The Library of Shadows

6

Which one should he choose?

Jon walked along the shelves in the basement, looking for a book to use in the demonstration. He could choose any volume he liked, Iversen had said, like a magician challenging a spectator to pull a card at random from the deck. As Jon understood it, the plan was for him to read an excerpt from the book while Katherina tried to influence his perception of the text to such a degree that he would have no doubts that such a thing was possible.

As Iversen had explained, Katherina was a receiver, which meant that she was able to hear and to a certain extent see what other people were reading. What seemed even more unbelievable was that she was capable of accentuating the reader's experience of the text at will. In this way her abilities resembled those he himself possessed, according to Iversen, but whereas he should present a text in order to charge it, Katherina was able to affect the reader directly, even if that person was reading silently to himself.

Iversen had seemed very convincing, but when he had hinted at outright mind-reading as a consequence of Katherina's talents, Jon had demanded proof. The fact that the old man had immediately agreed to his request planted a seed of concern in Jon's mind. If there really was something to these abilities, he wasn't sure he cared to have other people rummaging about in his brain as he read.

The way Katherina entered the library hadn't made the situation any better. She emanated neither the flamboyant style of a magician nor the secretiveness of a mystic – it seemed more as if she were a bit embarrassed to be there, and she hardly gave him a glance as she sat down in one of the leather chairs with her hands in her lap. Even so, Jon felt that he was being observed, not only by the two other people present but by the walls of books, which seemed to be studying him with bated breath.

'Can I get one from the shop?' asked Jon, pointing towards the ceiling.

'Of course,' replied Iversen. 'Take your time.'

Jon left the room and went upstairs to the bookshop. Iversen had locked the door and turned off the lights so that only the glow from the street lamps outside lit up the room. Jon let his eyes adjust to the dimness and then walked up and down the aisles at random. Every once in a while he stopped to pull out a book, which he studied but then quickly rejected, putting it back in its place. Finally he realized that it didn't make any difference what book he chose, because how was he to know what was a suitable text for this sort of test? He closed his eyes and let his fingers run along the spines of the books in front of him until he stopped at random on a volume, which he pulled from the shelf. With his trophy in hand, he returned to the reading room in the basement.

'Fahrenheit 451,' said Iversen, nodding in acknowledgement. 'Bradbury. A brilliant choice, Jon.'

'Science fiction, right?'

'Yes, but the genre is of no importance. Are you ready?'

'As ready as I'll ever be.'

'What about you, Katherina?' Iversen asked, turning to look at the redhead who was sitting motionless in the leather chair. She raised her eyes and inspected Jon. Meditatively she rubbed her index finger over her chin before she again placed her hands in her lap and nodded.

'All right,' said Iversen, clapping his hands together. 'You'd better sit down, Jon.'

'And I'm just supposed to read to myself?'

'Correct,' replied Iversen, gesturing towards a chair. 'Go ahead and begin, and don't worry. She'll take good care of you.'

Jon sat down on the chair across from Katherina. She nodded, as if giving the signal to start, and instinctively Jon nodded in return and then turned his eyes to the book.

It had once been an ordinary paperback edition, but the owner had laminated the front cover and reinforced the spine and back with cardboard and leather. The edges of the paper were yellowed and slightly frayed from wear, so the book bulged a bit as it lay on his knees.

Before he opened the book, Jon cast one last glance at Katherina sitting opposite him. She was sitting erect with her hands in her lap and her eyes closed.

Then Jon began to read.

At first he proceeded very slowly. He read cautiously, on the alert to see whether he noticed anything unusual. That was how he read a couple of pages, without really taking in what it said, but all of a sudden it felt as if the text seized hold of him, and he read more freely and fluidly as the story sank unhindered into his consciousness.

The main character in the book, Montag, was apparently a fireman, but a fireman who started fires instead of putting them out. His job was to burn books, which were regarded as dangerous in his society. One day on his way home from work he runs into a girl who tags along with him as he walks. The description of the girl was incredibly vivid and Jon could picture her in his mind, lithe, smiling, flirty and spontaneous. His heart started beating faster, and his mouth went dry. This girl was amazing. He couldn't wait to read more about her, he had to find out where she came from and what role she played in the story. She appeared so clearly to him he could almost feel her at his side, walking along with fluttering red hair, her steps light as a feather, on the way to Montag's house, and he was already starting to miss her, to fear the emptiness when she would leave him there on the doorstep to his home.

The description was so convincing that Jon wanted to glance to the side to get a closer look at the girl, but his eyes no longer obeyed him. They refused to leave the page and carried on wandering through the text towards the leave-taking with the girl. In despair, Jon tried to stop reading or at least to slow the pace, but the story moved inexorably forward before his eyes. He noticed that sweat had begun to appear on his forehead and his pulse was elevated.

In the story Montag and the girl reached the fireman's house, where they stood and conversed on the doorstep, calmly, lingering, as if they were stretching out the time, for the sake of delighting or tormenting Jon. He felt an incredible warmth for this girl, as if he had always known her and loved her. Finally Montag said goodbye to the girl, and Jon suppressed a fierce desire to call out to her, to entice her back into the text, which now seemed banal and impoverished. He noticed that his eyes were moist, but at the same time he realized that once again he was able to control them, and he immediately took the opportunity to stop reading.

As he glanced up, Katherina at the same time slowly opened her eyes, but she avoided looking directly at him. He noticed that her eyes were red-rimmed. Jon shifted his gaze to Iversen, who stared back expectantly.

'Well?'

Jon glanced down at the book. It looked like any other book, a stack of pages with letters and words, without a hint of the life and wealth of colours he had just experienced. He closed the book and turned it in his hands, examining it.

'How did you two do that?' he asked at last.

Iversen broke out in a laugh. 'Isn't it amazing? I'm just as impressed every time.'

Jon nodded absentmindedly. 'And you could hear me reading?' he asked, turning his gaze on Katherina.

She blushed and nodded almost imperceptibly.

'Except,' said Iversen, raising his index finger, 'it wasn't your voice she heard. Or her own either, or even the author's, for that matter. That's the most incredible thing about it. Apparently every book has its own unique voice.' He stared with obvious envy at the red-haired woman. 'It's like communicating with the book itself – with its soul.'

'The fantasy of all bibliophiles.'

'Er, well, yes,' said Iversen, smiling with embarrassment. 'I suppose I was rather overcome by the mood. Sometimes I forget that there are significant costs associated with being a receiver. Costs you and I can't even imagine.'

Jon happened to think about the man drinking stout he'd met in the Clean Glass pub after Luca's funeral. At the time he'd written him off as a wino, a drunk spouting nonsense about readers and texts that sang and shouted. Yet the man's words were now adding credence to Iversen's explanation.

'Okay,' said Jon, setting the book on the table. 'Let's say I believe your explanation that Lectors exist and that you can manipulate my thoughts and feelings through a book.' He threw out his hands. 'So what do you expect from me?'

'Who says we want anything to do with you?' said a voice from the door.

All three of them turned towards the new arrival. In the doorway stood a thin young man about twenty years old, wearing a tight T-shirt and a pair of baggy, army-green trousers. He had a narrow face with a goatee, but otherwise he was bald and as pale as flour. His burning dark eyes were fixed on Jon.

'Hi, Pau,' said Iversen. 'Come in and say hello to our guest.'

The young man came into the room and took up position behind Katherina's chair with his hands on his hips. 'Guest?'

'It's okay,' said Iversen soothingly. 'This is Jon. Luca's son.'

'I know that. I saw him at the funeral,' replied Pau. 'The guy wants to sell Libri di Luca. You said as much yourself, Svend.'

Iversen cast an embarrassed glance at Jon, who seemed unaffected by the scene.

'I said there was a risk of that. We don't know for sure, Pau,' said Iversen. 'That's why we're here.'

'So what's going to happen?'

'We were just about to explain everything to Jon when you arrived,' replied Iversen.

'How much?'

'Everything.'

Pau stared first at Iversen and then at Jon. His jaw muscles tightened and his eyes narrowed.

'Could I talk to you for a moment, Svend?' asked Pau, motioning with his head towards the door. 'You too, Kat.'

Jon noticed that Katherina briefly rolled her eyes before she cast an enquiring glance at Iversen. The old man nodded.

'As you wish, Pau. Go upstairs, and I'll be there in a minute.'

The young man marched out of the door, and Katherina slowly followed.

'You'll have to bear with him,' said Iversen when the other two had left the room. 'We literally picked Pau up off the street, where he was making a living by using his powers as a Lector. Luca found him on Strшget reading poems to passers-by, and very successfully too. A lot of people stopped to listen, and most of them tossed coins into the cigar box he had at his feet. Luca recognized him for what he was. Experienced transmitters can sense when other transmitters charge a text, and Pau made no effort to hide what he was doing.' Iversen leaned forward in his chair. 'As you may have guessed, Jon, we have plenty of reasons for concealing our abilities. We can't risk having a young fellow like Pau compromising us, just because he doesn't understand what he's dealing with.' He paused. 'Luca took him under his wing, and for the past six months Pau has been part of the bookshop. We've developed quite a fondness for the lad, and vice versa, even though he may not admit it. And, as you can see, he has a real passion for the place.'

'And he thinks that I'm going to take it away from him?' asked Jon.

'A great deal has already been taken away from him,' said Iversen. 'Often enough that I suppose he has come to expect it.'

Jon nodded pensively.

'Well, I'd better…' Iversen pointed towards the door, then got up and left the room. Jon could hear his footsteps move along the hallway and up the creaking stairs. Then everything was quiet.

Left alone, he stood up and studied the books lining the shelves. There weren't many titles he recognized, and besides, the truly old volumes were in Latin or Greek, which he couldn't read. Of course there were also numerous works in Italian, and even though Jon hadn't used his Italian in years, he was able to read some of the words.

In many cases the titles on the spines were artfully executed, in Gothic script or with little illustrations, and at times he struggled to decipher what it said. A few books had no spine at all; rather, they were a collection of yellowed pages held together with cords made of leather or bast. Others had metal fittings on the spine and on the corners of the cover; still others had covers made of veneer on which the title and ornamentation had been burned into the wood.

After a while the letters began flickering before Jon's eyes, and he sat down in one of the soft leather chairs to survey the room. It wasn't hard to imagine that it had taken generations to compile this collection – a task that had started in Italy and had accompanied the Campelli family through Europe to Denmark. For a moment he pictured the scene in his mind: a little family pushing a cart loaded down with books and a great secret. Jon leaned his head back and covered his face with both hands.

He'd been very stressed lately. The Remer case was taking all his waking hours, and the number of files he was lugging back and forth between his flat and the firm was getting greater and greater. His home had become an extension of his office, and he had no time to sit on his roof terrace or prepare proper meals in his brand-new kitchen. Most often he picked up food from one of the nearby fast-food restaurants or else he ate pre-packaged meals that he cooked in the microwave.

Jon moved his hands to the sides of his face, pressing his index and middle fingers against his temples, massaging his skull in circular motions. He inhaled slowly, taking in deep breaths, noticing how his pulse slowed and his body felt heavy.

Luca's death couldn't have happened at a worse time.

He removed his hands from his face and lowered his arms to the armrests of the chair. With his eyes still closed, he continued to breathe calmly. His chest rose and fell in time with his breath, and he could hear the air leaving his lungs and then being drawn in once again.

But there was something else.

When he listened closely, he could hear a faint, rushing sound. A quiet whispering, almost inaudible, seemed to have seeped into the room, and very slowly the sound grew in strength, as if it were coming closer or simply getting louder. Jon concentrated hard but couldn't make out what was being said or whether they were male or female voices, because there was definitely more than one. Like a low murmur from an entire crowd. The sound seemed so faint and weak that he had to hold his breath to pinpoint where it was coming from, but as soon as he sensed that the sound was coming from a particular direction, it would move. His heart began pounding harder and he gasped for air, only to hold his breath once again to listen.

In an attempt to increase his concentration, he clenched his fists and closed his eyes even tighter.

All of a sudden pictures exploded before his eyes, abstract forms and colours mixed with landscapes and scenes of fighting armies of knights, pirates and American Indians. Underwater pictures of sea monsters, divers and submarines were succeeded by desolate moonscapes and deserts, followed in turn by ice-covered plains, rolling ships' decks – all of it flickering past at breakneck speed, like a turbo-charged slide show. Rain-soaked streets paved with cobblestones were replaced by sun-baked arenas with sweating gladiators, followed in turn by buildings from which huge flames stretched up towards a brilliantly yellow full moon. The full moon then became the eye of an enormous dragon, whose trembling eyelid closed and became a school of tiny fish, which was at once swallowed by a killer whale, which was promptly harpooned by a weather-beaten sailor wearing yellow overalls.

All these impressions, along with hundreds of others that moved too fast to take in, bombarded Jon in the space of time it took for him to open his eyes wide. He jumped up, gasping for air. Unsteady on his feet, he tottered forward until he came in contact with the back of a chair. A violent nausea surged up inside him, and he was hyperventilating, his fingers tingling. Overwhelmed by dizziness, he sank to his knees and leaned forward until he was down on all fours with his eyes focused on the carpet.

After a couple of minutes of gasping for breath and even trying not to blink, Jon slowly straightened up. His face was covered with sweat; he wiped it off with the back of his hand before he cautiously got to his feet. His legs trembled slightly beneath him as he took the first steps towards the nearest bookshelf. From there he worked his way over to the door, the whole time keeping a firm grip on the shelves. The hall from the door to the stairs seemed much longer than before, and it seemed he was walking for an eternity before he reached the bottom step. He practically hauled himself up the spiral staircase, hand over hand along the banister, the steps responding with an ominous creaking under his weight.

When he reached the room above he could hear voices coming from the front of the shop. Unable to make out what they were saying, he headed in that direction, keeping one hand resting on the bookshelves. At the end of the aisle he hesitantly stepped out into the room, no longer having anything solid to hold on to, and as he did, the voices fell silent. Pau was sitting in the armchair behind the counter with his arms crossed. Katherina was sitting on top of the counter dangling her legs and Iversen was standing in front of the cash register with his back turned.

Iversen turned to face Jon and said something to him. His concerned voice followed Jon as he went over to the door and yanked it open with a violent tug.

Outside he greedily breathed in the cold evening air, but he didn't stop until he reached a street light that he could hold on to. The cold metal felt particularly reassuring.

'Jon, can you hear me?'

Iversen's voice finally reached Jon, who nodded slowly, as if in a trance.

'Are you okay?'

'Dizzy,' Jon managed to stammer.

'Come back inside,' Iversen said earnestly. 'You can sit down.'

Jon shook his head violently.

'Thanks,' Jon groaned.

'How about some water?' said Katherina, handing him a cup.

Reluctantly Jon removed one hand from the street light and reached for the cup, emptying it in one gulp.

'Thanks.'

'I'll get some more,' said Katherina, taking the cup from him and disappearing.

Iversen placed his hand on Jon's shoulder. 'What happened in there, Jon?' he asked with concern.

Jon took in a couple of deep breaths. The water and the fresh air had done their job and he was already feeling better.

'Stress,' he replied, looking at the ground. 'It's just stress.'

Iversen studied him. 'As if that makes it any better,' he said, annoyed. 'Come back inside where you can rest.'

'No,' exclaimed Jon. 'I mean, no thanks, Iversen.' He raised his head and looked into the old man's eyes. They were shining with both worry and suspicion. 'The only thing I need right now is to go home and get some sleep.'

Katherina returned with more water, and he drank half of it under the scrutiny of the two others. With a nod of thanks he handed the cup back.

'I think I left my jacket inside,' said Jon, patting his pockets.

'You're not thinking of driving in this condition, are you?' asked Iversen.

'It's okay. I'm already feeling a lot better,' replied Jon, mustering a smile. 'But if one of you wouldn't mind fetching my jacket?'

Katherina left them and a moment later returned with his jacket.

'We still have a lot to talk about,' said Iversen as Jon got into his car.

Jon nodded. 'I'll be back in a couple of days. You've given me something to think about, that's for sure.'

'Take care of yourself, Jon.'

He started the car and waved goodbye as he drove off. The dizziness was gone, but he was overcome with an exhaustion he'd never felt before. He was used to long work-days, but this fatigue seemed to have settled in all the cells of his body.

He had tossed his jacket onto the passenger seat, but out of the corner of his eye he noticed a bulge in one of the pockets. At the first red light, he pulled out what was inside the pocket.

It was a book.Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury.