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‘Ignatius B. Samson, welcome to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books.’
20
I followed the keeper to the foot of the large nave that housed the labyrinth. The floor we were stepping over was sewn with tombstones, their inscriptions, crosses and faces dissolving into the stone. The keeper stopped and lowered the gas lamp so that the light slid over some of the pieces of the macabre puzzle.
‘The remains of an old necropolis,’ he explained. ‘But don’t let that give you any ideas about dropping dead here.’
We continued towards an area just before the central structure that seemed to form a kind of threshold. In the meantime Isaac was rattling off the rules and duties, fixing his gaze on me from time to time, while I tried to soothe him with docile assent.
‘Article one: the first time somebody comes here he has the right to choose a book, whichever one he likes, from all the books there are in this place. Article two: upon adopting a book you undertake to protect it and do all you can to ensure it is never lost. For life. Any questions so far?’
I looked up towards the immensity of the labyrinth.
‘How does one choose a single book among so many?’
Isaac shrugged his shoulders.
‘Some like to believe it’s the book that chooses the person… destiny, in other words. What you see here is the sum of centuries of books that have been lost and forgotten, books condemned to be destroyed and silenced forever, books that preserve the memory and soul of times and marvels that no one remembers any more. None of us, not even the eldest, knows exactly when it was created or by whom. It’s probably as old as the city itself, and has been growing with it, in its shadow. We know the building was erected using the remains of palaces, churches, prisons and hospitals that may once have stood here. The origin of the main structure goes back to the begi
I shook my head vigorously, but Isaac was looking at me with scepticism.
‘Article three: you can bury your own book wherever you like.’
‘What if I get lost?’
‘An additional clause, from my own stable: try not to get lost.’
‘Has anyone ever got lost?’
Isaac snorted.
‘When I started here years ago there was a story doing the rounds about Darío Alberti de Cymerman. I don’t suppose Sempere has told you this, of course…’
‘Cymerman? The historian?’
‘No, the seal tamer. How many Darío Alberti de Cymermans do you know? What happened is that in the winter of 1889 Cymerman went into the labyrinth and disappeared inside it for a whole week. He was found in one of the tu
‘Seen by whom?’
Isaac looked at me for a long while.
‘By the man in black. Are you sure Sempere hasn’t told you anything about this?’
‘I’m sure he hasn’t.’
Isaac lowered his voice, adopting a conspiratorial tone.
‘Over the years, some members have occasionally seen the man in black in the tu
‘You’re not saying you believe the rumours.’
‘Of course not. I have another theory. The Cymerman theory.’
‘Which is…? ’
‘That the man in black is the master of this place, the father of all secret and forbidden knowledge, of wisdom and memory, the bringer of light to storytellers and writers since time immemorial… He is our guardian angel, the angel of lies and of the night.’
‘You’re pulling my leg.’
‘Every labyrinth has its Minotaur,’ Isaac suggested. He smiled mysteriously and pointed towards the entrance. ‘It’s all yours.’
I set off along a footbridge then slowly entered a long corridor of books that formed a rising curve. When I reached the end of the curve the tu
21
At first I didn’t recognise my own eyes in the mirror, one of the many that formed a chain of muted light along the corridors of the labyrinth. What I saw in the reflection was my face and my skin, but the eyes were those of a stranger. Murky, dark and full of malice. I looked away and felt the nausea returning. I sat on the chair by the table and took a deep breath. I imagined that even Doctor Trías might be amused at the thought that the tenant lodged in my brain – the tumorous growth as he liked to call it – had decided to deal me the final blow in that place, thereby granting me the honour of being the first permanent citizen of the Cemetery of Forgotten Novelists, buried in the company of his last and most ill-fated work, the one that had taken him to the grave. Someone would find me there in ten months, or ten years, or perhaps never. A grand finale worthy of City of the Damned.
I think I was saved by my bitter laughter. It cleared my head and reminded me of where I was and what I’d come to do. I was about to stand up again when I saw it. It was a rough-looking volume, dark, with no visible title on the spine. It lay on top of a pile of four other books at the end of the table. I picked it up. The covers were bound in what looked like leather, some sort of ta