Inkheart

24. FENOGLIO

Dustfinger and Farid were waiting for them in the parking lot when they left the hotel. Over the nearby hills, a warm wind was slowly driving rain clouds toward the sea. Everything seemed gray today, even the houses with their bright color-washed walls and the flowering shrubs in the streets. Mo took the coastal road, which Elinor had said was built by the Romans, and followed it farther west.

All through the drive the sea lay to their left, its water stretching to the horizon, sometimes hidden by houses, sometimes by trees, but this morning it didn't look half as inviting as it had on the day Meggie had come down from the mountains with Elinor and Dustfinger. The gray of the sky cast a dull reflection on the blue waves, and the sea spray foamed like dirty dishwater. Several times, Meggie found her gaze wandering to the hills on her right. Capricorn's village was hidden somewhere among them. Once, she even thought she saw its pale church tower in a dark fold of the hills, and her heart beat faster though she knew that it couldn't possibly be Capricorn's church. Her feet remembered all too well how long that endless journey down the mountainside had been.

Mo was driving faster than usual, much faster. Obviously he could hardly wait to reach their destination. After a good hour they turned off the coast road and followed a narrow, winding lane through a valley gray with buildings. Green houses covered the hills here, their panes painted white for protection against the sun that was now hidden behind clouds. Only when the road went uphill did the country on both sides turn green again. The buildings gave way to natural meadow-land, and stunted olive trees lined the road, which forked unexpectedly a couple of times. Mo had to keep consulting the map he had bought, but finally the right name appeared on a sign.

They drove into a small village, little more than a square, a few dozen houses, and a church that looked very much like Capricorn's. When Meggie got out of the car she saw the sea far below. The waves were so rough on this overcast day that, even from this distance, she could see the breakers. Mo had parked in the village square beside the memorial for the dead of two world wars. The list of names was long for such a small place, Meggie thought there were almost as many names as the village had houses,

"You can leave the car unlocked. I'll keep an eye on it, " said Dustfinger as Mo was about to lock up. He threw his pack over his shoulder, put the sleepy Gwin on his chain, and sat on the steps in front of the war memorial. Farid sat down beside him without a word. Meggie looked uneasily at them both as she followed Mo.

"Remember, you promised not to mention me!" Dustfinger called after them.

"Yes, all right!" replied Mo.

Farid was playing with matches again. Meggie caught him at it when she looked around once more. By now he could extinguish the burning matches with his mouth quite well, but all the same Dustfinger took the box of matches away from him, and Farid looked sadly at his empty hands.

Meggie had met many people who loved books, sold them, collected them, printed them or, like her father, prevented them from falling apart, but she had never before met anyone who wrote the words that filled a book's pages. She didn't even know the names of the authors of some of her favorite stories, let alone what they looked like. She had seen only the characters who emerged from the words to meet her, never the writer who had made them up. It was just as Mo had said: In general one thought of writers as dead or very, very old. But the man who opened the door to them, after Mo had rung the bell twice, was neither. That is, he was certainly quite old, at least in Meggie's eyes: in his mid-sixties or even older. His face was wrinkled like a turtle's, but his hair was black, without a trace of gray (she was to find out later that he dyed it), and he didn't look at all fragile. On the contrary: He planted himself so impressively in the doorway that Meggie was instantly tongue-tied. Luckily Mo was not.

"Signor Fenoglio?" he asked.

"Yes?" The face looked less forthcoming than ever. There was disapproval in every line of it. But Mo seemed undaunted.

"I'm Mortimer Folchart," he introduced himself, "and this is my daughter, Meggie. I'm here about one of your books."

A boy appeared at the door beside Fenoglio, a little boy of about five, and a small girl joined them on the other side of the doorway. She stared curiously, first at Mo, then at Meggie. "Pippo's picked the chocolate chips out of the cake, " Meggie heard her whisper as she looked anxiously up at Mo. When his eyes twinkled at her she disappeared behind Fenoglio's back, giggling. But Fenoglio himself still looked anything but friendly.

"All the chocolate chips?" he growled. "Very well, I'm coming. You go and tell Pippo he's in serious trouble. " The little girl nodded and ran away, obviously happy to be the bearer of bad news. The small boy clung to Fenoglio's leg.

"A very particular book, " Mo went on. "Inkheart. You wrote it quite a long time ago, and unfortunately I can't buy a copy anywhere now. " With the man's icy stare still resting on her father, Meggie could only marvel that the words didn't freeze on Mo's lips.

"Oh yes. So?" Fenoglio crossed his arms. The girl appeared on his left again. "Pippo's hiding, " she said.

"That won't do him any good, " said Fenoglio. "I can always find him. " The little girl scurried off again. Meggie heard her in the house, calling to the chocolate thief. Fenoglio, however, turned back to Mo. "So, what do you want? If you're planning to ask me clever questions of some kind about the book, forget it. I don't have time for that sort of thing. Anyway, as you said yourself, I wrote it ages ago. "

"No, there's only one question I was going to ask. I'd like to know if you still have any copies, and if so may I buy one from you?"

The old man's expression was no longer quite so forbidding as he inspected Mo. "How extraordinary. You must be really keen on the book, " he murmured. "I'm flattered. Although, " he added, and his face darkened again, "I hope you're not one of those idiots who collect rare books just because they're rare, are you?"

Mo couldn't help smiling. "No, " he said. "I want to read it, that's all. I just want to read it. "

Fenoglio braced an arm against the door frame and looked at the house opposite as if he feared it might collapse at any moment. The street where he lived was so narrow that Mo could have touched both sides at once if he stretched out his arms. Many of the houses were built of coarse blocks of sandy gray stone, like the houses in Capricorn's village, but here there were flowers in window boxes and pots of plants on the steps, and many of the shutters looked as if they had been freshly painted. There was a baby carriage outside one house, a moped leaning against the wall of another, and voices floated into the street from open windows. Capricorn's village probably looked like this once, thought Meggie.

An old woman passing by looked suspiciously at the strangers. Fenoglio nodded to her, murmured a brief greeting, and waited until she had vanished behind a green-painted front door. "Inkheart, " he said. "That really is a long time ago. And it's odd that you should be asking about that one, of all my books. "

The girl came back. She tugged Fenoglio's sleeve and whispered something in his ear. Fenoglio's turtle face twisted in asmile. Meggie liked him better that way. "Oh, that's where he always hides, Paula," he told the little girl softly. "Perhaps you should advise him to try a better hiding place."

Paula ran off for the third time, but not before gazing curiously at Meggie first.

"Well, you'd better come in, " said Fenoglio. Without another word he showed Mo and Meggie into the house, went down a dark, narrow hallway ahead of them, limping because the little boy was still clinging to his leg like a monkey, and pushed open the door to the kitchen, where the ruins of a cake stood on the table. Its brown icing was as full of holes as the binding of a book when bookworms have been gnawing at it for years.

"Pippo?" Fenoglio bellowed so loudly that even Meggie jumped, although she didn't feel guilty of any naughtiness. "I know you can hear me. And I warn you I shall tie a knot in your nose for every hole in this cake. Understand?"

Meggie heard a giggle. It seemed to come from the cupboard next to the fridge. Fenoglio broke a piece off the cake with the holes still in it. "Paula, " he said, "give this girl a slice if she doesn't mind the missing chocolate. " Paula emerged from under the table and looked inquiringly at Meggie.

"I don't mind, " said Meggie, whereupon Paula took a huge knife, cut an enormous piece of cake, and put it on the table in front of her.

"Pippo, let's have one of the rose-patterned plates, " said Fenoglio, and a hand stuck out of the cupboard holding a plate in its chocolate-brown fingers. Meggie was quick to take the plate before it dropped, and put the piece of cake on it.

"What about you?" Fenoglio asked Mo.

"I'd prefer the book, " said Mo. He was looking rather pale.

Fenoglio removed the little boy from his leg and sat down.

"Go and find another tree to climb, Rico, " he said. Then he looked thoughtfully at Mo. "I'm afraid I can't help you, " he said. "I don't have a single copy left. They were stolen, all of them. I lent them to an exhibition of old children's books in Genoa: a lavishly illustrated special edition, a copy with asigned dedication by the illustrator, and the two copies that belonged to my own children with all their scribbled comments – I always asked them to mark the bits they liked best – and finally my own personal copy. Every last one of them stolen two days after the exhibition opened."

Mo ran a hand over his face as if he could wipe the disappointment off it. "Stolen, " he said. "Of course. "

"Of course?" Fenoglio narrowed his eyes and looked at Mo with great curiosity. "You'll have to explain. In fact I'm not letting you out of my house until I find out why you're interested in this of all my books. In fact, I might set the children on you – and you wouldn't like that!"

Mo tried for a smile, without much success. "My copy was stolen as well," he said at last. "And that was a very special edition, too. "

"Extraordinary." Fenoglio raised his eyebrows, which were like hairy caterpillars creeping above his eyes. "Come on, let's hear your story." All the hostility had vanished from his face. Curiosity, pure curiosity, had won out. In Fenoglio's eyes Meggie saw the same insatiable hunger for a good new story that overcame her at the sight of any new and exciting book.

"There's not much to tell, " said Mo. Meggie heard in his voice that he didn't intend to tell the old man the truth. "I restore books. That's how I make my living. I found yours in a secondhand bookstore some years ago, and I was going to give it a new binding, then sell it, but I liked it so much I kept it instead. And now it's been stolen and I've been trying in vain to buy another copy. A friend who knows a great deal about rare books and how to get hold of them finally suggested I might try the author himself. She was the person who found me your address. So I came here. "

Fenoglio wiped a few cake crumbs off the table. "Fine," he said, "but that's not the whole story. "

"What do you mean?"

The old man scrutinized Mo's face until he turned his head away and looked out of the narrow kitchen window. "I mean I can smell a good story miles away, so don't try keeping one from me. Out with it! And then you can have a piece of this magnificently perforated cake. "

Paula clambered up onto Fenoglio's lap, nestled her head under his chin, and looked at Mo as expectantly as the old man himself had.

But Mo shook his head. "No, I think I'd better say no more. You wouldn't believe a word of it anyway. "

"Oh, I'd believe all manner of things!" Fenoglio assured Mo, cutting him a slice of cake. "I'd believe any story at all just so long as it's well told. "

The cupboard door opened a crack, and Meggie saw a boy's head emerge. "What about my punishment?" he asked. Judging by his fingers, which were sticky with chocolate, this must be Pippo.

"Later, " said Fenoglio. "I have something else to do now."

Disappointed, Pippo came out of the cupboard. "You said you were going to tie knots in my nose."

"Double knots, seaman's knots, butterfly knots, any knots you fancy, but I have to hear this story first. So go and fool around with something else until I have time for you."

Pippo stuck his lower lip out sulkily and disappeared intothe corridor. Rico, the little boy, ran after him.

Mo remained silent, pushing cake crumbs off the rough tabletop, drawing invisible patterns on the wood with his forefinger. "There's someone in this story, and I've promised not to tell you about him, " he said at last.

"Keeping a bad promise makes it no better, " said Fenoglio. "Or at least so a favorite book of mine says. "

"I don't know if it was a bad promise. " Mo sighed and looked up at the ceiling as if the answer might be found there. "Very well, " he said. "I'll tell you. But Dustfinger will murder me if he finds out."

"Dustfinger? I once called a character that. Oh yes, of course, the poor trickster in Inkheart. I killed him off in the last chapter but one. A very touching scene. I cried tears while I was writing it. "

Meggie almost choked on the piece of cake she had just put in her mouth, but Fenoglio went on calmly. "I haven't killed off many of my characters, but sometimes it just happens. Death scenes aren't easy to write – they can too easily get sentimental – but I thought I did pretty well with Dustfinger's death. "

Horrified, Meggie looked at Mo. "He dies? Did – did you know that?"

"Yes, of course. I've read the whole story, Meggie. "

"But why didn't you tell him?"

"He didn't want to know. "

Fenoglio was following this exchange with a puzzled look on his face – and with great curiosity.

"Who kills him?" asked Meggie. "Basta?"

"Ah, Basta!" Fenoglio smiled. Each of his separate wrinkles expressed self-satisfaction. "One of the best villains I ever thought up. A rabid dog, but not half as bad as my other dark hero Capricorn. Basta would have let his heart be torn out for Capricorn, but his master is a stranger to such loyalty. He feels nothing, nothing at all, he doesn't even enjoy his own cruelty. Yes, I really did think up some pretty dark characters for Inkheart. And then there's the Shadow, Capricorn's hound, as I always called him to myself. Though of course that's far too friendly a name for such a monster."

"The Shadow?" Meggie's voice was hardly more than a whisper."Does he kill Dustfinger?"

"No, no. I'm sorry, I'd quite forgotten your question. Once I begin talking about my characters it's hard to stop me. No, one of Capricorn's men kills Dustfinger. It was a very successful scene. Dustfinger has some kind of tame marten. Capricorn's man wants to kill it because he enjoys killing small animals, so Dustfinger tries to save his furry friend and dies in the attempt."

Meggie said nothing. Poor Dustfinger, she thought. Poor, poor Dustfinger. She couldn't think of anything else."Which of Capricorn's men does it?" she asked."Flatnose? Or Cockerell?"

Fenoglio looked at her in surprise."Well, fancy that. You know all their names? I usually forget them soon after I've made them up."

"It's neither of them, Meggie," said Mo."The murderer's name isn't even mentioned in the book. A whole pack of Capricorn's men is hunting Gwin, and one of them draws a knife and uses it. A man who's probably still waiting for Dustfinger."

"Waiting for him?" Fenoglio looked at Mo, confused.

"That's terrible!" whispered Meggie."I'm glad I didn't read anymore."

"What do you mean? Are you talking about my book?" Fenoglio's voice sounded hurt.

"Yes," said Meggie."I am." She looked at Mo, a question in her eyes."And Capricorn? Who kills him?"

"No one."

"No one!"

Meggie stared at Fenoglio so accusingly that he rubbed his nose awkwardly. It was an impressive nose."Why are you looking at me like that?" he cried."Yes, I let him get away with it. He's one of my best villains. How could I kill him off? It's the same in real life: Notorious murderers get off scot-free and live happily all their lives, while good people die – sometimes the very best people. That's the way of the world. Why should it be different in books?"

"What about Basta? Does he stay alive, too?" Meggie remembered what Farid had said back in the ruined hovel: "Why not kill them? That's what they were going to do to us!"

"Basta stays alive, too, " replied Fenoglio. "I remember toying for some time with the idea of writing a sequel to Inkheart, and I didn't want to do without those two. I was proud of them! And the Shadow was quite a success, too, yes, he really was, but I'm always most attached to my human characters. You know, if you were to ask me which of those two I was prouder of, Basta or Capricorn, I couldn't tell you! Even though some critics said they were just too nasty!"

Mo stared out of the window again. Then he looked at Fenoglio. "Would you like to meet them?" he asked.

"Meet who?" Fenoglio looked at him in surprise.

"Capricorn and Basta. "

"Good God, no!" Fenoglio laughed so loud that Paula, quite frightened, put her hand over his mouth.

"Well, we did, " said Mo wearily. "Meggie and I – and Dustfinger."