The Library of Shadows (4 page)

Jon now opened the file in front of him and scanned the first couple of pages. They comprised his predecessor's attempts to summarize the case, but Jon knew that he wasn't going to get out of ploughing his way through the many thousands of pages of material guarded by Clever Smurf.

Only a few moments after Jon had started working his way through the minutes from court meetings and hearings, the man with the bottle of stout began shifting about and uttering grunts of dissatisfaction. Jon glanced up, and their eyes met. This was clearly not the first stout the man had had; his eyes were bloodshot and bleary.

Jon looked away, took a gulp of his beer and returned to his reading.

'Hey, do you think this is some sort of reading room?'

Surprised, Jon glanced up at the man with the stout. With a jab of his index finger, his neighbour made it clear it was Jon he was talking to.

'I said, do you think this is some sort of reading room?'

'No, of course not,' Jon replied, flustered. 'But surely I'm not bothering anybody as long as I don't read aloud, am I?' Jon gave him a friendly smile.

'That's exactly what you're doing.' The man now jabbed his finger at the table. 'Reading can be very bothersome, even downright dangerous.' He reached for his beer but stopped in mid-motion. 'And not just for those who do the reading, but for everyone in the vicinity ... passive reading is no joke!'

The man with the stout finally took a gulp of his beer. Unable to work out what reply would satisfy him, Jon did the same.

'Just imagine if everyone around you started recklessly reading,' the man went on after slamming the bottle down on the table. 'All the formulated words and sentences would fly around in the air like snowflakes in a blizzard.' The man held his hands up in front of him and began making a series of circling motions. 'They would get all mixed up with each other, stick together in incomprehensible phrases, then split up and reconnect in completely new words and passages, which would drive you crazy if you tried to find some meaning and sense where no meaning exists.'

'I've never experienced anything like that,' Jon ventured.

'Ha! That's because you're not listening, not properly anyway. But once you've learned to listen, you're lost. Then you have to live with the voices of the books for the rest of your life, whether you want to or not. You have no choice. The most beautiful poems, thrillers or whatever trash you happen to be sitting with, they'll all muscle their way in and poison the air around you.' The man sniggered and drank more of his stout.

Jon pointed at the file in front of him. 'Do you mean to say that this is speaking to you right now?'

The man laughed scornfully. 'Texts without a reader can't speak. A reader is required, but then they certainly do speak. They sing, they whisper, they even scream.' He leaned across the table with a lurch that threatened to topple his bottle of stout. 'Imagine a reading room,' he said, pausing to allow the image to sink in. 'A whole cheering section can come out of a place like that. Bloody awful.' He slumped back in his chair and scowled at Jon with his red eyes.

'But you don't hear any voice in here?' asked Jon.

The man ignored the sarcasm and threw out his hands. 'This is my sanctuary. Not many readers in here, you see.' He picked up the bottle and aimed the top at Jon. 'Until you turned up, of course,' he added and put the bottle to his lips.

'I'm sorry about that,' said Jon.

'Sheesh. You don't understand a thing, do you?' snarled the man and stood up, still holding the bottle. 'Go ahead and read whatever you like.' He swayed a bit before he got his body moving. 'But your father understood.'

Astonished, Jon watched the man as he set his bottle down hard on the bar and staggered out of the door.

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 Hillerød 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 on
books.
'

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.