Beyond Asimios: Book One

by Martin Fossum

  —Prost, he said. He took a drink and wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve.

  Nava raised her glass but didn’t drink.

  —Why are you helping us? she said. Are you being paid to help us? It’s very dangerous. If the authorities found out, you’d be arrested and tortured.

  —Ah, said Arnulf as the port found its way down his throat. You could say that I am upholding a tradition. Do you know about this place? Have you heard of the Lyceum before?

  Nava raised her shoulders.

  —Have you heard about the Hamburg riots of 86? he asked. Have you heard of Henrik Kuhl and the Voice of December?

  —That was a youth movement, right? They were protesting police brutality, or something like that. Someone was killed, if I recall. I can’t remember the specifics.

  —My dear, he said. The specifics are important, very important indeed. The Voice of December was an organization formed to protest the closing of German universities. The state put sixty thousands students on the street and gave them the option of either being sent to the Russian wars or to join the labor camps in the north. Henrik Kuhl led that group. They were pacifists, as your organization is. They believed in free and universal education. Would you believe me if I told you that Henrik Kuhl sat in the very seat you are sitting in now?

  —What happened to Kuhl? she said.

  —Shot in the head.

  Arnulf planted a finger on his temple and pulled an imaginary trigger.

  —Somebody blew his brains out. And that’s when the movement really took off. After Kuhl was shot, tensions rose. It was an unfortunate loss, but Europe finally understood what was at stake. Change was in the air, but eventually the military imposed martial law, and one by one the protesters were rounded up and the movement was killed. There was a new war on radical Islam, they declared. The Russian wars weren’t enough, it seemed. They needed more reasons to reduce human beings to animals.

  —You weren’t taken.

  —No. I helped Kuhl, but I was never an official member of the Voice. They had no evidence to charge me. As good as they were at torture, a dead man rarely talks.

  —But why do I help you? Arnulf continued. Why risk arrest? I like the excitement, simply put. I’m getting old. I despise tyranny, like any good leftist, and I’d like to think that when I die, I’ll have played my part to resist it. So there you have it. I am here to help.

  —No family? No children to threaten?

  Arnulf took a sip from his port and shook his head.

  —I am the last in a line of miscreant idealists, he said. My family now is what you see around me. My children are my books, each one of them alive and in need of my care.

  Arnulf looked around his room and Nava did the same. They were beautiful books that Arnulf had assembled here. She was affected by the way he called them his family.

  —You asked me before why I sell books, Arnulf said. I inherited this place, you see. Just as my father before me, and his before him. Four generations we’ve been here, pedaling board and paper. When I was twenty I hated the idea of this business. I despised books and everything represented. I equated the printed page with the dying idealisms of my father. He was a prisoner of this dusty art, and it possessed him. It muddled his brain, I convinced myself. I wanted out. I wanted to see the world, to travel to Mars and be alive. When he died, I thought that would be it. I’d sell the business and be done with it. No more! But then events took place that changed my view.

  Arnulf took a sip of port and then set the glass on the desk in front of him. He stared at the crystal snifter as he rotated it between his thumb and forefinger. The he spoke:

  —When I was a student (this was before my father died), I travelled to Rome to study the history of architecture. I was young, of course, and I considered my trip a springboard to freedom. Anyway, my father offered to pay for my tuition as long as I did him one favor, which he would tell me about once I arrived in Italy. I agreed. He was vague about what that favor might be, and I was too excited about leaving Berlin to care. Anyway, in Rome our school sat atop a small hill that overlooked a small square. My room had a beautiful view of that city, and I quickly fell into a routine of concluding my studies early in the day and then joining my fellow students out at night at one of the tavernas. Well, a few weeks into the quarter, we were enjoying ourselves at one of these tavernas when I looked over to see a girl staring at me. I was surprised, you see. She was stunning, with a luscious wave of dark hair. I didn’t pay much attention to her for a while. You may not believe me, but I was fairly handsome in those days, and getting a woman’s glances was nothing unusual. Anyway, a little later I looked back to where she had been sitting with her friends, and there she was, still staring at me with a big smile, full of bright teeth. Well, the challenge was set. I’d had a bit of wine by then, so my courage was up. I approached her table and introduced myself in my poor Italian. Mi ciamo Arnulf, I said. She laughed at this. My name is Maria, she said. And I can speak English, she said. Her friends laughed, and I laughed with them. I felt foolish. Of course she could speak English! She could also speak German and French and Arabic, I later learned, but in my ignorance I assumed she was just a local girl. As it turned out, Maria’s father was a lawyer for the Vatican, and she had travelled the world with him. She was studying to be a lawyer herself, and she was spending her time at university in Rome. Am I boring you?

  Nava shook her head. She took a sip of port and leaned against the back of her chair.

  —So I invited Maria’s group to join us, and thus began our affair. Those were wonderful days. I’d never been happier in my life. From that moment, we spent nearly every minute together…whenever possible, we found a way to be with one another. Such an experience! My thoughts raced and my heart was entwined with the idea of Maria. I was certain that I was in love. Of course, my studies suffered. I missed classes, and my friends gave up on me. But I was learning while I was with her: I learned about myself and about Rome and about life and love. Maria showed me the city, every dirty corner of it. Every café and every museum she thought I needed to know about, she introduced me to it. After a month I knew that she was the one I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. It was an unassailable truth. One morning we went down to our café (I say “our” café, because we spent much time there), and I got down on my knees and asked her to marry me. Something unexpected happened: she laughed at me. She laughed and laughed and laughed. She told me I was a fool. She asked me how I could possibly love her. She said that I was a boy, a little boy, and I knew nothing of love. She told me she couldn’t marry me…that she had a fiancée in America who she’d see in a week. She was sorry, she said. And I believe, in hindsight, she was. After that, she said that she couldn’t see me anymore, that things had gone too far.

  Nava moved her glass toward Arnulf, and he poured her more port.

  —You were hurt, Nava said. What did you do?

  —Yes, I was hurt. It was as if the floor under my feet had been ripped away. As if a cloud had enveloped me. It was difficult just to breathe. I was shattered…broken into a million pieces.

  —I’m sorry to hear that, Nava said.

  —Oh, you needn’t feel sorry for me, Arnulf said with a wink. It was a long time ago. I was young. In hindsight, there were many clues I should have paid attention to: the calls from strangers, the abrupt changes of plans. Love does make one blind, and I suffered for it.

  Arnulf took a sip from his port and drew his tongue across his lips.

  —But, if you allow me to continue… It was not a day after that breakup when my father messaged me to do him his favor. He had added five thousand Ecredits to my bank account and wanted me to visit a small book dealer in the old part of Rome. He included details about the book he wanted me to purchase, a signed first edition of a twentieth-century Italian writer named Luigi Pirandello. I can’t remember the name of the book: One and One Hundred something or other… I’m not sure. Anyway, I was to purchase the book and deliver it to my fathe
r upon my return to Berlin.

  —Well, you might imagine what went through my mind, Arnulf went on. I considered telling him about Maria, about how sad I was and how hard it was for me to do anything at the moment. But I’d never talked to my father about such emotions. I’d never shared any deep pain with him, nor had the opportunity to do so. In some way I realized that might be the root of my disappointment with him. It took me several bottles of wine to reach my resolution…which was that I would talk to my father. I’d tell him about my life in Rome and what had happened over the past two months, about Maria and my proposal to her and about my rejection. I’d tell my father the truth and hope that he would understand. Maybe he would see how hard things were going for me…that perhaps book-buying wasn’t something I could handle right then?

  Arnulf paused for a moment. He leaned back in his squeaky chair, took a sip of port, and gazed at the ceiling.

  —And what happened?

  Arnulf squinted and tugged at his beard.

  —I talked to him the next morning. About Maria and so forth… He said something like: Arnulfchen… It’s clear you’re distressed, and I understand that, but let this not get in the way of important matters. Now please, I’ve sent you instructions about the book I wish to purchase. I’m depending on you for this. Please don’t disappoint. I cut him off after I heard this. From what I could tell, he had no interest in my pain…in me or Maria or what I’d gone through. I’d set myself up, and I’d paid for it. I knew my father would never understand me, and I was boiling with rage for having been such a fool. Can you imagine my reaction? Oh, how selfish and stupid I was…

  —What did you do?

  —I thought about the harm I could cause, how I could squander his money. Maybe, I could throw a big party for my fellow students. Then I had the idea to buy a luxury car and drive it into the Fiume Tevere and watch it sink. In the end, however, I resolved to visit this book dealer. I wasn’t sure what led me to that decision, but I thought that there still might be a way for me to get back at my father. So I called the dealer that day and set up an appointment. Later that afternoon I met him and his assistant at a café before the three of us went to his store, an interesting place with very valuable things on the shelves. I was numb. I didn’t want to be there. I had it in my mind that to do my father’s bidding was to commit treason against the core of my being. I thought that I might buy the book and then toss it into the Fiume Tevere. That would teach my father! He’d understand, at last, that I didn’t want anything to do with him or his business or his books!

  —So you bought the book?

  —No, I didn’t.

  Arnulf leaned forward and lowered his voice.

  —I’ll tell you, the dealer brought it out, and I looked it over. The signature had been certified. Everything was in order. But before I finished the deal, I asked him in particular about a collection of notebooks he had on display, original Antonio Gramsci prison notebooks from the early twentieth century. I’d studied Gramsci, if only briefly, at university. Anyway, I took an immediate fascination to these writings. Then it struck me… I asked the dealer how much he wanted for them. The dealer considered this for a moment, unsure whether my father would approve of this change of plans. But I insisted that my father had charged me with absolute authority to do as I saw fit. The dealer found this acceptable, and tried to come up with a price for the notebooks, there being nothing similar on the open market before. In the end he said he’d accept an amount equal to what he asked for the Pirandello novel. That seemed reasonable, but I wanted him to throw one more thing into the deal. I’d spotted a scarce copy of Aslan Munif’s Sacrifice among a stack of unpriced books. If he’d give me that the Munif, as well as the Gramsci notebooks, it would be a deal. He nodded. Now we have some wine! the dealer declared, and we went back down to the café and celebrated and talked all night about books. I never thought I’d say it, but I enjoyed myself that evening, and it allowed me to forget about Maria for a while. The next morning the parcels were delivered to my room, and later that day I caught the train back to Berlin.

  —So, you went home. What did your father say?

  —When I handed him the Gramsci notebooks, my father was shocked. He was deep in debt and his employees hadn’t been paid in weeks, he told me. How could I be so arrogant as to play games with the lives of good and innocent people? He told me that he’d never trust me with anything again, that I had failed him.

  Arnulf sipped at his port and swiped his lips with his sleeve.

  —Would you believe it? Arnulf went on. Two weeks later, my father learned that a private museum in Utrecht was willing to pay fifty thousand Ecredits for the Gramsci notebooks. My father called me into his office—this very office we’re sitting in now—and he was in tears. He apologized for criticizing me and asked me for forgiveness. He’d been wrong to criticize me, that I was a genius in his eyes. From that moment on, he consulted me on all his larger business decisions. I was lucky, but I felt proud. For the first time in my life I’d contributed, whether willingly or not, to the livelihood of our family.

  —And the other book? The Munif?

  —What happened with that book is even more fascinating, Arnulf said.

  Here he set the glass down gently in front of him and paused to admire it.

  —Do you know Munif? Arnulf asked.

  —I read Sacrifice at university. Munif believed that narrative was essential to instructing a new revolution, that song and stories and theater were the ways to bring old heroes back to life, and that without these forms a culture would fail to assert itself. Without art, we are nothing, right? It’s the oppressors desire to strip us of our history. The revolutionary’s work is to restore it.

  Arnulf smiled.

  —Well, it’s no coincidence that this copy of Sacrifice wound up in my possession, Arnulf said. You see, as the dealer was showing me around his store, I noticed the book sitting on a pile of other insignificant texts. The book was unmistakable to me. I’d read a later printing of it just a few months earlier, and I’d gazed nightly at the cover art. Anyway, after I acquired the book and was back in Berlin, I gave it a thorough inspection. As luck would have it, I found a letter folded up in the center pages. Would you believe me if I told you that the letter was a hand-written letter from Aslan Munif himself?

  Nava peered at Arnulf and waited for him to continue.

  —When he was young, before he helped organize the North African resistance, Munif studied in Rome. If fact, it is in Rome where Sacrifice was first published.

  —You’re sure it was from him? Why would a letter from Munif appear in one of his own books?

  —That’s a good question. But it immediately became clear once I read it. Would you like to see it?

  —What?

  —Would you like to see the letter?

  —Of course.

  Arnulf spun around in his chair and opened a metal cabinet that he riffled through for a short time. Then he set a folder down on his desk from which he extracted a smooth swatch of paper encased in a transparent sleeve.

  —Come. Look, he said as he pulled the paper out and laid it on his desk.

  Nava set her glass to the side and then stood and inspected the letter.

  —It’s handwritten, she said. It’s addressed to Ingrid…Ingrid Berniers, very likely.

  —Yes.

  —It’s a love letter, Nava said with a smile. He’s giving her a copy of his book. This book is my gift to you. To the one who inspires me, to the one who believes in me, to the one who will fight with me, and to the one who is everything to me. Forever yours, Aslan.

  —Can you imagine how I felt when I read this? Arnulf said. He gazed with pleasure at Nava. One of the most celebrated love affairs in history, and here was a tangible link to that intimate moment.

  —It must be valuable, Nava said.

  She re-read it several times.

  —Priceless, Arnulf said. But I would never sell it. Interestingly, the copy of Sacrifice turned o
ut to be very important, and for reasons other than this letter. Not long after I was back in Berlin, the government passed an edict banning anything written by Munif from the Nexus. They were going to scrub the Nexus and erase him from existence. Sacrifice, as it turned out, was the only book that Munif had physically printed, and in very limited numbers. The copy I have is one of those rare prints. I could save Munif from oblivion. Even if the companies succeeded in removing all evidence of him from the Nexus, I still had this physical book. I could make a thousand copies of it, and another person could make a thousand copies from that copy. Then it occurred to me…there is something incorruptible about the physical book. Unlike its digital counterpart, it is durable and can withstand abuse. The pages may swell from rain and the covers may be singed by fire, but the words can still be read. The message will still survive. At last, I understood what people like my father knew all along. The physical book is a sacred thing.

  Nava sat down while Arnulf fell back in his squeaky chair and tugged at his beard.

  —Well, my plans to save Munif’s legacy weren’t necessary, after all. A new government replaced the old, and this new government became distracted by different threats, so Munif continues to live in the Nexus. But the book meant much more to me after that experience. Not all books are important, of course. Henrike’s Book of Bavarian Strudel may not be worth its weight in paper, but many books are. When I hold that copy of Sacrifice in my hand, however, I think not only that Munif himself had touched it, but I also think about where Munif stands in human history. I think of the revolutions he led and the future revolutionaries he’ll inspire.

  Arnulf leaned forward.

  —But I also think of love and expectation when I hold that copy of Sacrifice in my hand. I am suddenly back in Rome with Maria and those glorious days of youth. A book is a vehicle. It can transport you through time and space.