Fly, Zainab said, when and how did you amass these books?
Well, dearest Zainab, I thought you’d never ask. Allow me to explain. You see, when the bearded lady of the circus, who raised me after my mother’s death, collapsed one day on the floor of our small apartment, I lifted her up and went all over town looking for a doctor. None of those pious souls would come to our house; none wanted to touch the freak woman with a long beard, a penis, and sinful breasts, and we couldn’t afford the fees that might have changed their minds. The lady refused to go to the state hospital because, she said, we should all end in dignity. I was sixteen by then, and I was known all over town as the son of the freak. I carried the bearded lady to the poorest neighbourhood and there, finally, I found a doctor who would help us. He was extremely well-read, and one day, when we were talking about books, he gave me a Baldwin novel to read (I still have it: on the first golden shelf from the left, above all the others. . Giovanni’s Room, there it is).
That good doctor took care of the bearded lady for free. She had been sick for years, and I’d left school and worked up in the hills and down in the streets until one day I landed a job as a delivery boy. I delivered food all over town. I peeked into houses with crosses hanging above televisions and on the kitchen walls alongside pots and pans. I watched workingmen rejoice over the hamburger in the box, the fries in the bag, and the soda in the bundle of ice. Until, one day, I met the professor, who ordered everything without meat but with a lot of salt. I would knock at his door and I would wait for him to open up. He was always distracted by things other than consumption, and confused by the counting of coins. And each time he would say the exact same thing: Oh, you’re already here, let me put my book down and bring you the change, I think I left it. . And the door would close and I would wait again, and sometimes I would have to ring the bell to remind him that I was still standing there.
But once he opened the door and, without looking at me, he invited me in, ushering me to the basement, saying, The fuse box is this way. And I stood in the middle of his house, surrounded by a galaxy of books. I told him that I would not be able to fix his fuse box and reminded him that one could also eat in the dark.
Indeed, he said, smiling, there is light to be found in the darkest places. Have you eaten? he asked me.
No.
Well then, join me.
And I did. And we became friends. I would bring him food and we would talk about life, the stars, minerals, and books. His real interest was in history and literature, but he was well versed in astrology and cosmology as well. His two favourite pastimes were to read and to search for wandering planets. Such planets are known as planemos, he informed me once while we ate and talked. They are exiled bundles of matter that wander the universe aimlessly. These objects, he said, have no orbits and no host stars to orbit around. Aimless, he said, wanderers, lost. But they get to know more and reach farther places.
But then, after we became friends and because of his poor vision, whoever knocked at his door was invited in for food and called by the name of Fly. First it was an electrician who accepted the offer of some leftovers, then a taxi driver came and ate all the professor’s green jelly beans, and then a series of hobo intellectuals started to come and help themselves to things in the fridge and, if provided, a few glasses of wine. The only objection raised by all these beneficiaries was to being called Fly. You invited us, a hobo was heard saying to the professor, no need for insults and name-calling.
Many years later the absent-minded professor said to me, Fly, I have only three months to live. I shall give all my papers and personal correspondence to the university archives, but I want you to have my books.
And so it was. For weeks I carried his books back to my place. The professor who, incidentally, was named Alberto Manuel, told me that he’d always hoped that one day he would die a glorious and poetic death, in the same manner as a ninth-century Arab philosopher by the name of Al-Jahiz, who, like himself, had amassed a huge library. One day a section of the library fell on his head and killed him.
But the important question remains, my dearest Fly, which is: which section fell on his head? And in what manner was his library arranged?
All libraries must submit to a certain order, I answered.
Indeed, agreed the professor, or all will be lost. The fall of nations and empires begins with the fall of libraries.
At the professor’s funeral I walked with many of his students and colleagues. They all gave speeches about the professor’s life, his accomplishments, and his love for books, learning, and life. Some recited poems and even songs. A blond man stood up and said: I shall read a passage from the professor’s favourite poet, Abū al-ʿAlā ʾal-Maʿ arrī. Forgive me for mispronouncing the poet’s name, the blond man added, before reading a passage that went like this:
We laugh, but inept is our laughter;
We should weep and weep sore,
Who are shattered like glass, and thereafter
Remoulded no more.
I carried one of the books from the professor’s library, The History of Salt, and when my turn came to say a few words, I read a passage on the use of salt in the time of the pharaohs, in the mummification of loved ones. My selection was pedantic, but I knew that the professor’s love of salt justified my choice. Salt was never taxed by the Ottoman Empire, I read, and the word tooz, though it is no longer used in the modern Turkish dialect, survives in the language of a few inhabitants of the Levant now, long after the Empire’s retreat from the region. What vanishes from history and what remains, I concluded, is a mystery.
And since then, my dearest Zainab, I’ve lived with a large collection of books.
Fly, Zainab said, and she looked at me with tears in her eyes. That is wonderful. Then she extended her hands to my face and said, Fly, I can’t take care of you. You were not well last night. You should seek help. You should see someone. .
FOG
THE NEXT DAY, as I lay in bed under a fog of lassitude, the thought of the killing consumed me and I wondered where Otto could have gone.
To distract myself, I debated whether to rearrange the history section of my library based on the letter S, to give priority to the erotic over the monumental. Just then I heard the Romanian and the doctor shaking their bed to the tune of “The Blue Danube” so I quickly got up and waltzed my way across the hall. I knocked and knocked until finally the Romanian came and opened the door a crack.
What do you want? she screamed at me.
Well, I know that the doctor is here, I saw his car downstairs, and I was wondering if I could have an off-hours consultation.
Who is it? I heard the doctor yell as he lowered the music.
It is me, Doctor, the neighbour who brings gifts.
Wait outside, he called. I’ll be right there.
I stood in the hallway. He came out fixing his trousers. Doctor, I began, I hope you enjoyed the package that I gave to our friend here the other day.
He nodded, but did not otherwise acknowledge it.
Anyway, I have a small favour to ask. I have been having what might be called fantastical thoughts.
What kinds of thoughts?
Well, harmless thoughts. Theatrical thoughts that involve ropes, clowns, and even animals.
Sexual fantasies?
No. More like memories. Anyway, I thought that I would see a doctor for my head, and I happened to learn the name of a good one. So I was wondering if you could refer me to him. His name is Dr. Wu.
Sure, sure, he said, but you will have to come to my office for that.
Yes, and I’m sorry to disturb you, but I thought since you were here and all. .