The City of Dreaming Books by Walter Moers Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
    Kibitzer ran his forefinger along the edges of the sheets. ‘Unevenly trimmed. A nick every five millimetres at least. The guillotine was already obsolete, probably a Threadcutter dating from the century before last. The watermark was applied with cuttlefish ink, from which I infer that—’
    ‘Perhaps you should read it,’ I ventured to suggest.
    ‘Eh?’ Kibitzer seemed to awaken from a trance and stared at the first page for a long time. He was probably marvelling, just as I had, at the manuscript’s calligraphic beauty. At last he proceeded to read it.
    After a few moments he began to hum to himself like someone reading a score, as if I weren’t there at all. He emitted several hoarse laughs, cried ‘Yes, yes, exactly!’ and made an extremely agitated impression. What followed might have been an imitation of my own response to the text at Lindworm Castle. He alternated abruptly between paroxysms of laughter and floods of tears, fought for breath, smote his brow with the flat of his hand, and gave vent to repeated cries of approval and delight: ‘Yes indeed! Yes! How true! It’s so . . . so perfect!’ Then he lowered the manuscript and sat staring into the gloom for several minutes, utterly motionless.
    I took the liberty of clearing my throat. Kibitzer gave a start and gazed at me with his big, glowing eyes. Their amber-coloured irises were quivering.
    ‘Well?’ I asked. ‘Do you know who the author is?’
    ‘It’s fantastic,’ he muttered.
    ‘I know. Whoever wrote it is a literary giant.’
    Kibitzer handed the manuscript back, his eyes narrowing to slits. The whole shop seemed to grow darker.
    ‘You must leave Bookholm,’ he whispered. ‘You’re in mortal danger!’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Kindly leave these premises! Return to Lindworm Castle at once! Go anywhere you like, but get out of this city at all costs! Don’t stay at a hotel on any account! Show no one else this manuscript - no one, understand? Destroy it! Make good your escape from Bookholm as soon as possible!’
    Every one of these recommendations was the diametrical opposite of what I really intended. In the first place I should have liked to spend a little longer in the shop and chat with the kindly Nocturnomath. Secondly, I was delighted to have shaken the dust of Lindworm Castle off my feet and was damned if I’d go back there so soon. Thirdly, I would naturally return to my hotel at some stage because