The Infinite Library Read Online Free Page B

braid. For so long I had conformed to a set series of rules and expectations, never submitting myself to that graven predilection of more poetic minds to evaluate existence by other, less staid means. I knew that, in Shakespearean terms, tragedies began in a lighthearted way and ended in heavy complication (and casualties). The opposite was true for comedies. My meeting with Castellemare seemed to have elements of both.
    Rescheduling my flight, I made telephone contact with Castellemare who agreed to meet me the following week at his flat above the Bidaccio Building near Genoa, and I came armed with an arsenal of questions and the two editions he lent me. He was on the second floor of a very cramped room. It was crammed with antiques and curiousities. To the right of an old oak desk, within reach of the one who would sit there, was a sagging bookcase built into the wall, lined with old volumes. The carpet was faded, but seemingly of fine quality. There was a print framed at the top left of the room depicting a disembodied translucent eye looking into a sphere. There were Flemish decorative touches to the room which half made me expect to see a mappa mundi ominously occupying an aristocratic room with a parqueted floor. When I arrived, I noticed that someone else was already with him, a gruff man in a comically oversized greatcoat bearing sergeant stripes that were curling off the upper sleeve. The man appeared somewhat scurrilous and rat-like, and his character - as I would later realize - seem to be a perfect fit for his appearance. Some people were as they appeared, fingers in a perfect glove.
    “This is Angelo,” Castellemare introduced us. “Angelo, this is Gimaldi. The two of you will be working together.”
    “How many assistants do you have under your employ?” I asked. I tried not to acknowledge Angelo, as if I could talk over him. But some people cannot be ignored, like a hideous lamp in the midst of a cultured décor.
    “Just the two of you. Angelo has been with me for a few years now, haven’t you?”--Angelo nodded, bearing small rat’s teeth to confirm my mental description. “Angelo has a good nose for books, and he is my public front, in a way, and also an agent I deploy. He has a remarkable memory and an incredible instinct when it comes to books. He can walk into any old, dusty crèche stuffed with books, and walk out being able to tell you the entire contents. He has a synaesthetic memory. He is my best employee, entirely indispensable. Why, if he were to be pushed to his death by some ridiculous idiot, I'd be incensed beyond all calculation!”
    I nodded, pretending that I was impressed. Surely, such ability is impressive, but there was something I did not like about Angelo, a kind of distrustful aura that only emanates among those who make their living acquiring rare books at any cost, a bit too much like myself. There were the unmistakable marks of ambition and treachery in his features. He sat by Castellemare like a smug witch’s familiar.
    “I truly mean it,” he said, as if the point required further emphasis. “I would be in such a rage that woe be the man who would dare kill my Angelo, and I wouldn't care where it was written that it would be done, that it would be necessary that it would be done.”
    “Yes,” I agreed, not sure why Castellemare was going on about this. “So, what is it that you do for Castellemare?” I asked, trying to be inclusively polite. There was an air of conspiratorial camaraderie that I did not want to dispel. Small talk would do.
    Angelo shifted in his seat and gave me a spiking smirk, his face twisted like a growly drunk: “I catch slips.”
    Castellemare explained: “You see, Gimaldi, some of my books slip from my library and end up in other libraries. This is potentially very dangerous and, as you cannot imagine, horribly embarrassing. Angelo here retrieves them for me and places them where they belong. This will constitute the majority of your services