by Walter Moers
‘. . . he’s giving a reading in the Gilt-Edged Book Emporium at timber-time tonight. . .’
‘. . . a first edition of Aurora Janus’s second novel, the one with the two typos in the foreword, for only three pyras . . .’
‘. . . if anyone possessed the Orm, it was Aleisha Wimpersleake . . .’
‘. . . typographically speaking, a disgrace to the entire printing industry . . .’
‘. . . someone ought to write a footnote novel - just footnotes on footnotes, that would be the thing . . .’
At last I paused at an intersection. Turning on the spot, I counted the bookshops in the streets running off it: there were no less than sixty-one of them. My heart beat wildly. Here, life and literature seemed to be identical: everything centred on the printed word. This was my city, my new home.
The Hotel from Hell
I discovered a small hotel called the Golden Quill, an inviting and agreeably old-fashioned name suggestive of sound literary craftsmanship and a restful night’s sleep in a feather bed.
I made my optimistic way into the gloomy lobby and across a strip of musty carpet to the reception desk, where, when no one appeared, I rang a copper bell. It was cracked and its discordant clangour filled the air. I turned, hoping to see some member of the staff hurrying towards me along one of the shadowy corridors that led off the lobby, but nobody came. Turning back to the counter, I was startled to find that the receptionist had materialised behind it like magic. He was a Murkholmer, I could tell from his pallid complexion. My knowledge of Murkholmers had been acquired from Sebag Seriosa’s excellent novella on the subject, The Damp Denizens, and I had already encountered several of these rather weird Zamonian life forms in the streets.
‘Yes?’ he said, sounding as if he was at his last gasp.
‘I’m, er . . . looking for a room,’ I replied in a tremulous voice.
Five minutes later I was bitterly regretting not having taken to my heels on the spot. My room, for which I had paid in advance at the receptionist’s insistence, turned out to be a lumber room of the most appalling kind. With unerring misjudgement, I had settled on what was probably the worst overnight accommodation in Bookholm. Not a sign of a feather bed, just a coarse, prickly blanket on a mildewed mattress with something rustling inside it. To judge by the noise coming from the room next door, which was occupied by a family of Bluddums, their children were using the furniture as xylophones. The paper was peeling off the walls and some creature was scampering around beneath the floorboards with a series of high-pitched squeaks. Dangling from the ceiling in an inaccessible corner, a white, one-eyed vampire bat seemed to be waiting for me to go to sleep so that it could begin its gruesome meal. Then I noticed that there were no curtains over the windows. The sun’s merciless rays would be bound to shine in at five in the morning and prevent me from getting another wink, because the smallest glimmer of light prevents me from sleeping. (I’ve eschewed ‘slumber masks’ ever since I tried one out and forgot the next morning that I was wearing it. Panic-stricken in the belief that I’d gone blind overnight, I blundered around like a headless chicken, then tripped over a stool and landed so heavily that I dislocated my shoulder.)
I had no intention of spending the night at the hotel in any case. I was able to lay down my bundle at last and sluice off some of the dust from my travels with the brackish water in the washbasin - that would do for the time being. Bookholm’s antiquarian bookshops were open twenty-four hours a day. Hungry, thirsty and itching to root around in their wares, I bade the bat and the Bluddums goodnight and hurried out into the bustling streets once more.
Only a small proportion of Bookholm - barely ten per cent, perhaps - is situated on the surface. By far the greater part of the city lies underground. Like some monstrous termite’s nest, it consists of a system of subterranean tunnels that extends for many miles in the form of shafts, chasms, passages and caverns entwined into one gigantic, unravellable knot.
No one can say when or how this cave system came into being. Many authorities claim that it was indeed created by a race of prehistoric termites - huge primeval insects that constructed it as a nest in which to hide their gigantic eggs. The city’s antiquarians, on the other hand, swear that the system of tunnels was excavated over thousands of years by many generations of booksellers as a place in which to store old stock. This is certainly true of some parts of the labyrinth, especially those situated close to the surface.
Countless scholars have augmented this wealth of speculation with theories of their own. Personally, I favour a composite theory according to which the original system of tunnels was excavated by some form of prehistoric insect and then, over the millennia, enlarged by increasingly civilised creatures. The only certainty is that this subterranean world exists, that it has never been fully explored to this day, and that many parts of it are crammed with books that grow steadily older and more valuable the deeper into the catacombs one descends.
There was nothing to remind me, as I strolled through the streets, of the labyrinth beneath the cobblestones. I was delighted to note that I would not have to go hungry in Bookholm. In addition to the coffee houses and taverns there were many stalls selling inexpensive fare of all kinds: grilled sausages and stuffed poussins, bookworms baked in clay, fried mouse bladders, mulled ale, flying pancakes, roasted peanuts, cold lemonade. Every few steps I came to stalls where, for a small charge, you could dip a piece of bread in a cast-iron cauldron of melted cheese bubbling over a small brazier.
I bought myself a sizeable hunk of bread, dunked it liberally in melted cheese, wolfed it greedily and washed it down with two mugs of lemonade. After many days of deprivation on the road, this massive intake of food and drink assuaged my hunger and thirst as I’d hoped but also occasioned an unwholesome feeling of repletion. This rather worried me for a while. I was afraid it might portend some incurable disease - until, after walking off my meal for an hour or so, it vented itself in several ferocious expulsions of wind.
What didn’t I see on my walk! I continued to repress the urge to enter a bookshop rather than stagger along laden with a huge pile of volumes, but the most incredible treasures could be had for the most ridiculous prices. Where the Sea Wall Ends by Ektro Backwater - an autographed copy for five pyras! The Catacombs of Bookholm, a critically acclaimed account of conditions in the Bookholmian labyrinth by Colophonius Regenschein, the legendary Bookhunter: three pyras! A Bed of Nettles, the memoirs of Glumphrey Murk, the melancholy superpessimist: six measly pyras!
I was in a bibliophile’s Elysium, there was no doubt about it. Even with the small sum Dancelot had left me I could in no time have acquired a whole library that would have been the envy of everyone in Lindworm Castle. For the time being, however, I simply drifted along.
Kibitzer’s Warning
Once my wonderment at the bustle of activity in the streets had subsided a little, I began to resent being jostled by Bluddums and pestered by itinerant hucksters. It was also growing steadily colder with the advent of darkness, so I resolved to start exploring the second-hand bookshops. But which? A large one with a varied stock? A small, specialised establishment? If the latter, what should its speciality be? Poetry? Thrillers? Ugglian horror stories? Grailsundian philosophy? Florinthian Baroque? With their candlelit windows full of literary titbits, all the shops looked equally tempting. For simplicity’s sake I plumped for the one I happened to be standing outside. Engraved on the door was a peculiar symbol: a circle divided into three by three curving lines inside it.
The lighting was so subdued that I couldn’t decipher the titles of the books displayed in the window, but that only made it seem the most mysterious and alluring establishment in the street. In I went!
The discreet jangle of a bell announced my presence, the familiar scent of desiccated old tomes filled my nostrils and for a moment I thought I was alone in the shop. My eyes took a while to become accustomed to the gloom, but then I saw a humpbacked figure with enormous goggle-eyes emerge from the s
hadows cast by the bookcases. I heard a series of muffled, rhythmical clicks.
‘Can I help you?’ the gnome enquired in a thin, reedy voice. He sounded as if his tongue was made of parchment. ‘Are you interested in the writings of Professor Abdul Nightingale?’
Good heavens, I’d wound up in a shop specialising in the effusions of that crackpot from the Gloomberg Mountains. Nightingale, of all people! Although I wasn’t too well acquainted with his work, I knew enough to know that his scientific view of the world was far removed from my own poetic conception of it.
‘Only superficially,’ I replied coolly, anxious to get out fast before natural courtesy prompted me to let the gnome foist one of Nightingale’s unreadable tomes on me.
‘Superficiality implies a lack of profundity,’ he rejoined. ‘Perhaps you’d be interested in a secondary work devoted to Nightingale’s scientific research into Zamonian labyrinthology? It’s a fascinating treatise by Dr Ostafan Kolibri, one of his most gifted pupils. I’m not exaggerating when I say that it sheds considerable light on the decipherment of labyrinths in general.’
‘I’m not particularly interested in labyrinths, to be honest,’ I said, backing away. ‘I fear I’m in the wrong shop.’
‘Oh, aren’t you interested in the sciences? You’re looking for belleslettres? Escapist literature for refugees from reality? You’re looking for novels? Then you have indeed come to the wrong address. I sell non-fiction only.’ There was no hostility or arrogance in his tone. He sounded politely informative, nothing more.
I grasped the door handle. ‘Please forgive me,’ I said stupidly, turning it. ‘I’m new in this city.’
‘You come from Lindworm Castle?’
I stopped short. One of the invariable constants in the life of a dinosaur that walks on two legs is that everyone can tell his birthplace at a glance. I had yet to discover whether this was an advantage or a disadvantage.
‘I suppose that’s obvious,’ I retorted.
‘Please forgive my somewhat derogatory generalisation on the subject of fiction. I had to devise a few stock remarks designed to shake off the tourists who keep barging in and asking for signed first editions of the Prince Sangfroid novels. Although this is a purely non-fiction establishment, I myself have devoured many a novel from Lindworm Castle.’ The dwarfish figure bent over a book-laden table and lit a candle. ‘And please forgive the subdued lighting. I think better in the dark.’
The ignited wick shed a dramatic light on the little creature’s face. The flame danced nervously at first, then steadied and became less bright. The proprietor was a Nocturnomath - that I could tell without ever having seen one before. The shape of his cranium was unmistakable, as I knew from various encyclopaedias, and indicated that he possessed at least three brains. I now realised that the mysterious clicks emanated from his skull. A Nocturnomath’s thought processes are audible.
‘My name is Ahmed ben Kibitzer.’ The Nocturnomath extended a bunch of twiglike fingers. I shook them gingerly.
‘I’m Optimus Yarnspinner,’ I said.
‘Have you published anything?’
‘Not yet.’
‘In that case you’ll forgive me for not having read anything of yours.’
I laughed stiffly, feeling an utter fool. I was a literary nobody.
‘But, as I said, I’ve devoted a substantial proportion of my life to Lindwormian literature. My doctoral dissertation was an analysis of the effect of the poikilothermic circulation of dinosaurian authors on their stylistic concinnity.’
‘Really?’ I said, as if I knew what he was talking about. ‘And what conclusion did you come to?’
‘That a cold-blooded circulation can be quite compatible with stylistic harmony and elegance. Lindworms are born writers, I can prove it scientifically.’
‘That’s very flattering.’
‘In fact,’ the gnome went on, ‘I’m of the opinion that, from the purely organic point of view, your species is positively made for writing. Your long lifespan is an important aid to mature craftsmanship and your three claw-tipped fingers are ideal for gripping pen and pencil. As for your thick saurian hide, it’s the finest protection against poor reviews.’ He tittered. ‘Lindworms have produced some of the finest novels in the history of Zamonian literature. One has only to think of The Ill-Starred Chamber by Sarto Iambicus, or Vappid Rhymester’s Drunk on Moonlight, or Hyldia Playtanner’s Blind Flamingo, Nocturnal Nonsense, Song of the Oyster and Brittle Bait! Not to mention Doylan Cone’s Sir Ginel!’
‘You’ve read Sir Ginel?’
‘Most certainly! Do you remember the passage where the knight’s monocle falls into his breastplate and he has to joust almost blind? Or where his lower jaw is dislocated by a blow from a mace and he can only communicate in sign language for an entire chapter? How I laughed! A comic masterpiece!’
I hadn’t got that far. I had tackled the boring old novel at Dancelot’s insistence but gave up after the first hundred pages - they were wholly devoted to the care and maintenance of the medieval lance - and hurled it into a corner.
‘Of course,’ I lied. ‘His lower jaw - an absolute scream!’
‘You have to plough through the hundred-page introduction devoted to the care and maintenance of the medieval lance,’ said Kibitzer, ‘but the author really gets going after that. Take the chapter in which he dispenses with the letter E for a hundred and fifty pages - a brilliant feat of lipogrammatism! Remember Sir Ginel’s jovial little drinking song?’
The Nocturnomath cleared his throat and quoted:‘Come, landlord, fill again my glass,
and fill again my dish.
Those things apart, a buxom lass
is all that I could wish.’
I gave a knowing smile. ‘Ah yes,’ I said, ‘a stroke of genius.’ I hadn’t got as far as that!
‘But forget about novels!’ exclaimed Kibitzer, who now had the bit between his teeth. ‘Lindworm Castle has also produced some excellent non-fiction - The Joys of Gardening, for instance. A milestone in the description of domesticated nature.’
I was taken aback. ‘You know Dancelot Wordwright?’ I said, at last letting go of the door handle.
‘Know him? You must be joking. I could quote him in my sleep:‘Thus, nature is our only solace. Almost instinctively, we make our way out into the open air, out into our gardens. We breathe more freely and our hearts grow lighter amid the rustle of the trees and beneath the stars. From the stars we come, to the stars we go. Life is but a journey into the unknown.’
This little Nocturnomath was better acquainted with Dancelot’s work than I. A tear oozed from my left eye.
‘But I’m sure you share my admiration for him, if a quotation from his work has such an emotional effect on you. That makes up for your ignorance of Sir Ginel.’
I gave a start. Damnation, Nocturnomaths were mind-readers - I’d forgotten that! I resolved to be more careful what I thought about in future.
‘Thoughts cannot be suppressed like speech,’ Kibitzer said with a smile. ‘But there’s no need to exert yourself. I already know so much about you, I can dispense with mind-reading. You’re personally acquainted with Dancelot Wordwright, aren’t you?’
‘He was my authorial godfather. He died recently.’
‘Oh. Really? Please forgive my insensitive question and accept my sincere condolences. The man was a genius.’
‘Thank you. He himself would not have claimed as much.’
‘That renders him doubly important. To possess the potential inherent in The Joys of Gardening and then limit yourself to writing a single book - that is true greatness.’
If only Dancelot could have heard those words during his lifetime! More tears welled up in my eyes.
‘But do sit down! You must be tired out if you’ve come all the way from Lindworm Castle. Would you care for a cup of nutmeg coffee?’ The antiquarian tottered over to a coffee pot perched on a bookshelf.
Quite suddenly, my limbs felt as heavy as lead. Having been on my feet
since dawn, I’d scarcely rested at the hotel and then roamed the streets for hours. His words made me realise how weary I was. I sat down on a chair and wiped the tears from my eyes.
‘Don’t worry, I promise I won’t delve into your thoughts any more,’ Kibitzer said as he handed me a temptingly aromatic cup of coffee. ‘May I, therefore, enquire in the traditional manner what brings you to Bookholm? My question isn’t prompted by curiosity. I may be able to help you.’ He gave me a friendly smile.
Perhaps a kindly providence had guided me to this shop, I thought. The Nocturnomath was by way of being a fan of Dancelot’s writing, so why shouldn’t I begin my quest with him?
‘I’m looking for an author.’
‘Then Bookholm is definitely a better place to start than, say, the Graveyard Marshes of Dullsgard.’ Kibitzer’s laugh at his own little joke sounded like an attack of asthma. I produced the manuscript.
‘Perhaps you’d read this. I’m looking for the person who wrote it. I don’t know his name or what he looks like. I don’t even know if he’s still alive.’
‘You’re looking for a phantom?’ The Nocturnomath grinned. ‘Very well, let me see.’
First he checked the quality of the paper by rubbing it between finger and thumb, a procedure typical of his trade. ‘Hm, high-grade Grailsundian wove,’ he muttered. ‘Timberlake Paper Mills, 200 grammes.’ He sniffed the pages. ‘Slightly overacidified. A peach tint. Birchwood with a hint of pine needles. The bleaching agent was insufficiently stirred. A trifle woody at the edges.’ This was the sort of antiquarian jargon I’d already heard on the lips of itinerant dealers in the streets.