Ajax Penumbra 1969 (Kindle Single) (3 page)

He comes hustling into the bookstore before noon; the overnight crowd has not yet gathered. A pair of tourists browses the
WHOLE EARTH
table, speaking to one another quietly in German, gesturing up toward the tall shelves.

Penumbra plants his palms on the wide desk. He is out of breath; cheeks flushed; shirt askew. He has come running from the library. Corvina regards him with a raised eyebrow and the rumor of a smile. “Welcome back.”

“I—
whew
. Oh, goodness.” He takes a gulp of air. “I have a map!”

Penumbra produces his treasure. It shows a city with two coastlines. One, the modern coast, is drawn smoothly; the other, older coast is a wandering dotted line. The old coast bites deep into downtown, flooding whole neighborhoods. Along the dotted line, there is a dusting of neat numerals, and in the map’s corner, there is a broad legend that matches numbers to names:
Cadmus
,
Canonicus
,
Euphemia
… the
Martha Watson
, the
Thomas Bennett
, the
Philip Hone
… and then, there it sits, along the angled cut of Market Street. There it rests, number 43, the
William Gray
, snuggled up against the dotted coast.

Corvina looks from the map to Penumbra; from Penumbra back to the map; up again. “You found this?”

“It was a simple matter once I knew—
whew
—where to look. And, I suppose,
why
to look.” Penumbra drags a finger down Market Street. “This is the path of the BART tunnel. They are digging straight past the ship, Marcus.”

Corvina nods once. “Take this to Mo.”

At the back of the store, there are three doors. The first is ajar, and inside, Penumbra sees the detritus of a small break room: a table, two chairs, a lunch box. The next door is shut tight, and two small brass letters label it the
WC
; below them, a sign scrawled in jagged capitals reserves it
FOR PAYING CUSTOMERS ONLY
. Finally, there is a third door, also marked with two brass letters—but these letters spell
MO
.

The door is open, and behind it, stairs rise steeply into darkness. Penumbra pokes his head through and calls out: “Hello?” There is no reply. He begins the climb. From above, a spicy smell wafts down and tickles his nose.

He emerges at the top into a sprawling space, the walls hung with tapestries, all of them densely embroidered, some with metallic threads that shine in the low golden light. They show dancers in pointed shoes, musicians clutching curling horns, scribes wielding feather pens as tall as themselves. If the room has windows, the tapestries cover them. Penumbra’s shoes thud quietly; the fabric muffles the sound and give the space an eerie sense of absorption. It feels a step removed from space and time.

“Mr. Al-Asmari?” Penumbra says tentatively.

There is a massive desk in the center of the room, twin to the one in the store below. On the desk, there sits a lamp, its light focused into a tight pool, and above the pool there floats a face, lit starkly from below.

“Mr. Penumbra,” the face intones. It is Mo, but here, he is transformed. His glasses reflect lunar ovals of lamplight; the eyes behind them are obscured. “How many times must I beg you? Call me Mo.”

“But you—”

“Please.”

“Of course. Mo.” It feels awkward on his lips. “I was just at the public library—I was doing some research, and—well, I found a map.”

“Maps are good. I like maps. Can I offer you some coffee? My special blend.” The spicy smell resolves: cardamom. There is a plume of steam rising from a pale cup on the desk, coiling up into the lamplight, glowing almost gold.

“Yes, please. Thank you.”

Mo pours fragrant coffee from a filigreed pot swaddled in a purple cloth—altogether, a very classy thermos—and clinks the cup down under the lamp. “Sit. Sip. Enjoy.”

Penumbra obeys. The coffee is very hot and very thick; it seems to coat his throat. He sees that Mo has been consulting a serious-looking book—clearly one of the volumes from the tall shelves. The pages are covered with Chinese characters.

Mo catches his gaze. “Ah! This is not the public library, Mr. Penumbra. These books are not for browsing.” He snaps the cover shut. “Although I should confess that I have been doing some research of my own.” He lifts the books to show Penumbra the spine. White letters, widely spaced, spell out
FANG
.

“Fang, as in the bookseller Fang?”

“Yes. The first of my predecessors. Mr. Friedrich would share that distinction, except of course that he sank his own ship and sent his partner
scrambling for a new home. Mr. Fang found this building—did I tell you that? And Friedrich has been … erased from our records.”

“What does Fang have to say there?” Penumbra asks, indicating the book.

Mo removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. “What indeed? Like many of—ah—his associates, Mr. Fang took pains to guard his memoir against casual inspection. The book is encrypted.”

“Encrypted!”

“It is simple enough, but to work in cipher
and
Chinese at the same time … ah.” Mo puts his glasses back into place on his nose. He regards Penumbra quietly. Then, he speaks: “This is not an ordinary bookstore.”

“Indeed. It seems more akin to a youth hostel—”

“No, no, not that,” Mo says, shaking his head; his glasses glint like searchlights. “They will go as quickly as they came … they are already going. Haven’t you heard, Mr. Penumbra? Their Summer of Love is fading.”

“No, I had not heard. But then—well. I did not come to San Francisco for the Summer of Love.”

“Of course, of course. Drugs, music, a new age dawning … and you came for an old book.”

Penumbra recoils, stung. But he sees that Mo is smiling: not with any kind of mockery, but with genuine warmth.

“Mr. Corvina also came to this city looking for a book,” Mo says. “He came from—where was it? San Diego, I believe. I do not think he intended to stay, but I offered him a post as my clerk, and, well. There he sits.”

“You have both been very helpful.”

“Yes, well. Mr. Corvina is quite engaged by your quest, you know. He told me we ought to help you however we can. I told him it was foolishness.”

Stung again. “I am sorry that you feel that way, Mr. Al-Asmari.”

This time, Mo suffers the honorific without complaint. “I have known people like you before, Mr. Penumbra. People with your gift.”

“Oh, if I have any skill at research, it is only—”

“No, no. Anyone can fuss in the archives. I am speaking of the willingness to entertain absurd ideas. It is a habit that is highly prized among … my peers.”

Penumbra is silent at that.

“I wish that I possessed it myself, but alas, I can only appreciate it.” Mo sips his coffee. “Well. I suppose I can do more than that. I can follow Mr. Corvina’s exhortation and find a way to assist you. Tell me about this map.”

Penumbra shows Mo what he’s discovered. Under the lamplight, he points to number 43, the
William Gray
, and to the BART tunnel’s intercept course.

Mo frowns. “Here, I must demonstrate my failing, Mr. Penumbra, and tell you the truth: it’s extremely unlikely that anything remains down there.”

“You are right,” Penumbra says, “and yet, the letter from San Francisco mentioned a ‘place of safekeeping.’ It is possible—not probable, I admit—but
possible
that the
Tycheon
was somehow protected.”

“There! Your gift. I would like nothing more than for you to be correct, and perhaps for other treasures to be preserved there, as well … you see? It is
mildly contagious.” He laces his fingers together and rests his chin there. “What do you need from me, Mr. Penumbra?”

“Well. I do not—ah. I know the ship’s location, and I know that the excavation suggests … the possibility of access. But, in truth—” He lets out a single great guffaw, laughing at his own foolishness. “—I have no idea what to do with this information!”

Mo’s face splits into a grin. “Oh, I know what to do, Mr. Penumbra. More coffee? Good—yes, I know exactly what to do.”

Mohammed Al-Asmari has a posse—or at least that’s how he makes it sound, conferring with Penumbra and Corvina down on the floor of the bookstore, across the bulk of the wide desk.

“The measure of a bookstore is not its receipts, but its friends,” he says, “and here, we are rich indeed.” Penumbra sees Corvina clench his jaw just slightly; he gets the sense that Mo’s clerk wishes they had some receipts, too.

“They reside in every part of this city,” Mo continues. “Every neighborhood, every social stratum. I assure you, someone will know someone … who knows someone … who is connected to this excavation.” He divvies up the labor: “I will make the calls. Mr. Corvina, you will do the legwork. But while you are occupied … someone must take your place here.” He swivels to look at Penumbra.

“Me?”

“Are we to be collaborators in this quest or not?”

“Well. I suppose—yes. I can watch the store.”

Corvina eyes Mo darkly. “Are you going to tell him the rules?”

“Of course.” Mo draws himself up straight. “Mr. Penumbra: Please make yourself at home here. Do whatever you must to prevent the store from being ransacked, burned down, or raided by the police. Sell a few books if you can. But do not, under any circumstances, browse, read, or otherwise inspect the shelved volumes.”

Penumbra peers up at the tall shelves. “They are off-limits entirely?”

“If you are called upon by a member to retrieve one, you may do so.”

“A member. I see. How does one
become
a member?”

Mo adjusts his glasses. “There is a way of progressing through this bookstore. Before one can become a member, one must be a customer. And—ah, wait.” He plays at recollecting: “Have you by chance … purchased a book yet, Mr. Penumbra?”

He smiles, shakes his head. “I have not.”

Mo smiles, too. “Then spend some time browsing, why don’t you? I recommend the poetry table. Have you read Brautigan? Oh, you must, you must.”

Penumbra takes Corvina’s place that night and presides over the clamor of the twenty-four-hour bookstore. He fears the long-haired throng will consider him even more hopelessly square than Corvina, but in fact, they seem to regard him as a novelty, and one by one, they wander over to chat. The customer named Coyote asks for help finding
Rosemary’s Baby
and then actually buys it. The woman with the portable radio inquires about Corvina, then reveals that the bushy-bearded duo orbiting the
CINEMA
table, George and Francis, are local filmmakers. Felix presents his now preposterously tattered copy of
Dune
and asks if he can trade it in for
The Drowned World
. Penumbra is not sure if that is part of Mo’s business model, but he says yes anyway.

Later, with the scrum at its swollen peak, a dark-eyed woman glances at Penumbra: once, twice. Then she crosses the store, a plume of smoke tracking her
progress, like a little steam engine. When she draws near, Penumbra can see that she is carrying a slender joint. She holds it out toward him.

“Want some, tiger?”

“Ah—no. In fact, I do not think … you see, there are books here.”

“Oh, I’m no book-burner.”

“It would presumably be an accident.”

“No such thing as accidents, tiger.” She takes a drag. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

“New? Ah, no. In point of fact, I am not truly here.” He means to say: I do not work here; I am just filling in. But it comes out strangely, and—

“That’s far out,” she says, nodding. “Maybe I’m not here either. Maybe you and me shouldn’t be here—together. Catch my drift?”

“I believe so, but I do not—”

“My pals are heading over to the Haight. Why don’t you boogie with us?”

“I cannot, ah, boogie. That is—I cannot leave my post. Another time, perhaps.”

She gives him a pitying smile. “Keep on trucking, then.” She sends another plume curling into the air and rejoins the crowd. Later, heading for the door, she casts one last glance in his direction, but Penumbra looks away.

Bright clear sunlight presses in through the front windows and gleams on bare floorboards; Al-Asmari’s 24-Hour Bookstore is, remarkably, empty. It is midday, and the longhairs are probably in the park, sprawled on the grass under the strange
light of the daystar. The store is stuffy and overheated, unequipped for this level of thermodynamic stress; Penumbra has propped the door open with a stack of
Slaughterhouse-Five
s.

He is watching the shop again, waiting for Corvina’s return. The clerk has found a member with a brother-in-law who does taxes for a construction company that manages one of the BART worksites. He is schmoozing the accountant over beers at the House of Shields.

Penumbra is halfway through
The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test;
he feels like he understands the overnight crowd better with every page. The Merry Pranksters have just encountered a group of Hells Angels when a throat is cleared, delicately. Penumbra snaps his head up, startled. Before him, several steps back from the desk, stands a young woman in a green corduroys.

“Can I—ah.” Penumbra sets his book aside. “Can I help you?”

The woman seems to be evaluating him. Penumbra is not sure how long she has been standing there. She is clutching a huge dark-bound book close to her chest.

“You’re new,” she says at last.

“I am not actually—ah.” He gives in. “Yes. I suppose I am new.”

“I can come back later.”

“No, no. I can help you.”

She takes two swift steps forward, drops the book onto the desk with a heavy
whump
, then retreats two steps back. “I’m done with that one.”

Penumbra tips the book up, looks at the spine. It is one of the volumes from the tall shelves.

“Of course,” he says. “So. How, er—was it?”

She is silent a moment, and he thinks she might be about to flee out the front door, but then her cool countenance cracks a little, as if she can’t quite contain herself, and in a rush, she says: “It was pretty interesting. Not as hard as I thought it would be, from the way he talked about it. Mo, I mean. It was just a homophonic substitution cipher.” She pauses. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you that.”

Penumbra has no idea what she is talking about. Or what he is supposed to do now. An uncomfortable silence spreads between them.

“Anyway,” she says at last. “The next one in the sequence is … wait.” She digs in her pocket, pulls out a wrinkled piece of paper. It is covered on both sides with letters scratched out and rewritten, blanks erased and filled in, like a game of Hangman gone wrong. She reads across and down, mouthing the letters. Then she refolds the paper, stuffs it back into her pocket, and announces: “Kingslake.”

“Kingslake,” Penumbra repeats. He finds the oblong ledger that Corvina consulted on his first visit—the catalog. The entries are handwritten; many are annotated, and some are crossed out. He finds
KAEL, KANE (SEE ALSO: CAIN),
KEANE
, KIM, KING
, and then,
KINGSLAKE
. The catalog specifies coordinates.

“Three … twenty-three,” Penumbra reads. “Three twenty-three. Wait here, please.”

He pads back toward the tall shelves, where he finds numbered brass plaques set low, at approximately Al-Asmari-level. He follows them down to III and rolls the ladder into place, fumbling with the locking brace at the bottom.

Then he climbs. It turns out that shelf XXIII is very far from the ground. The Galvanic library has no ladders; there, they keep the books, sensibly, on many separate floors. Penumbra grips the rungs tightly and takes slow, careful steps—past V, past X, past XV and XX.

At this height, he can see the ceiling—can confirm that there is, in fact, a ceiling, not just an infinity of dark shelving. He tips his head back to get a better look. There is an image up there, a mural that covers the whole area, looking a bit like a Renaissance fresco. Piece by piece, he assembles the scene: climbers in cloaks on a steep rocky trail. Dark clouds above them, and lightning that runs like a crack through the paint. Their expressions show wide eyes and gritted teeth, but their arms are outstretched, and they clasp hands. The climbers are pulling each other along.

He lowers his gaze to find shelf XXIII and there he spies his quarry: it is as thick as a dictionary, with
KINGSLAKE
printed on the spine. He hooks an elbow around the ladder, then unclamps his other hand and sends it searching after the book, his longest finger stretching to reach it, wiggling in air, just catching the spine once, twice, tipping it forward, until it starts to slide under its own weight, and he knows he needs to grab it, except that he is suddenly very aware of its mass, and he is afraid that if he attaches himself to this heavy object, it might overburden him, might pull him—

The book falls.

He has time to register his carelessness, and even consider how else he might have approached this challenge, as he watches it plunge down past twenty-two lower shelves, spinning end over end, fluttering just slightly—and fall into the outstretched arms of Marcus Corvina.

Down on the floor, the young woman has a look of horror—perhaps potential co-culpability?—rising in her eyes. She accepts the book from Corvina, whispers a quiet thank-you, and darts for the door. The clerk opens the wide leather-bound book on the desk and begins to scribble there.

Penumbra approaches gingerly. “I am sorry, Marcus,” he ventures. “I should not have—”

Corvina looks up. He is smiling—only the second time Penumbra has seen that expression on his face. “I’ve dropped three books and never breathed a word to Mo. As far as I’m concerned … I didn’t see a thing.”

Penumbra nods. “Thank you.”

Corvina finishes scribbling, closes the leather-bound book, then taps it meaningfully. “It’s people like Evelyn Erdos who are the real customers, you know.”

“The real customers.”

“Yes. The real
readers
.” The smile has faded. “If I ran this store, I’d make it members only. I certainly wouldn’t waste any more time with the public.” He almost spits it:
public
.

Penumbra pauses, considering. Then he says: “Marcus … if this store were not open to the public, I would not be here now.”

Corvina furrows his brow and nods once. But he seems unswayed.

The clerk’s schmoozing has been fruitful. The member’s brother-in-law’s client, Frank Lapin, manages one of the BART worksites, and he is amenable to their undertaking; in other words, he will happily accept a bribe to look the other way while they explore the excavation.

Corvina delivers the news glumly.

“But this is a positive development, isn’t it?” Penumbra asks.

“He wants two thousand dollars,” Corvina explains. “I wish I could tell you otherwise, but we don’t have that kind of money.” He looks around the store with a sour expression. “As you might have noticed, we don’t sell many books here. A foundation in New York pays the rent … but that’s about it.”

“Do not despair yet, Marcus,” Penumbra says. “There is another benefactor we can call upon.”

Penumbra dials Langston Armitage from a pay phone on Montgomery Street. He explains what he has learned. He describes the city, the ship, the map. He tells him about the bookstore.

Armitage is wary. “Who is this bookseller?” he croaks. “Some purveyor of pulp?”

“No, no,” Penumbra says. “Mohammed Al-Asmari is anything but that. I have visited every bookstore in this city, and many beyond, and this one … this man … they are unique.”

“But he’s still just a bookseller, my boy. Commercial. Not academic. Not intellectual. All he cares about, at the end of the day, is selling books.”

Penumbra barks a laugh. “I am not so sure about that.”

“What keeps the lights on, then?” Armitage challenges. “It’s a business, my boy.”

“I would say this establishment occupies a … gray area, sir.”

“Playing in the shadows, are we, Penumbra? Ah. There is a precedent. Did I ever tell you about the time Beacham got himself hired by the publisher in Hungary, just to get at their secret archives?”

“No, sir.”

“Well. We found him floating facedown in the Danube, but no matter.”

Penumbra explains to his employer that, if they want access to the remains of the
William Gray
, it will come at considerable cost.

“And to be very clear, sir,” he says, “the ship is likely little more than a compressed layer of rotten wood at this point. I still think it is worth trying, but … there is no guarantee that the
Tycheon
has been preserved in any form.”

“Well, you know our saying: ‘It’s not over until you hold the book’s ashes in your hands, weeping at the years you’ve lost.’”

“I did not know we had that saying, sir.”

“I’ll wire you the money, my boy. Bring us a book!”