"'Nobody's gonna read it now,' Hoshino said. 'I don't know what was written in it, but it's all gone. A bit of shape and form has disappeared from the world, increasing the amount of nothingness.'"
-Haruki Murakami, Kafka On The Shore
I had a pattern now.
Each day I spent at the library; reading, dozing off, getting lost in the words without a trail of breadcrumbs. Each night I spent in my apartment; feverishly working, testing, creating new connections and complexities. Progress was being made, everything was going according to plan.
As I left that morning the doorman was missing from his habitual post. I wonder where he is, if today is his day off. Does he have days off?
The first sign of trouble was the badger. Tanuki, of the family Mustelidae, is running wild up the street in zig-zagging, haphazard movements. There is terror in his eyes. I stand back to let him pass, afraid he might bite me if provoked. Where is his master now?
The second sign of trouble was a man. Dirty and unkempt, he strides with purpose down the street. I've seen him before, I think, but hunched over, muttering to himself by the side of the road. He's still wearing the same rags, but now he stands tall, holds his sign up high. THE END IS NIGH. He's hollering something, filling his chest with air and releasing torrents, machine-gun bursts, of speech.
It's over, he says, it's time to give up. The end is here. Finally we can all go to sleep, lay down our heads and die, stick your heads in the sand, or in a paper bag, if you think it will help. It won't help. The end is here. It's just around the bend. Come and get it! That's right, the end is here. Game over.
I get out of his way, and continue down the street. I can smell something now, a festive smell, the smell of summer cookouts, but it isn't summer. I quicken my steps, turn the corner of Mercy, and see the fire.
The library is burning. I'm running now, and, as I get closer I see that's not quite true. The books are burning. It's a massive billowing fire, and naked women are dancing around it; a pagan ritual in the city streets. I stand transfixed.
They are singing, and dancing, and yelling, and throwing books and fuel into the fire. They are as wild as the Furies. They sing a song I can't recognize, some incantation of dark power. Slowly I move closer to the inferno, and the chanting resolves itself into words.
What can wash away my sin? Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
Now I see there are other people here too. An old woman. It's the librarian. She's attacking the fire-makers with an umbrella.
What can make me whole again? Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
I've never seen her move so fast. She's screaming, but it does no good. Her umbrella catches fire, forcing her to retreat. I should be helping, I want to help, but I don't know what to do.
Oh, precious is the flow that makes me white as snow.
I'm only a few feet from the fire now. The dancing, singing women ignore me. They just circle and circle. I stare into the flames, the all-consuming, mindless destroyer. I only wanted to read a book. I watch it eat the words, the patterns of letter and meaning. It's insatiable, always eating. It's eating my pattern too, and it's done it before. But this time I cry.
No other fount I know, nothing but the blood of Jesus.
Through the distortion of my tears, I see something. The two. There it is, swiftly turning into ash and cinders. My feet can move again, and they move even closer to the fire. The women notice my presence, they push and jostle me. Heedless, I move forward until the heat threatens to burn my eyebrows.
I thrust my right hand into the fire.
I feel no pain. I'm grasping, gasping, searching. Then I feel it between my fingers, precious impermanent paper, and I'm pulling up and out. The book is in my hand, but so is the fire. Just like I learned in elementary school, I stop, drop and roll. The world spins around me; a vortex of concrete, fire, and moving bodies. I don't stop until I feel the pain.
Terrible, wonderful pain. I hold my hand out in front of me, just as charred and mangled as the book it holds. That gargoyle's fist can't belong to me, but the pain tells me it does.
I sat there a long while, without thought or motion, only dimly aware of my surroundings.
Eventually, slowly, like an old man, I used my left hand to push myself up, off the concrete. There was nothing left here for me, nothing to be done. I hobbled back down Mercy, clutching the useless copy of A Tale of Two Cities, its title barely readable. Behind me, the singing faded, but the pain did not.
I entered the apartment building, glad the doorman was not there to witness my shame. Stiffly, I climbed the stairs and walked down the hall to my door. Once there, I carefully ripped a piece from the cover of the book and lodged it between two of the three remaining apartment numbers. Standing back, I read it aloud:
1 1 Two 3
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