‘Nyom, nyom,’ Samantha murmured.
Jean Perdu knew the legend too. The magical Book of Books, the great memory of mankind, which had been written by seven supernatural, all-seeing wise men five thousand years earlier. Legend had it that those seven Rishis had discovered these ethereal books, which described the entire past and future of the world, the script for all life, drawn up by beings that existed beyond such constraints as time and space. The Rishis supposedly interpreted the destinies of several million people and far-reaching historical events from those supernatural books and transcribed them onto marble or stone tablets, or even palm leaves.
Salvo Cuneo’s eyes lit up. ‘Imagine, Massimo. Your life is described in that palm-leaf library, on your own slender frond; every single detail of your birth, your death and everything in between: whom you’ll love, whom you’ll marry, your career; absolutely everything – even your past life.’
‘Pfff … king of the road,’ escaped from Samantha’s lips.
‘Your whole life and past life on a beer mat. Very plausible,’ muttered Perdu.
During his life as a bookseller, Jean Perdu had been forced to chase away several collectors who had wished to acquire these so-called Akashic Records, whatever the price.
‘Really?’ said Max. ‘Hey, guys, maybe I was Balzac.’
‘Maybe you were a tiny cannelloni too.’
‘And you can find out about your death as well. Not the exact day, but the month and the year. And it doesn’t hide how you’ll die either,’ added Cuneo.
‘No, I think I’ll do without,’ Max said doubtfully. ‘What’s the point of knowing the date of your own death? I’d spend the rest of my life out of my mind with fear. No thanks. What I’d like is some hope that eternity’s on my side.’
Perdu cleared his throat. ‘To return to Cuisery: most of the 1,641 inhabitants do something involving the printed word; the others take care of the visitors. They say the booksellers’ fraternities and sororities have woven a dense web of international contacts based on a parallel communications network. They don’t even use the internet – the book elders guard their knowledge so closely it would be lost when one of their members died.’
‘Mmm,’ sighed Samantha.
‘To ensure that doesn’t happen, each of them selects at least one successor, into whose ear he will pour his vast knowledge of books. They know mystical tales about the writing of famous works, secret editions, original manuscripts, the Women’s Bible …’
‘Cool,’ said Max.
‘… . or books that tell a very different story between the lines,’ Perdu continued in a low, conspiratorial tone of voice. ‘They say there’s a woman in Cuisery who knows the real endings of many famous works because she collects their final drafts and the drafts before that. She knows the original ending of Romeo and Juliet, the one where they both survive, marry and have children.’
‘Yuck.’ Max was appalled. ‘Romeo and Juliet survive and have kids? That ruins all the drama.’
‘I like it,’ said Cuneo. ‘I’ve always felt sorry for little Julia.’
‘And does any of them know who Sanary is?’ asked Max.
Jean Perdu certainly hoped so. He had written a postcard from Digoin to the president of Cuisery’s book guild, Samy Le Trequesser, to say that he was on his way.
At two in the morning, utterly spent, they fell asleep to the rocking of the waves that had grown gentler as the storm subsided.
When they awoke, the new day glittered with harmless, freshly rinsed sunshine, as though the previous night had never happened. The storm was gone – and so was Samantha.
Cuneo looked down, nonplussed, at his empty hand, then waved it at the other two.
‘Is it happening all over again? Why do I only find women on the waterways?’ he complained. ‘I’ve barely recovered from the last one.’
‘Oh right. You’ve only had fifteen years,’ grinned Max.
‘Women,’ grumbled Cuneo. ‘Couldn’t she at least write her number on the mirror in lipstick!’
‘I’ll fetch some croissants,’ Max announced.
‘I’ll come with you, amico, to look for the sleep singer,’ said Cuneo.
‘What? Neither of you knows his way around. I’ll go,’ Perdu butted in.
In the end all three of them went.
As they made their way from the small marina across the campsite and through the town gate to the bakery, an orc came towards them carrying an armful of baguettes. It was accompanied by an elf dressed up as Legolas, its eyes glued to its iPhone.
Perdu encountered a group of Harry Potters arguing at the top of their voices with a troop of Night’s Watch members outside the blue-painted front of La Découverte bookshop. Two ladies in vampire costumes rode towards them on mountain bikes, shooting Max hungry looks, and two Douglas Adams fans were emerging from the church in dressing gowns with towels slung over their shoulders.
‘A convention!’ cried Max.