards my study. I felt not the slightest dread as to what I would find there. The paperback book might have been able to return from all the other places, but not from its current location. Its presence inside me was more than certain. I opened the door wide and smiled triumphantly at what my eyes beheld. The ugly intruder no longer sullied my noble library.
PART FIVE
STEPS THROUGH THE MIST
24. Disorder in the Head
Miss Emily opened the door to the first-year classroom at the girls’ boarding school. The quiet murmuring of twenty-six freshmen subsided and they all stood up as though by command. They were wearing identical navy-blue dresses that reached down to the mid-calf and buttoned up to the chin, completely plain, without the least embellishment. Even the buttons were covered with the same blue cloth. Only the white collars of their blouses interrupted this uniformity, varying slightly in shape. Not a single girl wore her hair loose; they all wore braids.
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