The Infinite Library (26 page)

“Well, if the Library is real, perhaps that would indeed explain what puzzles me, if not also deepening the mystery. You say you've... been in it? An infinite library? This runs completely against anything scientific. Are you sure?”

“I cannot be entirely sure, but if it isn't, then there are some very curious people that are doing all they can to prevent others from finding out more except by the dribble of the occasional clues. Perhaps designed to be a game, to lead some of us on.”

“I am lumbering toward the conclusion that this Calembour I mention in my draft may be at the heart of our mystery. I have many reasons to believe that if we can locate him, we can at least determine the reason and nature of the correspondence I have witnessed in the library.”

“I doubt it. It's just another false lead,” I said, having the effect of dampening Pickman.

“I still don't think we should dismiss this Calembour out of hand. How do you know that your Castellman -”

“Castellemare.”

“Yes, pardon me, Castellemare... how do you know he isn't the false lead.”

“Because I have met him. He was my employer.”

“And no more? Still, that is no invincible proof. He could be Calembour himself and just taking on a different name. In my research, I found that he did take on alter egos. I mean, I wouldn't have the ability to confirm or deny that this man was Calembour even if I met this Castellemare. I haven't ever seen either of them, if they are one or two people.”

“Your description of Calembour and his antics does not match that of Castellemare.”

“Who is he?”

“The Librarian. A very unhelpful one. I had been hired to reacquire books that slipped from his Library until I got ballsy and took a few of them without asking. I am not a thief by nature, you have to understand, but I was driven by the pursuit of knowledge. Castellemare was not answering my questions. I took initiative.”

“Do you suppose that these messages I intercept are written by him or his agents?”

“They could be slips.”

“From the Library?”

“Or perhaps a means for his agents to communicate with one another in this world. There are too many question marks. Right now, I am reading one of those stolen books. It mentions me in an alternate world, as well as a few others. My next task will be to see if the other main characters are in this world, too. The book is frustrating because it is so poorly written and only multiplies questions and riddles. But maybe if I contact the people it names, I might gain access to more context.”

I was about to detail more about the book itself when our voices were overpowered by singing waiters at our table, already launching into song. The birthday song. Pickman was as confused as I was. Surely this was a mistake.

“...Haaaappy biiiiirthdaaaaay, deeeear Gi-maaaaaal-deeeee, haaaaappy biiiiirthdaaaaay toooo youuuuuuuuuuuuu!!!”

There was applause while amused patrons turned around in their chairs to see who was being feted in song by the entire staff of the restaurant. An enormous, hideous cake was placed in front of me, and the manager implored me with his face that I should blow out the candles. What could I do? Instead of protest, I blew out the candles. My birthday was not for another month.

“I had no idea!” beamed Pickman.

And neither did I.

“It isn't my birthday,” I told Pickman as the staff dribbled back into their duties.

“It isn't?”

“Who picked the restaurant? You did. So unless you arranged this...”

“How could I have known if it was your birthday or not? We haven't been out of sight of one another since I arrived. I certainly didn't tip anyone off, nor did I see you do it. Unless you did?”

I shook my head. “As far as I know, nobody knows I am here in this restaurant with you unless I am being tailed, and this is some kind of joke.”

“Well,” Pickman shrugged. “Maybe. But, you now have cake, so it was a sweet joke, it seems.”

I was meant to laugh. My failure to do so conveyed to Pickman that I found this very disturbing, not harmless and risible. My head whipped around in search of I know not what. Just as I was meaning to ask my waiter who arranged this, he came to the table.

“This came for you, sir,” he said, handing me one of those awful drugstore birthday cards with a cartoon sturgeon in a Sherlock Holmes' hat, bubble letters reading SOMETHING FISHY ABOUT THIS, BIRTHDAY BOY! LET'S GET TO THE BOTTOM OF IT AND SEA!

With the card loosely in hand, I snagged the waiter before he vanished with, “who arranged this... birthday business?”

“I am sorry, sir, but I do not know. I will go ask my manager.”

I opened the card, and just as Pickman was about to offer something, I waved him silent. Inside was a handwritten inscription: “well, felications on this grand occasion of your b-day, old chum! Don't get too wild – de punch is spiked!”

The words took a few moments to settle until I looked at my three-quarters consumed scotch. And then I knew.

There was no time to explain to Pickman let alone swear; I stumbled from the table in a hobbling dash to the bathroom where I was sick everywhere. And it wouldn't stop. Between harsh retching, I could see the restaurant staff moving around, hear voices, and I was eventually wheeled into an ambulance.

And then black.

The clock in the hallway from my bed said 4:35. The window in the beds bay showed that it was still dark. Four in the morning. No sign of Pickman. A nurse doing her rounds came twelve minutes later and told me that I was violently ill. I was also told that my friend had saved me some of the cake which the hospital staff thought it wiser to throw out. The nurse thought me odd to ask for a description of my friend, but she asked the charge nurse who was on duty when I arrived. The news came back and it sounded like Pickman.

“The doctor says you suffered a serious allergic reaction, most likely to something you ate. Do you have any known food allergies, Mr Gimaldi?”

“Just to seafood, but I usually break out in a rash.”

“Good thing it wasn't anaphylactic shock,” she said. “The doctor will be back in a few hours. Try to get some rest.”

And then she was gone. By eight that morning, the doctor – a bald, smiling bubble with a goatee – swished his way in to see me.

“Aaaah, Mr Gimaldi, are we feeling any better?”

“Throat's a bit raw and my guts are a bit uneven, but better than I was at the restaurant.”

“Completely natural,” he beamed, saying 'natural' with emollience. “The nurse tells me that you have a food allergy.”

“Yes, but I didn't eat seafood.”

“We-e-ell, when we have allergies and know about them, we rarely go out of our way to put them in our mouth. Ha. Ha. The most common reason is accidental, such as food coming in contact with another food that can induce allergic reaction. When you were brought in, you were half conscious, and most likely didn't realize you had broken out in a rash. True sign of allergic reaction. Are you sure you aren't allergic to anything else, Mr Gimaldi?”

“Positive.”

“We-e-ell, you seem to be out of the danger zone, so I think you'll be able to go home.”

Once discharged, I had to locate Pickman and make my apologies – but, more importantly, continue the conversation we were having before I was poisoned. There was no doubt that I was. Whoever sent that cake and card, and had my drink spiked with what was probably a squirt of clam juice, knew my weakness. I had never told anyone about my allergy, simply making a berth of any seafood that ever sat fish-eyed, lobster-clawed, or clam-shelled on any buffet spread. “Something fishy” indeed. A very poor taste of joke, and quite possibly an attempt on my life. But why the birthday nonsense?

The hotel clerk rang for Pickman who came down a look of concern I wanted to scrape off his face. I knew what would follow.

“Are you all right, Dr Gimaldi? That was quite the scare. At first you seemed fine, and suddenly you are rushing for the bathroom, and not long after the ambulance arrives. Was it food poisoning?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“No worries about the bill – I paid it,” he smiled. I wasn't worried in the first place.

“Should I reimburse you?”

“Oh, no, not at all. It was my design to pay for our meal, and as luck would have it, we didn't have to fight over the privilege of doing so!” Conscious of his poor choice of words, he quickly added, “Well, not that I would call what you suffered luck.”

“No worries. Should we continue our discussion?”

“Oh, yes, most definitely! You were coming to a rather fascinating part of your story, but it seems that I've been called away. I was just on my way out, actually, when the front desk told me you were here. Funniest thing happened last night... Well, not funny as such, but when I was back here at the hotel, I decided to check my email on one of those convenient guest terminals, and someone contacted me out of the blazing blue and asked me if I would like to examine some of his rare Calembour editions with – get this – some very curious notes inside. Well, this fellow just happens to be about an hour's drive from here, so you can imagine my good luck!”

“How do strangers know of your interest in Calembour?”

At this, Pickman spoke as if he had committed a sin. “I know I held you to strict confidence over the text I sent you, but I just could not contain my enthusiasm, least of all wait the long while to develop it, send it, and finally see it published in a journal two years from now. So, I figured what was the harm of putting it up on my personal blog?”

“Why would you do that?” I asked as if he were the stupidest man alive. “I mean, you are trying to sleuth these people out, and then you go broadcast it on the bloody internet, thereby ruining any chance of discovering who they are.”

“The real mysterious portions of my research in this matter have remained unpublished, and even unseen by you,” he sniffed. “I
had
planned on divulging these details in our conversation.”

“And who was it that asked you out of the 'blazing blue' to come and see his rare Calembour books?”

“He said his name was Thomas, and he alluded to having some pertinent information on what I'm looking for, some answers to this riddle. So, you can well understand that I cannot pass that up.”

“Fine, you go and see what this Thomas is all about and solve your riddles. I just think that last night's uncanny episode should perhaps make you wonder.”

“About? About what? You had some form of food poisoning, I imagine. I hardly think that is anything sinister. It happens sometimes, and it just coincidentally occurred last night.”

“Someone is playing a joke on me, Dr Pickman. Why else would there be a birthday fiasco plus card? The card even said that I was being poisoned! Someone is making an attempt on me and driving really hard to keep us apart. Now, with you being seduced away by some stranger who alleges to have something interesting for you, you're taking off.”

“I'll be back later this evening,” he protested.

“More likely that you will be detained by some contrivance or another. Either your contact will load you with books he will not lend you, committing you to stay until you have to go back home, or some other development.”

“If anything of the sort happens, Dr Gimaldi, and barring any circumstances like our untimely deaths, I am quite sure we will be able to pick up where we left off.”

“Looked like someone tried to settle my hash last night.”

“Well, I think you are overreacting. But if I am wrong, then I think it may be the safest thing for us to do right now to stay apart, especially if someone is determined to keep us separate and willing to resort to poisoning to bring that about.”

There was nothing more to be done about it. We made our polite farewells and I went back to my apartment with my heavy suspicion cloud in tow.

Who was this Thomas Dr Pickman was off to see? Did I know any Thomases? My first search through my memory came up with nothing – only when I let it sit and boil there for a while did a faint memory coincide with my question and come up with the most likely answer. There was very little doubt that this “Thomas” was responsible for my being poisoned the night before, the birthday card and all. His was an absurd humour so characteristically his, and it was the only person I tended to suspect the most for frustrating my efforts. There, tucking out from the clutter on my desk amidst boarding passes and unpaid bills was that business card: Tho. VON Castellemare.