The Museum of Literary Souls (A Short Story) by John Connolly Read Free Book Online Page B

own space with them. I’ve often wondered why that
might be, and I think I’ve come up with an answer of sorts. It’s a natural
consequence of the capacity of a bookstore or library to contain entire worlds,
whole universes, and all contained between the covers of books. In that sense,
every library or bookstore is practically infinite. This library takes that to
its logical conclusion.”
    They passed a pair of overly ornate and decidedly gloomy
rooms, in one of which an ashen-faced man sat reading a book, his unusually
long fingernails gently testing the pages. He turned to watch them pass, and
his lips drew back to reveal a pair of elongated canines.
    “The Count,” said Mr. Gedeon in a worried manner. “I’d move
along if I were you.”
    “You mean Stoker’s Count?” said Mr. Berger. He couldn’t help
but gawp. The Count’s eyes were rimmed with red, and there was an undeniable
magnetism to him. Mr. Berger found his feet dragging him into the room as the
Count set aside his book and prepared to welcome him.
    Mr. Gedeon’s hand grasped his right arm and pulled him back
into the corridor.
    “I told you to move along,” he said. “You don’t want to be
spending time with the Count. Very unpredictable, the Count. Says he’s over all
that vampiric nonsense, but I wouldn’t trust him farther than I could throw
him.”
    “He can’t get out, can he?” asked Mr. Berger, who was
already rethinking his passion for evening walks.
    “No, he’s one of the special cases. We keep those books
behind bars, and that seems to do the trick for the characters as well.”
    “But some of the others wander,” said Mr. Berger. “You met
Hamlet, and I met Anna Karenina.”
    “Yes, but that’s really most unusual. For the most part, the
characters exist in a kind of stasis. I suspect a lot of them just close their
eyes and relive their entire literary lives over and over. Still, we do have
quite a competitive bridge tournament going, and the pantomime at Christmas is
always good fun.”
    “How do they get out, the ones who ramble off?”
    Mr. Gedeon shrugged. “I don’t know. I keep the place well
locked up, and it’s rare that I’m not here. I just took a few days off to visit
my brother in Bootle, but I’ve probably never spent more than a month in total
away from the library in all of my years as librarian. Why would I? I’ve got
books to read and characters to talk to. I’ve got worlds to explore, all within
these walls.”
    At last they reached a closed door, upon which Mr. Gedeon
knocked tentatively.
    “ Oui? ” said a female voice.
    “ Madame, vous avez un visiteur ,” said
Mr. Gedeon.
    “ Bien. Entrez, s’il vous
plaît .”
    Mr. Gedeon opened the door, and there was the woman whom Mr.
Berger had watched throw herself beneath the wheels of a train and whose life
he felt that he had subsequently saved, sort of. She was wearing a simple black
dress, perhaps even the very one that had so captivated Kitty in the novel, her
curly hair in disarray, and a string of pearls hanging around her firm neck.
She seemed startled at first to see him, and he knew that she recalled his
face.
    Mr. Berger’s French was a little rusty, but he managed to
dredge up a little from memory.
    “ Madame, je m’appelle Monsieur Berger, et
je suis enchanté de vous rencontrer .”
    “ Non ,” said Anna, after a short pause,
“ tout le plaisir est pour moi, Monsieur Berger . Vous vous
assiérez, s’il vous plaît .”
    He took a seat, and a polite conversation commenced. Mr.
Berger explained in the most delicate terms that he had been a witness to her
earlier encounter with the train, and it had haunted him. Anna appeared most
distressed and apologized profusely for any trouble that she might have caused
him, but Mr. Berger waved it away as purely minor and stressed that he was more
concerned for her than for himself. Naturally, he said, when he saw her making
a second attempt—if attempt was the right word for an act that