The Strange Library Read online

  “But that doesn’t give them the right to saw off the tops of people’s heads and eat their brains. Don’t you think that’s going a bit too far?”

  The sheep man looked at me sadly. “You got dealt an unlucky card, that’s the long and short of it. These things happen.”

  “But my mother’s going to worry herself sick waiting for me. Can’t you help me sneak out of this place?”

  “No, that wouldn’t work. If I did that, I’d be chucked into a jar full of hairy caterpillars. A big jar, with about ten thousand of the buggers crawling around, for three whole days.”

  “That’s terrible,” I said.

  “So you see, I can’t let you make a run for it, kid. I’m real sorry.”

  (11)

  The sheep man departed, leaving me alone in the tiny cell. I threw myself facedown on the hard mattress and sobbed for one whole hour. My pillow, a blue one stuffed with buckwheat husks, was dripping wet by the end. The metal ball chained to my ankle weighed a ton.

  When I checked my watch, it was exactly 6:30. My mother would be preparing dinner and waiting for my return. I could see her pacing the kitchen floor, her eyes fixed on the hands of the clock. If I still wasn’t home at bedtime she might really go over the edge. That’s the type of mother she is. When something happens she imagines the worst, and it snowballs from there. So she either obsesses about all the bad things that can happen or else plants herself on the sofa and stares at the TV.

  At seven o’clock someone knocked on the door. A small, quiet knock.

  “Come in,” I said.

  A key turned in the lock, and in came a girl pushing a teacart. She was so pretty that looking at her made my eyes hurt. She appeared to be about my age. Her neck, wrists, and ankles were so slender they seemed as if they might break under the slightest pressure. Her long, straight hair shone as if it were spun with jewels. She studied my face for a moment. Then she took the dishes of food that were on the teacart and arranged them on my desk, all without a word. I remained speechless, overwhelmed by her beauty.

  The food looked scrumptious. There was piping-hot sea urchin soup and grilled Spanish mackerel (with sour cream), white asparagus with sesame-seed dressing, a lettuce-and-cucumber salad, and a warm roll with a pat of butter. There was also a big glass of grape juice. When she finished laying it out, the girl turned and spoke to me with her hands: Now wipe away your tears. It’s time to eat.

  (12)

  “Don’t you have a voice?” I asked her.

  No, I don’t. My vocal cords were destroyed when I was little.

  “Destroyed?” I cried in surprise. “By whom?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she smiled sweetly. It was a smile so radiant that the air seemed to thin around it.

  Please understand, she said. The sheep man isn’t bad. He has a kind heart. But the old man terrifies him.

  “I understand,” I said. “But still . . .”

  She drew near me and placed her hand on mine. It was a small, soft hand. I thought my heart might break in two.

  Eat it while it’s hot, she said. Hot food will give you strength.

  She opened the door and left the room, pushing the teacart in front of her. Her movements were as quick and light as a May breeze.

  The food was delicious, but I could get only half of it down. If I didn’t make it home, the worry might drive my mother to another breakdown. She would probably forget to feed my pet starling, and it would starve to death.

  Yet how could I escape? A heavy ball and chain was attached to my ankle, and the door was locked. Even if I managed to open the door, could I make it through that long maze of corridors? I sighed and started to cry again. But curling up in bed and sniveling wasn’t going to help, so I pulled myself together and finished my meal.

  (13)

  I decided the best thing I could do was sit at the desk and read. If I was going to find a way to escape, first I’d have to put my enemy off his guard. That meant pretending to follow his orders. I figured that wouldn’t be so hard. After all, I was the type of boy who naturally followed orders.

  I picked up The Diary of an Ottoman Tax Collector and began to read. The book was written in classical Turkish; yet, strangely, I found it easy to understand. Not only that, but each page stuck in my memory, word for word. For some reason or other, my brain was sop ping up everything that I read. As I flipped the pages, I became the Turkish tax collector Ibn Armut Hasir, who walked the streets of Istanbul with a scimitar at his waist, collecting taxes. The air was filled with the scent of fruit and chickens, tobacco and coffee; it hung heavily over the city, like a stagnant river. Hawkers squatted along the streets, shouting out their wares: dates, Turkish oranges, and the like. Hasir was a quiet, relaxed sort of fellow, with three wives and six children. He also had a pet parakeet every bit as cute as my starling.

  A little after nine o’clock, the sheep man showed up at my door with cocoa and cookies.

  “Well, aren’t you something!” he said. “But, hey, how about taking a break for some hot cocoa?”

  I put down the book and helped myself to the cocoa and cookies.

  “Hey, Mr. Sheep Man,” I said. “Who was the pretty girl that came by a while ago?”

  “Come again? What pretty girl?”

  “The one who brought me dinner.”

  “That’s weird,” the sheep man said with a quizzical look. “I brought you dinner. You were lying on your bed, sobbing in your sleep. And as you can see, I’m no pretty girl, just a sheep man.”

  Could I have been dreaming?

  (14)

  Yet the very next evening, the mystery girl showed up again. This time she brought Toulouse sausage with potato salad, stuffed snapper, radish-sprout salad, a large croissant, and black tea sweetened with honey. Just looking at all of it made me hungry.

  Take your time. Be sure to eat everything! the girl said with her hands.

  “Please, tell me who you are,” I said.

  I am me, that’s all.

  “But the sheep man said you didn’t exist. And besides—”

  The girl raised a finger to her tiny lips. I held my tongue.

  The sheep man has his world. I have mine. And you have yours, too. Am I right?

  “That you are.”

  So just because I don’t exist in the sheep man’s world, it doesn’t mean that I don’t exist at all.

  “I get it,” I said. “Our worlds are all jumbled together—your world, my world, the sheep man’s world. Sometimes they overlap and sometimes they don’t. That’s what you mean, right?”

  She gave two small nods.

  I’m not a complete idiot. But my mind got scrambled when that big black dog bit me, and it hasn’t been quite right since.

  The girl perched on the bed and watched as I sat at the desk and ate my dinner. Her small hands were clasped primly on her knees. She looked like a delicate glass figurine absorbing the rays of the morning sun.

  (15)

  “I’d really like to introduce you to my mother and my pet starling,” I said to the girl. “My starling is so smart, and very cute.”

  The girl tilted her head just a bit to one side.

  “My mother’s nice, too. But she worries about me too much. That’s because a dog bit me when I was little.”

  What kind of dog?

  “A big black one. It had a leather collar studded with jewels, and green eyes, and huge legs, and six claws on each paw. The tips of its ears were split in two, and its nose was reddish brown, like it was sunburned. Have you ever been bitten by a dog?”

  No, I haven’t, said the girl. Now forget about the dog and finish your dinner.

  I stopped talking and finished my meal. Then I drank the honeyed tea. That made me nice and warm.

  “I’ve got to escape from this place,” I said. “My mother’s worried, and my starling will starve if I don’t feed her.”

  Will you take me with you?

  “Of course,” I replied. “But I’m not sure if I can
make it out. I’ve got an iron ball chained to my ankle, and the corridor is a labyrinth. And the sheep man will receive a horrible punishment when the old man discovers I’m gone. For letting me get away.”

  We can take the sheep man with us. The three of us can escape together.

  “Do you think he’ll join us?”

  The girl gave me a bright smile.

  Then, just like the previous evening, she slipped nimbly through the crack in the barely open door and was gone.

  (16)

  I was reading at my desk when I heard the sound of the lock turning, and the sheep man entered with a tray of doughnuts and lemonade.

  “Here are the doughnuts I promised you earlier, straight from the pan.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sheep Man.”

  I shut the book and took a quick bite of one of the doughnuts. It was absolutely delicious, crispy on the outside, the inside so soft it melted in my mouth.

  “This is the best doughnut I’ve ever eaten,” I said.

  “I just finished frying them up,” said the sheep man. “I make them from scratch, you know.”

  “I bet if you opened a doughnut shop, it’d be a big hit.”

  “Yeah, I’ve thought about that myself. How great that’d be.”

  “I know you could do it.”

  “But who would like me enough to come to my shop? I dress funny, and then there’s my teeth. I don’t look after them very well.”

  “I’ll help you,” I said. “I’ll sell the doughnuts, and talk to the customers, and handle the money and the advertising. I’ll even do the dishes. All you have to do is work in the back making doughnuts. I’ll even teach you how to brush your teeth.”

  “That would be terrific,” said the sheep man.

  (17)

  When the sheep man left, I went back to my book. As before, I became Ibn Armut Hasir, the author of The Diary of an Ottoman Tax Collector. I walked the streets of Istanbul during the day, collecting taxes, but when evening came, I returned home to feed my parakeet. A razor-thin crescent of white moon floated in the night sky. I could hear someone playing a flute in the distance. Having lit the incense for my room, my African servant moved about, chasing away the mosquitoes with something that resembled a flyswatter.

  A beautiful young girl, one of my three wives, was waiting for me in my bedroom. It was she who served me my meals each evening.

  It’s a fine moon, she said to me. Tomorrow it will be the new moon, and the sky will be dark.

  “We must feed the parakeet,” I said.

  Didn’t you feed the parakeet a little while ago? she asked.

  “You’re right, I did,” said the me that was Ibn Armut Hasir.

  The girl’s silken body glinted in the light of the razor-thin crescent moon. I was spellbound.

  It’s a fine moon, she repeated. The new moon will shape our destinies.

  “That would be terrific,” I said.

  (18)

  Like a blind dolphin, the night of the new moon silently drew near.

  The old man came to check on me that evening. He was delighted to find me lost in my book. Seeing how happy he was made me feel a little happier. No matter what the situation may be, I still take pleasure in witnessing the joy of others.

  “I’ve got to give you credit,” he said, scratching his jaw. “You’ve made far more headway than I anticipated. You’re quite a boy.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I replied. I do love being praised.

  “The sooner you finish committing those books to memory, the sooner you can leave,” the old man said to me. He raised one finger in the air. “Understood?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Is anything bothering you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Can you tell me if my mother and my pet starling are all right? That’s got me very worried.”

  The old man frowned. “The world follows its own course,” he said. “Each possesses his own thoughts, each treads his own path. So it is with your mother, and so it is with your starling. As it is with everyone. The world follows its own course.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about, but I dutifully said yes when he had finished.

  (19)

  The girl appeared not long after the old man had left. As always, she slipped in through the crack in the door.

  “It’s the night of the new moon,” I said.

  The girl sat down quietly on the bed. She seemed exhausted. She had lost her color and had grown transparent, so that I could see the wall behind her.

  It’s because of the new moon, she said. It robs us of so much.

  “All it does to me is make my eyes sting a little.”

  The girl looked at me and nodded. The moon doesn’t affect you. So you will be all right. I’m sure you will be able to find a way out.

  “And you?”

  Don’t worry about me. It doesn’t look as though we can make it out together, but I’m sure I can join you later.

  “But how can I find my way back without you?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she came close and planted a small kiss on my cheek. Then she slipped through the door and vanished. I sat there on the bed, dazed, for a long time. The kiss had shaken me up so much I couldn’t think straight. At the same time, my anxiety had turned into an anxiety quite lacking in anxiousness. And any anxiety that is not especially anxious is, in the end, an anxiety hardly worth mentioning.

  (20)

  Not long afterward, the sheep man returned. He was holding a plate piled high with doughnuts.

  “Hey, what’s the matter? You look zonked. Are you sick or something?”

  “No, I was just thinking.”

  “Did I hear right—you’re making a run for it tonight? Can I come along?”

  “Of course you can come. But who told you?”

  “I passed some girl in the corridor a minute ago, and she told me. Said we were both leaving together. I had no idea there was a girl that pretty around here—is she a pal of yours?”

  “Well, um . . .” I stammered.

  “I see. Gosh, it would be great to have someone cool like that for a pal.”

  “If we can get out of here, Mr. Sheep Man, I bet you’ll have lots of cool friends.”

  “That would be terrific,” said the sheep man. “But if we don’t make it out, there will be hell to pay for both of us.”

  “By ‘hell to pay,’ you mean the jar of ten thousand caterpillars?”

  “That’s about the size of it,” the sheep man said mournfully.

  The thought of sharing a jar with ten thousand caterpillars for three days sent a chill up my spine. Yet the warmth of the fresh doughnuts in my belly and the girl’s kiss on my cheek had dispelled all my fears. I put away three doughnuts and the sheep man had six.

  “I’m a lost cause on an empty stomach,” the sheep man said, by way of apology. He wiped some sugar from the corner of his mouth with a stubby finger.

  (21)

  Somewhere a clock struck nine. The sheep man stood up and shook his sleeves several times to reacquaint the sheep costume with his body. It was time for us to leave. He removed the ball and chain from my ankle.

  We exited the room and set off down the dim corridor. My feet were bare, for I had left my shoes in the cell. My mother would hit the roof when she learned I’d left them somewhere. They were very good leather shoes, and she had given them to me as a birthday present. Still, it wasn’t worth risking the chance that their noise might wake up the old man.

  I thought about those shoes as we walked to the big metal door. The sheep man was leading the way. I was half a head taller, so his two ears were bobbing up and down right in front of my nose the whole time.

  “Hey, Mr. Sheep Man,” I whispered to him.

  “What?” he whispered back.

  “How good is the old man’s hearing?”

  “Tonight’s the new moon, so he’ll be fast asleep in his room. But he’s a sharp cookie, as you’ve seen. So you’d best forget those shoes. Shoes you c
an replace, but you can’t replace your brains or your life.”

  “You’re right about that, Mr. Sheep Man.”

  “If he wakes up and comes after me with that willow switch, it’s curtains. I’m no good to you then. When he whips me, I’m helpless—it’s like I become his slave.”

  “Does the switch have some special power?”

  “You’ve got me,” said the sheep man. He thought for a moment. “It seems to be a pretty regular willow switch. But I don’t know.”

  (22)

  “But when he starts hitting you with it, you’re helpless, right?”

  “That’s the size of it. So you’d best forget those shoes.”

  “I’ll put them out of my mind,” I said.

  We walked a little farther down the long corridor without speaking.

  “Hey,” said the sheep man.

  “What is it?”

  “You forgot the shoes, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I’ve forgotten them,” I replied. Thanks to his question, however, the shoes that I had managed to forget walked right back into my mind.

  The staircase was cold and slippery, the front edges of the stone steps worn round with use. Every so often I stepped on what felt like a bug. When you’re climbing barefoot in the pitch dark, that’s not a great feeling. Sometimes the thing was soft and squishy, sometimes it crunched. Darn, I thought, I should have worn those shoes after all.

  At long last we reached the top of the staircase and arrived at the metal door. The sheep man pulled a large ring of keys from his pocket.

  “Got to do this quietly. Don’t want to wake up the old man.”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  He inserted a key and turned it to the left. There was a loud “kachunk,” and the door opened with a long screech. Nothing quiet about it at all.