The Library of Shadows (6 page)

When she came to, the bookshop was empty except for the man who had been reading. With concern he asked her how she felt, and then introduced himself as Luca. He was sitting next to her on a folding chair. She was propped up in a soft leather chair behind the counter. The voices had disappeared along with the audience members, but she was so exhausted she couldn't get up.

Luca told her to relax and take all the time she needed. In a soothing voice he continued to chat about everyday things: the bookshop, the readings they had in the evenings, various books, even the weather, until he suddenly asked her how long she'd been hearing voices.

The question took her aback, and she forgot her vow never to mention it to anyone; she told him everything. Luca turned out to know an astonishing amount about her condition, asking her how strong the voices were, whether she was able to shut them out, when she had heard them for the first time and whether she knew anyone else with the same experiences. She answered as best she could, and for the first time she sensed that someone understood her, that she was being taken seriously. In his relaxed manner, which she would grow so fond of in the coming years, Luca explained that she was not the only one – at least half of the people who had been at the reading possessed the same abilities.

Katherina had never regarded it as an ability. For her it was the voices that sought her out, forcing her to pay attention; she was not the one who tuned into them. But that was also possible, Luca explained: she could tune into the channel that opened whenever people read, whether aloud or silently to themselves.

In a matter of fifteen minutes he taught her a technique that enabled her to turn down the volume of the voices so they no longer bothered her. Even though the technique would require practice, the effect was so extraordinary on her first attempt that Katherina burst into tears from sheer relief. Luca comforted her and invited her to drop by as often as she liked to improve her technique. Of course she could try muting the voices without his supervision, but he implored her never to try to amplify them or alter them in any other way until she'd had more practice. Katherina would later find out why.

The customer in Libri di Luca wasn't focusing. Among the small glimpses of images conjured up from the excerpts he was reading were pictures that had no relevance to the books. That was a residual effect of her powers. In addition to being able to hear the text that was being read, Katherina could often see the images it evoked in the reader. And if he or she happened to be thinking about all sorts of other things at the same time, they would pop up like brief sequences inserted into a film. That was a side effect that had required training, but over the years Luca had helped her with this as well, and she was now able to sense what an unfocused reader, such as the man with the horn-rimmed glasses, had on his mind.

Apparently he was supposed to meet a girl later in the day because pictures of the girl kept appearing along with an image of where they were supposed to meet (at the Town Hall Square), where they were going to have dinner (Mühlhausen), plus his strongly erotic hopes for the rest of the evening. Katherina felt her cheeks flush.

It was by no means everyone that Katherina could read in this manner. Iversen claimed that it had to do with the individual's imagination, how clear the images were that came from the text and the person's subconscious; but it was also a matter of the reading style. People who skimmed the words produced a swift series of pictures which in the most extreme cases became a stylized cartoon that would flicker before her eyes. Other readers took their time – so much time that the images were razor-sharp and so saturated with information that she could go exploring in them, zooming down to the smallest details, as if in a spy photo from a satellite.

'I'll take these,' said a cautious voice, and Katherina opened her eyes. The man with the horn-rimmed glasses stood at the counter holding out two books towards her. He gave an apologetic shrug of his shoulders.

'Eighty kroner,' said Katherina without looking at the paperbacks he had selected. They had already revealed themselves as
The Big Sleep
and
Moon Palace,
which cost 30 and 50 kroner respectively. She stood up and found a bag under the counter while the customer rummaged through his pockets for the money. He paid and left the shop with a black plastic bag printed with the name 'Libri di Luca' in gold letters.

In some cases Katherina's Lector powers compensated for her dyslexia, and in many situations she was able to completely hide her handicap. For a while that was how she'd appeared to show 'noticeable improvement' in her reading classes in primary school. But when the teacher or other pupils weren't following along in the text, she would be cut off from the meaning of the letters. That had produced a setback at exam time.

Luca thought there was a connection between her dyslexia and her abilities as a Lector. During their practice sessions he quickly discovered that she had powerful talents, and in his opinion this was because of dyslexia, not in spite of it. So he tried to get her to regard her abilities as a gift and not a punishment, which was how she had previously thought of them. Even though he himself was a Lector, he was not a receiver and thus could not fully understand everything that Katherina had to endure.

She thought it must be even worse for her mentor's son, who was now being initiated into the secrets of the Lectors in the room beneath her. The scepticism she had felt when Luca explained things to her had soon disappeared, because she had already felt it in her own body. Here was an explanation, incredible though it might be, and yet it was an explanation she could accept. But she couldn't even imagine how it would all sound to someone who was a complete outsider. How would he react?

At that moment Katherina heard the stairs creak, and a few seconds later Iversen came into view. He was sweating and his face was a bit red, the way it always was whenever he got excited or upset by a discussion.

'He wants proof,' he said, out of breath. 'Could you give a demonstration?'

Which one should he choose?

Jon walked along the shelves in the basement, looking for a book to use in the demonstration. He could choose any volume he liked, Iversen had said, like a magician challenging a spectator to pull a card at random from the deck. As Jon understood it, the plan was for him to read an excerpt from the book while Katherina tried to influence his perception of the text to such a degree that he would have no doubts that such a thing was possible.

As Iversen had explained, Katherina was a receiver, which meant that she was able to hear and to a certain extent see what other people were reading. What seemed even more unbelievable was that she was capable of accentuating the reader's experience of the text at will. In this way her abilities resembled those he himself possessed, according to Iversen, but whereas he should present a text in order to charge it, Katherina was able to affect the reader directly, even if that person was reading silently to himself.

Iversen had seemed very convincing, but when he had hinted at outright mind-reading as a consequence of Katherina's talents, Jon had demanded proof. The fact that the old man had immediately agreed to his request planted a seed of concern in Jon's mind. If there really was something to these abilities, he wasn't sure he cared to have other people rummaging about in his brain as he read.

The way Katherina entered the library hadn't made the situation any better. She emanated neither the flamboyant style of a magician nor the secretiveness of a mystic – it seemed more as if she were a bit embarrassed to be there, and she hardly gave him a glance as she sat down in one of the leather chairs with her hands in her lap. Even so, Jon felt that he was being observed, not only by the two other people present but by the walls of books, which seemed to be studying him with bated breath.

'Can I get one from the shop?' asked Jon, pointing towards the ceiling.

'Of course,' replied Iversen. 'Take your time.'

Jon left the room and went upstairs to the bookshop. Iversen had locked the door and turned off the lights so that only the glow from the street lamps outside lit up the room. Jon let his eyes adjust to the dimness and then walked up and down the aisles at random. Every once in a while he stopped to pull out a book, which he studied but then quickly rejected, putting it back in its place. Finally he realized that it didn't make any difference what book he chose, because how was he to know what was a suitable text for this sort of test? He closed his eyes and let his fingers run along the spines of the books in front of him until he stopped at random on a volume, which he pulled from the shelf. With his trophy in hand, he returned to the reading room in the basement.

'
Fahrenheit 451,
' said Iversen, nodding in acknowledgement. 'Bradbury. A brilliant choice, Jon.'

'Science fiction, right?'

'Yes, but the genre is of no importance. Are you ready?'

'As ready as I'll ever be.'

'What about you, Katherina?' Iversen asked, turning to look at the redhead who was sitting motionless in the leather chair. She raised her eyes and inspected Jon. Meditatively she rubbed her index finger over her chin before she again placed her hands in her lap and nodded.

'All right,' said Iversen, clapping his hands together. 'You'd better sit down, Jon.'

'And I'm just supposed to read to myself?'

'Correct,' replied Iversen, gesturing towards a chair. 'Go ahead and begin, and don't worry. She'll take good care of you.'

Jon sat down on the chair across from Katherina. She nodded, as if giving the signal to start, and instinctively Jon nodded in return and then turned his eyes to the book.

It had once been an ordinary paperback edition, but the owner had laminated the front cover and reinforced the spine and back with cardboard and leather. The edges of the paper were yellowed and slightly frayed from wear, so the book bulged a bit as it lay on his knees.

Before he opened the book, Jon cast one last glance at Katherina sitting opposite him. She was sitting erect with her hands in her lap and her eyes closed.

Then Jon began to read.

At first he proceeded very slowly. He read cautiously, on the alert to see whether he noticed anything unusual. That was how he read a couple of pages, without really taking in what it said, but all of a sudden it felt as if the text seized hold of him, and he read more freely and fluidly as the story sank unhindered into his consciousness.

The main character in the book, Montag, was apparently a fireman, but a fireman who started fires instead of putting them out. His job was to burn books, which were regarded as dangerous in his society. One day on his way home from work he runs into a girl who tags along with him as he walks. The description of the girl was incredibly vivid and Jon could picture her in his mind, lithe, smiling, flirty and spontaneous. His heart started beating faster, and his mouth went dry. This girl was amazing. He couldn't wait to read more about her, he had to find out where she came from and what role she played in the story. She appeared so clearly to him he could almost feel her at his side, walking along with fluttering red hair, her steps light as a feather, on the way to Montag's house, and he was already starting to miss her, to fear the emptiness when she would leave him there on the doorstep to his home.

The description was so convincing that Jon wanted to glance to the side to get a closer look at the girl, but his eyes no longer obeyed him. They refused to leave the page and carried on wandering through the text towards the leave-taking with the girl. In despair, Jon tried to stop reading or at least to slow the pace, but the story moved inexorably forward before his eyes. He noticed that sweat had begun to appear on his forehead and his pulse was elevated.

In the story Montag and the girl reached the fireman's house, where they stood and conversed on the doorstep, calmly, lingering, as if they were stretching out the time, for the sake of delighting or tormenting Jon. He felt an incredible warmth for this girl, as if he had always known her and loved her. Finally Montag said goodbye to the girl, and Jon suppressed a fierce desire to call out to her, to entice her back into the text, which now seemed banal and impoverished. He noticed that his eyes were moist, but at the same time he realized that once again he was able to control them, and he immediately took the opportunity to stop reading.

As he glanced up, Katherina at the same time slowly opened her eyes, but she avoided looking directly at him. He noticed that her eyes were red-rimmed. Jon shifted his gaze to Iversen, who stared back expectantly.

'Well?'

Jon glanced down at the book. It looked like any other book, a stack of pages with letters and words, without a hint of the life and wealth of colours he had just experienced. He closed the book and turned it in his hands, examining it.

'How did you two do that?' he asked at last.

Iversen broke out in a laugh. 'Isn't it amazing? I'm just as impressed every time.'

Jon nodded absentmindedly. 'And you could hear me reading?' he asked, turning his gaze on Katherina.

She blushed and nodded almost imperceptibly.

'Except,' said Iversen, raising his index finger, 'it wasn't your voice she heard. Or her own either, or even the author's, for that matter. That's the most incredible thing about it. Apparently every book has its own unique voice.' He stared with obvious envy at the red-haired woman. 'It's like communicating with the book itself – with its soul.'

'The fantasy of all bibliophiles.'

'Er, well, yes,' said Iversen, smiling with embarrassment. 'I suppose I was rather overcome by the mood. Sometimes I forget that there are significant costs associated with being a receiver. Costs you and I can't even imagine.'

Jon happened to think about the man drinking stout he'd met in the Clean Glass pub after Luca's funeral. At the time he'd written him off as a wino, a drunk spouting nonsense about readers and texts that sang and shouted. Yet the man's words were now adding credence to Iversen's explanation.

'Okay,' said Jon, setting the book on the table. 'Let's say I believe your explanation that Lectors exist and that you can manipulate my thoughts and feelings through a book.' He threw out his hands. 'So what do you expect from me?'

'Who says we want anything to do with you?' said a voice from the door.

All three of them turned towards the new arrival. In the doorway stood a thin young man about twenty years old, wearing a tight T-shirt and a pair of baggy, army-green trousers. He had a narrow face with a goatee, but otherwise he was bald and as pale as flour. His burning dark eyes were fixed on Jon.

'Hi, Pau,' said Iversen. 'Come in and say hello to our guest.'

The young man came into the room and took up position behind Katherina's chair with his hands on his hips. 'Guest?'

'It's okay,' said Iversen soothingly. 'This is Jon. Luca's son.'

'I know that. I saw him at the funeral,' replied Pau. 'The guy wants to sell Libri di Luca. You said as much yourself, Svend.'

Iversen cast an embarrassed glance at Jon, who seemed unaffected by the scene.

'I said there was a risk of that. We don't know for sure, Pau,' said Iversen. 'That's why we're here.'

'So what's going to happen?'

'We were just about to explain everything to Jon when you arrived,' replied Iversen.

'How much?'

'Everything.'

Pau stared first at Iversen and then at Jon. His jaw muscles tightened and his eyes narrowed.

'Could I talk to you for a moment, Svend?' asked Pau, motioning with his head towards the door. 'You too, Kat.'

Jon noticed that Katherina briefly rolled her eyes before she cast an enquiring glance at Iversen. The old man nodded.

'As you wish, Pau. Go upstairs, and I'll be there in a minute.'

The young man marched out of the door, and Katherina slowly followed.

'You'll have to bear with him,' said Iversen when the other two had left the room. 'We literally picked Pau up off the street, where he was making a living by using his powers as a Lector. Luca found him on Strøget reading poems to passers-by, and very successfully too. A lot of people stopped to listen, and most of them tossed coins into the cigar box he had at his feet. Luca recognized him for what he was. Experienced transmitters can sense when other transmitters charge a text, and Pau made no effort to hide what he was doing.' Iversen leaned forward in his chair. 'As you may have guessed, Jon, we have plenty of reasons for concealing our abilities. We can't risk having a young fellow like Pau compromising us, just because he doesn't understand what he's dealing with.' He paused. 'Luca took him under his wing, and for the past six months Pau has been part of the bookshop. We've developed quite a fondness for the lad, and vice versa, even though he may not admit it. And, as you can see, he has a real passion for the place.'

'And he thinks that I'm going to take it away from him?' asked Jon.

'A great deal has already been taken away from him,' said Iversen. 'Often enough that I suppose he has come to expect it.'

Jon nodded pensively.

'Well, I'd better ...' Iversen pointed towards the door, then got up and left the room. Jon could hear his footsteps move along the hallway and up the creaking stairs. Then everything was quiet.

Left alone, he stood up and studied the books lining the shelves. There weren't many titles he recognized, and besides, the truly old volumes were in Latin or Greek, which he couldn't read. Of course there were also numerous works in Italian, and even though Jon hadn't used his Italian in years, he was able to read some of the words.

In many cases the titles on the spines were artfully executed, in Gothic script or with little illustrations, and at times he struggled to decipher what it said. A few books had no spine at all; rather, they were a collection of yellowed pages held together with cords made of leather or bast. Others had metal fittings on the spine and on the corners of the cover; still others had covers made of veneer on which the title and ornamentation had been burned into the wood.

After a while the letters began flickering before Jon's eyes, and he sat down in one of the soft leather chairs to survey the room. It wasn't hard to imagine that it had taken generations to compile this collection – a task that had started in Italy and had accompanied the Campelli family through Europe to Denmark. For a moment he pictured the scene in his mind: a little family pushing a cart loaded down with books and a great secret. Jon leaned his head back and covered his face with both hands.

He'd been very stressed lately. The Remer case was taking all his waking hours, and the number of files he was lugging back and forth between his flat and the firm was getting greater and greater. His home had become an extension of his office, and he had no time to sit on his roof terrace or prepare proper meals in his brand-new kitchen. Most often he picked up food from one of the nearby fast-food restaurants or else he ate pre-packaged meals that he cooked in the microwave.

Jon moved his hands to the sides of his face, pressing his index and middle fingers against his temples, massaging his skull in circular motions. He inhaled slowly, taking in deep breaths, noticing how his pulse slowed and his body felt heavy.

Luca's death couldn't have happened at a worse time.

He removed his hands from his face and lowered his arms to the armrests of the chair. With his eyes still closed, he continued to breathe calmly. His chest rose and fell in time with his breath, and he could hear the air leaving his lungs and then being drawn in once again.

But there was something else.

When he listened closely, he could hear a faint, rushing sound. A quiet whispering, almost inaudible, seemed to have seeped into the room, and very slowly the sound grew in strength, as if it were coming closer or simply getting louder. Jon concentrated hard but couldn't make out what was being said or whether they were male or female voices, because there was definitely more than one. Like a low murmur from an entire crowd. The sound seemed so faint and weak that he had to hold his breath to pinpoint where it was coming from, but as soon as he sensed that the sound was coming from a particular direction, it would move. His heart began pounding harder and he gasped for air, only to hold his breath once again to listen.