13
Frontmatter
“How quickly can you scan spines?” I asked.
“Really, I can go on with all the door-crashing and beard-kicking, thoroughly unabated in my zeal to champion just causes, so I think I can manage a little spine-reading. It'll be like divination, biblomancy, a metaphorical transport from reading the body, as reading bodies – you know, like the whole discourse on corporeality and the marginalization of the body as empirically filthy, messy, to be subjugated, bio-politics. So, yeah,” he said, thankfully running out of steam. That “he” was Sigurd, and he was as ridiculous in real life as he was portrayed in the book.
You see, I had been thrust by necessity back into that inky realm of mystery. The more of the Backstory I was able to consume, now that Setzer's message to me had brought me back to it (against my better judgement), a sort of tangled and knotted arabesque had formed between myself and the text which referred to me. I was beginning to become swayed by the lulling notion that there was a conspiracy afoot, and that I had only a small window of opportunity to make a choice. Whatever was transpiring I had no real clue as of yet, and so my decision to either prevent, promote, or alter what was written had not yet been made. Whichever way it would have turned out, I needed to get more firmly in touch with some of the actors that appeared in these texts – and, hence, I became acquainted with the rather pretentious and prolix Sigurd. A self-styled academic revolutionary, he was easy to bring on board with flattery alone – and not even much since even a little bit was akin to throwing a drowning man a floatation device. Sigurd was trapped like some kind of panicked moth between two registers, two modes of existence that clashed violently. On one side he came from a rather all-too-obvious moneyed family with their expectations worn baldly upon his sleeve. On the other, he was attempting to reject and outpace this origin story by vigourously embracing the revolutionary facade like his contemporaries. Sadly, it was a bit too much, and if he fell on hard times it was no secret to any observer that he would default to the trust fund way of life. At a distance, it was comedic in its way, but to spend any length of time with him was exhausting. He just never stopped making endless references, like some kind of exploded encyclopedia of philosophy and literature and cinema and pop culture, stringing them together all pell-mell. Doubtless, for Sigurd, it was most likely a schizophrenic exercise, a way of dampening the clamour in his head. How would he take it, I wondered, if someone actually challenged but one of his references for substance? He had all the vices of the failed academic: inability to focus, to be patient, to sustain a single golden thread of reasoning. Doubtless again, if challenged, he would reply in the only way he knew how: with another tirade with an even longer chain of references devoid of substance. Or, perhaps, his emotional volatility would result in a drunken violent episode, the kind that would see a great deal of destruction, wailing, overindulgence, and eventual hospitalization. In sum, he was a child in many ways, and so I thought it best not to displease him.
It should also be said that “Sigurd” was his “street name”. His real full name was Jakob Sigurdsson. At the time that I had met him, he was a young and confused man who dabbled a bit too often with a wide variety of drugs and writing bad poetry. Any attempt to locate the narrator of the Backstory came to naught if only because the narrator went resolutely unnamed throughout the text; despite all the theatrical self-referentiality, never was his name mentioned.
Finding Jakob Sigurdsson was not very difficult, and was the product of a very short internet search. He lived in the city and had pretensions to being a poet. I was somewhat surprised with the lack of congruity, however, between the book's representation and the real item: Jakob was not the son of an oil tycoon, and in no way an aspiring filmmaker. Certainly, the ostentation of his character was roughly similar to the way it was conveyed in the book. He was, instead, much different in several ways. Whereas I was presented as a paradoxically long-lived Jew that survived the extermination camps, it was Jakob who was the Jew, but of a Jewishness that goes guiltily concealed beneath a compensatory desire to be the opposite; in Jakob's case, it was the desperate embrace of the Teutonic myth, his love of Wagner, his misreading of Nietzsche, his corrupted attempts at inserting Germanic phrases in place of where English would better suffice. His overwhelming hubris and self-appraisal gave everything he said the weight of absurd, false genius. He was the sort who felt an unjustified kinship to great geniuses past, that he somehow inherited their legacy. These foolish, romantic-idealist notions only further aggrandized his ego.
I was throwing a proverbial monkey wrench into the narrative by taking Jakob on as a research assistant. Not that I felt he had much qualifications for the task, but it was a safe way to keep an eye on him and gain his confidence. But did not the Gimaldi of the Backstory also solicit the help of Jakob?
“So, what will be my task exactly?” he asked, showing unnatural eagerness.
“I am going to give you a list of names, and I want you to get me as much information as possible on them, and by any means. This means scouring libraries, the internet, everything. I will be doing something similar, but more hands make light work... and I need answers quickly.”
“When do I start?” he asked, no doubt happy with the generous advance I had given him.
“Immediately.”
I gave Jakob a list of names as they appeared in the Backstory, as well as the names of those in the real, a collection of search terms that would keep him busy for a while:
Primary Search Terms: Ammonius Saccas, Obsalte, Anton Setzer, Castellemare, “Finis Logos”, “Best Before 2099”, “The Red Lion Sketchbook”, Ludic Order.
Associated Background Terms: secret societies involving books and libraries, “Master of the Document”, undisturbed tidal pools, the seventh meditation (and all things pertaining to the number seven in mythology, Cabala, etc.), Edward Albrecht.
I left Jakob to his research while I tended my own. Since we were both researching the same items, I factored for some overlap and redundancy in the findings, but I was hoping that he would uncover information that I could not. We agreed to meet in two weeks' time when he would give me a detailed report. For my part, I began with “Obsalte”.
In none of the historical annals did this name ever emerge. The undeniable frustration about any references I was researching would be the possibility that they were complete fictions that resided solely in Castellemare's Library, but I had to take a chance. It was not until, one late night out of frustration, that I copied out the name a few times that it came to me: it probably was not the name of a person at all. In breaking the word in two, I came up with Obs.Alte. The “obs.” was short-form for “obsolete” and “alte” was German for “old.” In a more logically rigorous state of mind I may have questioned my leap, but I was hardly dealing with rational subject matter. In fact, much of the codes that were likely associated with my mysterious ex-employer were cheeky jokes. The “obsolete-old” was not beyond the pale for someone like Castellemare. I filed this potential answer away and proceeded to the next raft of research terms; I chose Castellemare as my next likely subject, and I knew exactly who I would tap for information not found in books.
It would be my second journey to Detroit in search of the grey-haired artificer, Anton Setzer. I discovered that I had yet again embraced the absurd somewhat unwittingly. How long had I been smoking? I stared at the glowing end and its curling smoke as if it were a complete mystery. I stubbed it and hailed a cab from the bus station.
“Where to?”
I arrived at Setzer's home, and he greeted me with that magnanimous way some people affect in order to make the other person's anger seem ridiculously inappropriate.
“Gimaldi,” he said, but I just shot a fierce glance and pushed right by him.
“You're going to provide me with answers, now, and I don't care if you and Castellemare are in cahoots.”
“Gimaldi,” he repeated in a placatory tone. “Please, this is not the way we ought to begin. I warned you about hostility and suspicion, didn't I? Sit, please, and let's have a drink. There.”
He pointed to the divan in that enormous space he called a living room with its monstrously oversized paintings. There was a Dürer, I noted, and a Bacon - or, rather, emulations thereof, amplified. I recognized the Dürer as Melancolia.
I waved away his offer of a drink and got right down to it: “what is this about a synthesis, and why is my role necessary in it? You tell me that it has to come to pass, and then you send me some silly allegorical fiction about orthography.”
Setzer heaved a theatrical sigh as if the matter was too heavy and complicated to bother explaining to one such as myself. “You... you aren't that important. Well, you do play a supporting role in all this, I do admit, a bit more than a lot of us, but you aren't the star attraction. You see, you are an invaluable facilitator, invaluable insofar as you have no knowledge that you are facilitating this synthesis... Until now, of course. You've gleaned much, but it was planned. As for the story, I am sad to hear you did not enjoy it, or even failed to see its relevance in what you are doing at the moment. I thought a little magic realism would lighten your heavy spirits.”
“I don't want to talk about the story you sent. Let's get back to the synthesis business. I fail to understand. Angelo told me, or at least alluded to something called the Red Lion sketchbook as the 'one that got away'. I am thinking that Leo is the key, him and his Red Lion sketchbook. My neighbour. I made this connection somewhat independently, although Angelo does like to be loose with his lips when he drinks.”
And this was fairly accurate. Of all the things Angelo and I discussed, especially on the long flight back to Toronto after the job in Germany, he was a bit liberal with both his cups and his tale of regret. It was also the case that I had seen my neighbour, Leo, carrying around with him that faithful artist's companion of a book with a red lion insignia upon it.
“Angelo knows only as much as his character's role in all this can speak. You did well to listen to him, though, since he played the part of the rootless jester quite well.”
Setzer was smiling indulgently. I felt overheated, and my myriad questions were developing blisters.
“So where does all this begin?” I asked with strained calm.
He folded his long fingers, at first appearing pleased with either my keen question or my calm, and then fell into the storyteller's repose. “Our story must be traced backward. The Finis Logos is but a new incarnation, and a poor imitation, of another text the hapless narrator chanced upon. The original text was entitled, well, I can't tell you that. Sorry.”
“I do know this book, as it has only very rarely shown up in historical catalogues, but the details are conspicuously sparse. Does it exist outside the Library?”
“Only by design. It was placed deliberately. Its origin has a much more braided history between this world and that of the Library. It is one of those books that pops in and out of existence, changes hands, gets bought and sold, is sequestered and forgotten only to be rediscovered. Its story is much like the story of so many other books. Tell me what you think you know of it, book-trader.”
There was a hint of sarcasm and disdain in the way he named my profession, out of place given that he was the same, even if it was just a front. I decided to ignore it and tell him what I knew: “If it is the text Castellemare mentioned, he only gave me a call number. The text itself has no cover, no title, and no known author. It is currently not for sale; it sits at the Yale Beinicke Rare Book Library, is listed in the Official Register of Incunabula, and once fetched a price of 1,410 dollars on the auction block back in 1927. What is odd is that there is usually an incipit listed when there is no title.”
“Indeed, and incidentally, the dollar price matches the number of days Caligula ruled.”
“Why is that of any significance? I'm not persuaded by numerology.”
“So be it, and generally neither am I. Oddly enough, 1410 recurs in some interesting places. The vicious antipope John XXIII was elected - the same antipope during the Western Schism responsible for acts only Caligula could condone. Also, in taking the Julian calendar as our guide, both the years 1410 and 2099 begin on a Wednesday. By now, the significance of the 'best before 2099' business becomes more apparent? I trust you've already come to this reference in those books you have.”
I fiddled with a loose thread on my trousers, effecting a look of being unconvinced.
“Listen, Gimaldi, you hungrily inquire about the Library, you rack your brains about the meaning of the Finis Logos, you mix and match the pieces of the character puzzle with combinatoric patience, you ferret out what you can about me with frenzied persistence, and yet one conspicuous absence remains.”
“What's that?” I perked, meaning to sound serious, yet my voice betraying me to sounding timid and childlike.
“You've not once inquired about the Librarian himself in any meaningful way.”
“I've done some background research, and I am here right now inquiring after him.”
“Internet search engines are a blight, so bereft of much information. There are many histories associated with the man.”
“He isn't exactly forthcoming with his past when questioned. In fact, he's hardly forthright about anything at all,” I opined. “If there is something you know, I would suggest that you bring me up to speed.”
“I can't really lay claim to knowing his history - or histories - with any measure of definitive certitude. However, there are some golden threads in this labyrinth. I can name them off: a one 'Draco de Barbe, or Barber Drac, who was a mercenary-for-hire in 1516. He earned his fortune through some shady dealings and even earned the title of Comte – although this hasn't been officially verified. He was shot in the throat in 1565 in a tavern dispute gone south. Another is Castel le Mare, a Librarian of the Andernach. Another is a book trader from the east named Azrael Amar. Another is Constantine 'Costas' Ammonius. And yet another is a reference to a small sea-side town near Palermo called Castellemare del Golfo. But all of these references that link to the man are but momentary flashes of resemblance, coincidence, and leave us with dead ends and dissatisfaction. Perhaps you would have a more steadier and more studious hand in this.”
“How can I learn more, barring asking the man himself; he is rather cryptic and doesn't leave much of a trail.”
“Ah, yes,” he agreed, now taking on a tone of expository patience. “He most definitely barricades us from his past, letting fly with the occasional personal anecdotes that never seem to add up. Treat him like you would a rare and mysterious book, I would advise.”
He could tell in my eyes that I had a partial understanding of what he meant, but I desired confirmation of the method so that we were not merely talking in empty metaphors.
“Books do not speak,” he said. “They do not respond to our usual methods of inquiry or interrogation, but there are ways in making a book offer up its most intimate details as it lays naked before us if we have the eyes to read that history. When confronted with, say, an incunable of unknown authorship or geographical origin, we try to match some of the scant clues to catalogues, purchase history lists, estate holdings, anywhere the book has been... for the history of any book is not dissociable from its many owners, each one adding to its narrative in some way. Why, for instance, was some particular book purchased by so-and-so? Of course, we can look inside the book, too... We can examine its colophon, the imprimatur, its typography, the paper, the binding style. Sometimes we can examine the library stamps.”
“There are not many library stamps on the man,” I said.
“You're not looking hard enough. Perhaps he has always been enchained to that one Library, and the stamps upon his person are solely those, metaphorically making the man nothing more than just stamps, but I have a much more interesting theory. I think that this sacred Library incarnates itself differently over the ages.”
“Then I should somehow trace the history of the Library.”
“Such a research project is too vast: it will yield up everything and nothing.”
“I will take this cue to research the man in the hopes of understanding the Library, then.”
As another surprise, parachuted into this esoteric tale, Setzer announced, “Castellemare and I have decided to merge our collections... An interpolation and intercalation of our holdings, so to speak.”
Just like that: dropped like a rude stone upon a pond just beginning to become placid and clear. I refused to show surprise since I had quickly come of the belief that they thrived on my helplessness and confusion.
“Interpolate. Interesting choice of words,” I said.
“Rightly so. Quite apt. We are merging the pages just as much as the books themselves. My infinite Library of artifice with his of authenticity. It is like the synthesis you will be reading about: the merging of six distinct histories into one to produce the impossible seventh.”
“The seventh meditation,” I added. “The impossible thought.”
“What you have to understand,” Setzer stated with imploring gestures for clemency over my quick assumptions, “Is that writers do this all the time.”
“Merge libraries?”
“No. Interpolate. Cut and paste. Easier to do now with current technology, and quite useful when one's pen has run dry and there are publishing contracts to honour. Some abandoned piece of the writer's juvenilia still intact with fresh and youthful insights and a few good tossed phrases, albeit clumsily scripted. Such things are recycled, reworked, rewritten, and inserted within a work in progress. Do you know how many successful authors do this very thing? Many. Several. How many will admit to it? Probably few to none. And do you know what makes a good interpolated book versus a crude and obviously disjointed paste-job? Integration, proper and seamless.”
“So you and Castellemare aim to manage a seamless integration of your libraries.”
“Yes, well... of course he and I will come to different conclusions even if the arrangements are identical. You see, we are very old enemies in our way, and we have come to that point in life where we actually take comfort in our antagonism, cherishing it, working in an alliance to maintain the energetic tension of our antagonism. So, anyway, enough about that... You have read about Leo's Red Lion sketchbook, yes?”
“Not yet. Is it mentioned in any of the books I have in my possession?”
“Yes, in the 7th Meditation. You would probably have every moral reason to prevent the synthesis from occurring, but despite the fact that it will produce someone or something absolutely cruel, it is also absolutely necessary. I don't expect you to understand. But I will ask you where Leo's sketchbook is now.”
I didn't know, and the sphere of what I didn't know was quickly multiplying in scale.
“Judging by your silence, I can assume you have no clue where Leo or his sketchbook currently preside.”
“He is my neighbour. But what is this about a synthesis? You speak of six distinct histories and the cruel necessity of this synthesis. What goes into it? What comes out of it? Does it involve the Library? What is Leo's role in this? And, more importantly, what is my role?”
“Oh. I assumed you read much faster than I thought. If there is one thing I deplore in anyone, including myself, is spoiling the ending of a book. Read on, Gimaldi. Besides, I only know it in sketch, and the story keeps changing even though it is written. Hence why I asked for any information you would be able to share with me on this book.”
Since I had come a fair distance anticipating answers, I pressed further, rattling off the list of research items until I saw a smirk alight upon Setzer's face at the mention of the Ludic Order.
“Something sound familiar to you, Anton?”
“You are much closer to discovering all you need to know than I had thought. A hearty kudos to you for being so sharp and persistent. I suppose there is no harm in filling in a few of the details.”
“About the Order, I presume?”
“Yes. There are three Orders, of which you were admitted into one of them on a probationary basis while another wished to claim you among their cabal. It was purely political, I'm afraid, an old politics. You see, there was no coincidence in your meeting Castellemare since I am certain that he was tailing you. Where did you two meet?”
“Outside Vatican City.”
“Ah, yes. He had never told me how he came upon you – not that he would have. For him it was enough that he had acquired you first. Of course, I had no interest in acquiring you, really, but the third Order did. I was not as thrilled with you, but your role in the synthesis was known to Castellemare before it came to be known to me.”
“You are being vague.”
“Am I? My apologies. You want hard and fast facts. Gimaldi, there are three Orders. Castellemare heads one of them, myself another. The third Order is a bastard one, a derivative. Perhaps so is my Order, but I like to think mine is much more ennobled. You were unwittingly admitted to some of the mysteries of the Craft under Castellemare, but your acquisition of those two books by fraudulent means went against the reglements, marking the necessary expulsion from the Craft.”
“If I was so vital, vital enough to be acquired, then why would Castellemare turn me loose?”
“You were skipping rungs, my friend. And the Order... well... rules are rules. Angelo was your rouleur whose duties was to be the bridge between you and Castellemare, act as your tutor, and so forth.”
“But if you were under Castellemare's employ, then you must have been a member of his Order.”
“Yes,” he smiled tiredly. “I wasn't as much expelled from the Order as discharged from further duties. I was the Lucifer to his God, and so perhaps a bit too... powerful to efface. When I parted from the Order, this was the start of the Great Schism of the craft – an event that will most likely not find any report in history books in this world. I founded a new Order based on my own principles, since it was on the order of principles that Castellemare and I disagreed. I was denounced as an upstart, an artificer that lacked the credible weight of antiquity to give my newfound Order any shred of legitimacy. But, as we know, long legacies must begin somewhere, and at some point in history, an Order has a beginning point from which it must work its way toward that coveted title of Tradition.”
“What is the structure of these Orders? What are they?”
“Castellemare's Order is concerned primarily with the preservation of the Library and its contents. Occasionally, like any organization, there will be other concerns and aims. Each Order has its own synergistic set of goals, and sometimes these conflict. My Order, for instance, the Ludic Order, is not concerned with preservation, but creation. The third Order is concerned with transmission and consumption – mostly of knowledge. That Order is called Les Devorants – and, as their name suggests, they 'devour' knowledge. There is a sloppy pun here with devoir which means 'charge' or 'duty'. And so, the Devorants see it as their duty to consume knowledge. They view Castellemare as someone who would secret knowledge away, whereas they see my Order as a means of multiplying false knowledge.”
“And the structure of these Orders?”
“I see no risk in telling you about my own. I hold the highest office: Master Craftsman. Below me are various levels of Artificers, Ovates, a Warden of Boustrophedion, a Provost, and plenty of Typesetters – which is what we call our initiate level. Castellemare holds the highest office in his Order: Grand Librarian, G.L.O.T.U. Below him is an Officer of Holdings, Bibliographers, a Defender of the Record, and a few Knights of Acquisitions and Management. Before my dismissal, I had risen to the second-highest rank; namely, Officer of Holdings. This is why I have access to the catalogue of the Library, even today, since as soon as one has the custodial key, it cannot be taken away unless the Library – not the Order – wills it. It really burns Castellemare!”
“And the Devorants? How do they figure in this?”
“I cannot lay claim to knowing as much about their Order if only because I was never directly part of it. I do know they have plenty of titles such as Master Archivist, Keeper of the Book, Master of the Document, Schoolman, Page, Grand Redactor, Comparatist, and some others. But I will have you know that they had their eyes on you to join. I'm sure it struck them as a major blow when Castellemare nabbed you first.”
“Why me?”
Setzer shrugged his shoulders. “I have no idea. Their reasons are their own. If I was to risk speculation, I would say it had to do with preventing Castellemare from aiding the synthesis. They seem to be all twisted up over it... again, for reasons that are entirely their own and shielded from my view.”
“And how long have these Orders been in operation?”
“Ah, the origin question. To be honest, I do not know the full pedigree of Castellemare's Order, and all I know is that it is inconceivably old. I would place it somewhere during the time of the Library of Alexandria if not earlier. However, I could see how the burning of that famous Library may have prompted the banding together of a few irate and crestfallen librarians to henceforth protect knowledge from barbaric destruction. Perhaps it is the motto of that Order, that the books must be protected against anything that would result in their loss. As for my Order, it is very young – much younger than you. The Devorants are perhaps a splinter group of the Illuminati, or some such product of the Enlightenment.”
“And what of the link to Leo and his sketchbook?”
“I can only conjecture on that point. What I do know is that it is absolutely essential, the key to the synthesis – at least according to the Devorants. One rumour has it that the sketchbook ought to be the property of the Devorants, to protect it against Castellemare's plans.”
“So the Devorants believe the sketchbook is the key.”
“That notion enjoyed some brief celebrity, if only because it provided some of the adherents of the Devorants a rather wide latitude for interpretation – far too wide, in my opinion. There was a clandestine move on the part of the Devorants to contain Leo, urging to enjoin him through flattery, patronage of his art, but really it was more of a safeguard move against Castellemare's plan. They had to admit him without his knowing what he was being admitted to – real silly games of deception. There was nothing useful or redeeming about Leo as a person that would have justified his admission to the Order. He lacked all the scholastic qualifications. And, I am also quite sure that there were heated quarrels and vociferous protests from the more conservative voices in the Order about the whole affair. To include Leo in the ranks, regardless how low, would violate the very fabric and tenacity of the tradition itself – or so said the conservative side. Such opportunism hell-bent on merely preventing Castellemare from achieving his goal was like outbidding a rival at auction out of spite. Not only that, but it placed the Devorants in an awkward position: being forced to induct a member that didn't measure up to their standards... a purely defensive posture to stop Castellemare, and a mockery of what the Order stood for. However, it seemed prudent to contain Leo's energies in a wholly different sphere than the one he was already in.”
“How did you come about this information?” I asked, surprised at just how much insider gossip he possessed.
“I have my sources. But, of course, none of this has been strictly verified. I am only reporting what other little birds report to me, and such sources are only worth so much. But if you are going to ask me why the Devorants were interested in you, I am sorry, but I do not know. All I really know about you is that Castellemare snatched you up under his employ with some dimly perceivable plan to induct you into the mysteries of the Craft.”
“Given your former high post in his Order, could you tell me what those mysteries are?”
At this Setzer gave me a you-should-know-better look. “Gimaldi, I may not be part of that Order any longer, but I do understand the need for discretion. Trade secrets I cannot give. I gave an oath, and that oath is bond even when my connection has been dissolved. Besides, I fail to see how it will really help you. What are you trying to do with all this research anyway? Aimless curiousity is not a beneficial way to tie up one's time. You really gain nothing by it. You've been running around asking questions when you can just as easily toss away those nasty two books and get back to selling rare books and doing the occasional lecture stint on cryptography. I think it is your obsession with mysteries and codes that compels you to keep at this. Why not just give up?”
“I have to learn more about this synthesis.”
“Learn all you like, but you may as well give up regardless since the synthesis will be going forward no matter what you learn or do. I suppose now it is my turn to ask questions. Since I indulged yours, please indulge mine. Why would it be of any importance to you to find out anything about this?”
“Because somehow it involves me, and I want to know to what extent.”
“Oh, Gimaldi, your ego shines forth radiantly, blindingly. Your name in a few books and you take on the whole mystery upon your shoulders? It sounds more to me like you are trying to exert control over your life, flout fate, take the reins of your own destiny. It may, in the end, not concern you at all... And all this sleuthing – to what end? A potential waste of time.”
“There is a reason why Castellemare wants these books back, and why he sent Angelo to retrieve them. I think there is something in them he doesn't want me to know.”
“Or maybe they're stolen property, and like most people, he wants them returned. Have you considered that? And, perhaps, there is knowledge in these books not meant for your – or anyone else's – eyes and has nothing to do with you beyond the faintest coincidence that you are named in the book. And, perhaps again, the reason you still have the books is because he wants you to read them, and so is only putting up the appearance that he is desperately trying to retrieve them. Think about this seriously, Gimaldi... Do you think a man who is surprising in his resourcefulness has been duped by you? You've had these books in your possession for a great deal of time, and I hardly think he wouldn't have reacquired them by now if he wanted to.”
“To what end? Why the ruse, if what you say is true?”
“Perhaps,” and Setzer paused for dramatic effect as he leaned in closer, “He wants to torment you. He wants you to think there is a big mystery afoot, and that you are the victim of it. Perhaps this is the way he gets his kicks.”
I was beginning to tire of his several 'perhaps'es.
“Anton, you asked for a scanned copy of the 7th Meditation. May I ask why?”
“Have you done so?”
“Not yet. I wanted to speak with you first.”
“Curiousity, really. I know I allude to Castellemare's plans, but I do not know what it is precisely yet... if the plan is nefarious is uncertain as the shadow has not lifted from it. There is much that Castellemare does not know about my operations, and vice versa. And, besides, it is more for reasons of professional rivalry that I would love to have a copy of the text. It is an idle curiousity, really.”
“Just to get under his skin?”
He smiled with mischievous assent before continuing: “Gimaldi, I don't expect you to understand the games played between two old adversaries.”
“Am I in any danger? I must know.”
“Danger? I don't know. Maybe not. Although I would wager that Castellemare does not want those books falling into the wrong hands. If you are or aren't in danger, the best thing for you is to remain on guard.”
“I still need more information.”
Setzer regarded me with a sudden flash of annoyance. “What do you think this is? I have been giving you information hand over fist! You're being awfully greedy, Gimaldi. I'm not a book you can plunder and leave on your bedside table when you have acquired all you needed from it. I'm not some kind of knowledge dispenser for your benefit. I am beginning to take ill of you.”
“I apologize. I do realize that you have furnished me with a great deal of information this evening, and that my persistence is based on fear, given my current predicament.”
“Then let me give you this last bit of advice,” he said, his tone conveying that he had not recovered from his annoyance. “Seek ye the man named Leo, your neighbour. If you hunger this much, then you best make your inquiries there. I have given you all that I can without compromising myself. Just beware of Castellemare.”
And with that we called it a night. I took the bus back to Toronto, a five-hour haul that ended in the wee hours. What else could I do but delve back into the Backstory?... and to continue being wary about the figure named Castellemare, his shadow looming over this entire mystery? I could have thought of several other books I would have rather read, but I simply had to know.