The Library of Shadows

4

After a fifteen-year absence, Jon decided to visit Libri di Luca the day after the funeral. Over the years he had driven past the place many times and it always looked as if it were open, even late at night. Occasionally he had caught a glimpse of Luca through the windows, busily occupied at the counter or in the process of straightening the books in the window.

The bells over the door were undoubtedly the same as the last time he had been there, and the sound welcomed him back like a distant member of the family. There was no one in the shop and yet he was still met by familiar faces – the long rows of bookshelves, the lamp hanging from the ceiling, the light from the glass cases on the balcony and the old silver-chased cash register on the counter. Jon stopped inside the door and breathed in the air of the place. He couldn't hold back the small, crooked smile that formed on his lips.

Before his mother's death, the bookshop had been his favourite place. When both Luca and Iversen were too busy to read to him, he would go exploring in the shop, acting out the stories among the books from which they originated. And so the staircase became a mountain he had to climb, the shelves were transformed into skyscrapers in futuristic cities and the balcony became the bridge of a pirate ship.

But what he remembered most clearly were the many hours when Iversen or Luca had read stories to him, sitting in the green leather chair behind the counter with Jon either on their lap or on the floor at their feet. During those hours he became a witness to fantastic tales whose images he could still recreate, even today.

The antiquarian bookshop looked exactly as he remembered it, with the exception of two things: a piece of the railing of the pirate ship had been replaced by a new section of fresh, light-coloured wood; and a bouquet of white tulips stood on the dark counter. Both items seemed out of place in the tranquil atmosphere of the room, as if it were a picture in a quiz that posed the question: what doesn't belong here?

'He'll be back in a moment,' Jon heard behind him.

He gave a start and turned to face the voice. Half-hidden behind the far bookshelf was a red-haired woman wearing a black sweater and a long, burgundy-coloured skirt. Her hand was resting on the edge of the shelf in such a way that it hid her mouth and the tip of her nose. The only parts visible were the red hair and one shining green eye that regarded him coolly.

Jon nodded to her and was about to say something in reply, but then she retreated once more behind the bookshelf. In the front of the shop stood a long table where the newly arrived books were on display. Under the pretence of studying the new volumes, he moved along the table and over to the corridor between the shelves where the woman had disappeared. She had made it halfway down the aisle, and since her back was turned, Jon could see that her red hair was tied in a ponytail and reached to the middle of her back. With light, cat-like steps she made her way down the shelves, running the very tips of her fingers along the spines of the books as if reading Braille or looking for irregularities. She didn't seem to be reading the titles of the books as she passed. A couple of times she stopped and placed her whole palm on the spines, as if she were absorbing the stories through her hand. At the end of the aisle the woman turned the corner, but managed to cast a quick glance in Jon's direction before she once again disappeared from view.

Jon turned his attention back to the books in front of him. It was a collection of fiction and non-fiction, both in hardback and paperback. Some of the books were new, virginal copies without a scratch or a crease, while others had clearly been taken to the beach or on a lengthy backpacking trip.

Until Jon was big enough to read for himself, one of his favourite pastimes had been to look through the newly arrived volumes for bookmarks. It became a collector's mania, just as other people go in for stamps or coins, and the variety was almost as great. There were the official bookmarks, rectangular pieces of cardboard adorned with an image that had – or didn't have – some relation to the book itself. Then there were the more neutral types – blank pieces of paper, pieces of string, elastic bands or banknotes. Other bookmarks indirectly revealed something about the reader's habits or interests. It might be a receipt, a bus pass, a cinema or theatre ticket, a shopping list or newspaper clipping. Finally, there were the personal bookmarks such as business cards, drawings, letters, postcards and photographs. The letter or card might be from a sweetheart, the photo might have a greeting or an explanation written on the back, the drawing might have been a present from a child.

Unless it was a matter of a banknote, which Jon was allowed to keep, all the bookmarks were collected in a wooden box under the counter. When he was a child and couldn't find anything else to do, Jon would pull out the box and place the bookmarks on the floor like playing cards, making up stories about them.

The bells over the door rang and Iversen came in with a red pizza box in his hands. When he caught sight of Jon he broke into a big smile and offered a vociferous greeting as he hurried to close the door behind him.

'It's good to see you,' he said, setting the pizza box on the counter and stretching out his hand.

'Hello, Iversen.' Jon shook his hand. 'I hope I'm not interrupting you?' He nodded towards the pizza. The pronounced aroma of pepperoni and melted cheese momentarily drove out the smell of parchment and leather.

'Not in the least,' exclaimed Iversen. 'But I hope you won't mind if I eat. It's best when it's hot.'

'Not at all. Go right ahead.'

Iversen smiled gratefully. 'Let's go downstairs so we can talk without being disturbed,' he said and grabbed the box.

'Katherina?' called Iversen as they made their way along the corridor towards the winding stairs at the back of the shop.

The red-haired woman popped up at the end of the bookshelf, as if she'd been waiting to be summoned. She was only slightly shorter than Jon, and her body was slender without being lanky. Her red hair framed a narrow, pale face with thin lips pursed into a stern expression. Her green eyes looked at Jon as if he were in the wrong place.

'We're going down to the kitchen,' said Iversen. 'Could you watch the shop in the meantime?' The woman nodded in reply and once again withdrew from sight.

'Your daughter?' asked Jon on the way down the spiral staircase, whose worn steps creaked loudly under the weight of the two men.

'Katherina?' Iversen laughed. 'No, no, she's one of the friends of the bookshop. Lately she's been an invaluable help to the two of us old men. She mostly takes care of practical matters such as cleaning and things like that.' Iversen stopped at the bottom of the stairs. 'She's not exactly the best bookshop clerk,' he added in a low voice.

Jon nodded. 'She seems a bit shy, doesn't she?'

Iversen shrugged. 'That's not really it. She's dyslexic.'

'A dyslexic clerk in a bookshop?' exclaimed Jon in surprise, speaking a little too loudly, which prompted him to lower his voice to a whisper. 'How can she possibly be useful to you?'

'I haven't got a single bad thing to say about Katherina,' replied Iversen solemnly. 'She's smarter than most people. You'll soon find that out.'

They stood at the foot of the stairs in a narrow, whitewashed hallway illuminated by two bare bulbs. On either side of the hall were doorways, one leading to the kitchen, which was where Iversen headed. The room across from it was cloaked in darkness, but Jon knew that Luca used to use it as a workshop where he bound and restored books. At the end of the corridor was a heavy oak door.

The kitchen was small but functional. A stainless-steel sink, a cupboard, two hotplates, a fridge and a table with three folding chairs. On the walls and the cupboard doors hung discarded book jackets interspersed with illustrations, wherever there was space.

Iversen set the pizza on the table, took off his jacket, and hung it on a hook by the door. Jon followed his example.

'I love pizza,' said Iversen as he sat down at the table. 'I know it's supposed to be food for youngsters like yourself, but I can't help it. And it's not even the fault of your father's influence. He hated Danish pizzas.' Iversen laughed. "They have nothing to do with real pizza," he used to say. Too much topping, in his opinion. "Piled up like an open sandwich."'

Jon sat down across from Iversen.

'Would you like some?' muttered Iversen, his mouth already full of food.

Jon shook his head. 'No thanks. On that point I share Luca's opinion.'

Iversen shrugged his shoulders as he continued to chew. 'So tell me a little about what you've been doing while I eat.'

'Hmm,' said Jon. 'Well, I ended up living with a family in Hillerшd back then. It was okay, but a little too far from the city, so I moved to a dorm in Copenhagen when I started at the university. In the middle of my studies I took a couple of years off and worked as a legal assistant in Brussels – I was more or less an intern. Back in Denmark I finished my law degree near the top of my class, which led to a position as barrister with the firm of Hanning, Jensen & Halbech, where I still work.'

Jon fell silent, discovering that he actually didn't have anything else to add. Not because there was nothing to tell – he could always talk about his travels, his difficulties at the university, the jockeying for position at the firm or the Remer case. But why involve Iversen now, after so many years of separation, and with Luca's death about to bring their connection to a definite end?

'As you can hear, I haven't had much to do with literature,' he added.

'Maybe not with literature, per se,' admitted Iversen between pieces of pizza. 'But the written word is of great importance in both of our worlds. Each of us in his own way is dependent onbooks. '

Jon nodded. 'More and more is becoming available electronically, but you're right. Everyone in my field has a set of Karnov law books somewhere or other. In some sense it's still more impressive to have a stack of thick reference books than a single CD-ROM.' He threw out his hands. 'So I assume there's still some use for antiquarian bookshops like this?'

Iversen gulped down the last of his pizza. 'I'm positive there is.'

'Which brings us to why I'm here,' said Jon in a businesslike tone. 'There was something you wanted to tell me?'

'Let's go into the library,' said Iversen, pointing to the door. 'There's more… atmosphere.'

They got up and walked down the hall. As a child, Jon was never allowed to be downstairs unless accompanied by Luca or Iversen, and he'd never been inside the room behind the oak door, which they were now approaching. The room had always been part of his games about a treasure chamber or a prison cell, but no matter how much he pleaded, he had never been allowed inside. The door had always been kept locked, and after a while he gave up asking. At the door Iversen pulled a key ring from his trouser pocket and selected a black iron key, which he stuck in the lock. The door groaned impressively when he opened it, and Jon noticed that the hairs on the back of his neck quivered.

'This is the Campelli collection,' said Iversen as he vanished into the darkness beyond the door. A moment later the lights went on and Jon stepped inside. The low-ceilinged room was approximately 30 square metres, and the floor was covered with a thick, dark carpet. In the middle of the room stood four comfortable-looking leather chairs around a low table made of dark wood. The walls were covered with bookshelves and glass cabinets filled with books in various bindings. Most of them had leather spines, and the indirect light from the top of the shelves bathed the books and the rest of the room in a soft, golden glow.

Jon whistled softly. 'Impressive.' He let his hand slide over the books on the nearest shelf. 'Not that I know much about it, but I have to admit it's an amazing sight.'

'I can assure you that for those in the know, the sight is no less impressive,' added Iversen. He smiled proudly as he let his gaze roam from shelf to shelf. 'The collection was put together over the centuries by your father and your ancestors. Many of the works have travelled around most of Europe before ending up here.' With great care he pulled out a volume and caressed the darkened leather with his fingertips. 'If only I could hear it speak,' he said to himself. 'A story within a story.'

'Is it valuable?'

'Very,' replied Iversen. 'Maybe not in terms of cash, but it has a high sentimental and bibliographic value.'

'So, is this the big secret?' asked Jon.

'Part of it,' replied Iversen. 'Sit down, Jon.' He pointed to the leather chairs and went over to shut the door. With the door closed it felt as if they were inside a glass bell. No sounds seemed able to penetrate the atmosphere of the library, and Jon had the feeling that no one outside would hear them, no matter how much they yelled or shouted. He sat down in one of the leather chairs and placed his elbows on the armrests with his hands clasped in front of him.

Iversen sat down in a chair across from Jon and cleared his throat before he began.

'First of all, you need to know that what I'm about to say is something that your father would have told you at some point – just as Luca was initiated by his father, Arman. He should have done it long ago, but the climate in your family hasn't been the most conducive to confessions.'

Jon didn't say a word, and the expression on his face didn't change.

'But let's not go into that,' Iversen went on. 'Though I'd like to say that since things are the way they are, I'm proud of the fact that I'm the one who is privileged to tell you what you're now going to hear.'

Iversen's voice quavered a bit, and he took a deep breath before he continued. 'You've experienced personally how unusually good your father was at reading stories aloud, just as his father was. I myself, in all modesty, am rather good at it, but nothing in comparison with Luca.' Iversen paused. 'So what do you think makes someone good at reading aloud, Jon?'

In spite of all the intervening years, Jon still knew Iversen too well to be surprised by the question. He felt himself carried back in time to all the occasions when Iversen, enthroned in the green leather chair behind the counter, had asked Jon about the stories he had heard read aloud. Always penetrating questions about what Jon thought of the stories, the descriptions, the characters.

'Practice, empathy and acting skill, to a certain degree,' he replied without taking his eyes off Iversen's face.

The man across from him nodded. 'The more a person reads, the better he gets at finding the tempo and knowing how to pause at the right moments. As he gains more experience, the language flows more easily from his lips, and he can devote more attention to the two other traits you mentioned: empathy and acting skill. It's no coincidence that actors are often the ones who read stories on the radio.'

Iversen leaned towards Jon. 'But some people have an extra card to play, so to speak.' He paused for dramatic effect.

'Being able to read a text is not an innate skill. The ability to decipher letters of the alphabet is not in our genes. It's unnatural – an artificial skill that we acquire during our first years in school; some people with greater success and talent than others.' He cast a glance at the ceiling and the shop above them, where Katherina was most likely still strolling about among the bookshelves. 'When we read, many different areas of the brain are activated. It's a combination of recognizing symbols and patterns, connecting them to sounds and gathering them into syllables until we're finally able to interpret the meaning of a word. In addition, the word has to be set in relation to the context in which it's found, in order to produce meaning…'

Jon caught himself wiggling his foot impatiently and stopped.

'Of course, what I'm telling you is quite banal,' Iversen said in apology. 'But it's something we don't usually think about, and it's merely meant to emphasize what a complicated process reading is, going from the word on the page in front of you to the sound that leaves your lips. Many areas of the brain are involved in the translation from symbol to sound, or to comprehension if you're reading silently to yourself. And it's there, in that interplay, that something amazing can occur.'

Iversen's eyes shone, as if he were on the verge of unveiling some unseen work of art.

'For a very small number of us, that brain activity includes areas of the brain that make us capable of psychically influencing those who listen.'

Jon raised an eyebrow, but apparently that wasn't enough of a response to make Iversen go on.

'What do you mean?' Jon asked. 'That you can make people feel moved by what you read to them? Isn't that just a matter of technique?'

'That will have some effect,' admitted Iversen. 'But this goes beyond that. We're capable of influencing people without them being aware of it, influencing their view of the text, its theme, or something else entirely.'

Jon intently studied the man sitting across from him. Either he was crazy or else this was a joke, yet Iversen wasn't the type to make fun of literature.

'If we want to, we can change people's opinion of the subject matter. To take an extreme example, we could get a Catholic priest to approve of abortion.' Iversen broke into a smile, but there was still no indication that he was not completely serious.

'But how?'

'Well, I'm probably not the best person to explain it, but I can tell you about the general principle and then others can fill in the details.' He cleared his throat before continuing. 'As I understand the matter, it has to do with the fact that when we – and this applies to everyone – receive information, for example through reading to ourselves or listening to readings, or through films, TV, pretty much anything at all, a sort of channel is opened that examines, classifies and distributes the information. It's also here that an emphasis is added by comparing the received data to the presentation and one's previous experiences, attitudes and convictions. In fact, it's this process that determines the extent to which we like the music we hear or agree with the arguments of a speaker.'

'And this… emphasis is something you can control?'

'Precisely,' replied Iversen. 'Those of us who practise the art are calledLectors, and when we read aloud from a text, we charge it with whatever emphasis we like, thereby influencing the listener's experience of and attitude towards what is being read.'

Jon was starting to feel a little annoyed. He wasn't used to dealing with emotions, sensations and undocumented claims. In his world a case wasn't worth dealing with if there was no reliable testimony or facts or very strong evidence. This seemed like a case of faith, and that didn't appeal to him at all.

'Can you prove any of this?' Jon asked firmly.

'It's not an exact science, and there are many things we don't fully understand. For instance, it turns out that certain types of text are better suited than others. Fiction is more effective than nonfiction, and the quality of the work is also significant. Even more remarkable is the fact that the potential of the text may depend on whether it's read from a monitor, from a cheap photocopy or from a first edition – and the last is far more powerful than the others. It also appears that certain books becomecharged when they're read, so that the next presentation of the text becomes stronger – more effective at communicating the message and emotions it contains. Older and frequently read volumes are therefore more powerful than new, unread copies.' Iversen shifted his gaze from Jon, allowing it to slide over the bookshelves surrounding them.

Jon got up and went over to the nearest shelf. 'Are these books charged?' he asked sceptically, pulling out a volume at random.

'Many of them are. You can actually feel it when you hold the most powerful copies in your hands.'

Jon placed his palm on the book he had taken from the shelf. After a couple of seconds he shook his head, put the book back and repeated the process with another.

'I don't feel anything,' he finally said.

'You would need to possess the ability,' explained Iversen. 'Plus a certain amount of practice.'

Jon put the book back in place and turned to face Iversen. 'So how does someone gain the ability? How does someone become a Lector?'

'It's something a person is born to do. It's not something you can learn, or for that matter even choose. Your father inherited the ability from his father, Arman, who got it from his father, and so on. Therefore it's highly likely you've inherited the ability from Luca.'

He fell silent and then hammered home his point. 'You can be a Lector, Jon.'

Jon stared at Iversen. The smile on the old man's lips was gone and his expression was filled with a solemnity that seemed quite unsuited to the otherwise jovial man. Jon threw out his arms towards the bookshelves surrounding them. 'But I told you I didn't feel a thing.'

'In most people the ability is latent,' said Iversen. 'Some never discover it, others are born with an active talent, while still others can become activated by chance. But most demonstrate some form of talent in that direction, either through their choice of profession or in the way they perform their job.' He gave Jon a searching look. 'What about you, Jon? Have you ever experienced situations where your reading aloud has influenced or spellbound people?'

Even though Jon had the feeling he was affecting people when he presented his closing arguments, he had never noticed anything special about this. No channels or energy or charges of any kind – it was merely a reading technique, nothing more.

'Maybe I'm better at reading aloud than most people,' Jon admitted. 'But that doesn't necessarily mean anything.'

'You're right. A person can have a talent for reading aloud without being a Lector.'

Jon crossed his arms. 'Luca was a Lector?'

Iversen nodded. 'The best.'

'And the friends of Libri di Luca… Are they Lectors?'

'Most of them, yes.'

Jon pictured the congregation in the chapel and tried to imagine them as a silent crowd of conspirators instead of the motley group that he had perceived. He shook his head.

'There's one thing that I don't understand,' he said. 'If it's all about being able to read… what is a dyslexic doing here?'

'Katherina?' said Iversen with a smile. 'She's a whole different story.'