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

I’d left my things there. Fourthly, I had every intention of showing the manuscript to anyone who cared to read it. Fifthly, I would never, of course, destroy the most flawless piece of writing I’d ever set eyes on. And, sixthly, I had no wish to leave this magnificent city, which promised to be the fulfilment of all my dreams. Before I could utter even one of my rejoinders, however, the gnome had hustled me out of the shop.
    ‘Please take my advice!’ he whispered as he thrust me out of the door. ‘Leave the city as soon as possible! Goodbye - no, farewell for ever! Hurry! Escape while you still can! And steer clear of the Triadic Circle!’
    Then he slammed the door, bolted it from the inside and hung a ‘Closed’ sign in the window. The shop’s interior became even darker than before.

Colophonius Regenschein
    I roamed the surrounding streets in a daze. Thanks to the homeless and exhausted condition in which I now found myself, dear readers, these emotional ups and downs had proved too much for me. First the distressing reminder of Dancelot, then Kibitzer’s hospitable reception and finally his brusque dismissal . . . What an unrefined, wizened little prune of a fellow he was!
    I knew that antiquarian booksellers, and especially the Bookholmians among them, were given to eccentric behaviour - indeed, their professional reputation depended on it, so to speak. But what had Kibitzer meant when he told me to avoid the Triadic Circle? Had he been referring to the sign on his door? He was probably just an oddball afflicted by extreme mood swings - and no wonder, if he persisted in reading Professor Abdul Nightingale’s crack-brained writings!
    I strove to shake off my recollection of the incident by planning my future course of action. First I needed to know more about this city and its unwritten laws. I needed a guidebook and a street map - even, if such a thing existed, a printed list of the conventions to be observed when visiting antiquarian bookshops. It was possible that I had unwittingly broken certain rules peculiar to Bookholm.
    While debating these points I recalled the shop window containing Colophonius Regenschein’s Catacombs of Bookholm, a work that was said to plumb the city’s mysteries. I resolved to acquire the book and digest its contents over a few cups of coffee in some well-heated café. By so doing I could become an expert on Bookholm overnight and kill time without having to spend it in the dubious company of the white bat and the rampaging Bluddums in the Golden Quill . I would collect my things in the morning and change hotels.
    It didn’t take me long to find the bookshop again. The book was still in the window, so I paid the paltry sum it cost, bought a street map and antiquarian guide as well, and bore my acquisitions off to a nearby coffee shop. A nocturnal reading was in progress, which meant that every half-hour some wretched poet would mount a table and deliver a recitation for which he would, at Lindworm Castle, have been tarred, feathered and hurled from the battlements.
    I stood marvelling for a long time in front of a blackboard on which all the delicious fare one could order was listed in chalk. I was bewildered by the abundance of food and drink bearing names with literary associations: Printer’s Ink Wine and Blood and Thunder Coffee ; Sweetpaper Sandwiches (they could be not only eaten but written on); Muse’s Kiss Cocoa and Liquid Inspiration (the latter a brutally high-proof spirit); Horror Candies (to be eaten while reading thrillers, many of them with surprise fillings of vinegar, cod liver oil or desiccated ants); and seventeen types of pastries named after various classical poets, for example, Bethelzia B. Binngrow Buns and Ardelf Nennytos Cookies . Those in need of more substantial fare could gorge themselves on dishes named after popular novelists or their heroes, for instance Prince Sangfroid Pie or Risotto à la Evsko Dosti , but there was also a light Syllabic