I wiped the perspiration from my head and eyes. “What endeavor are you talking about, and whose palace is this?”
“Isn’t it marvelous? I ordered it erected!” His wolflike laugh flickered again. “As I say, the King of Tonga has been very grateful for all my assistance. I came back, Mr. Clover, because these South Sea islands may be the last place in the world where books have yet to exist. Do you see now? We can start anew with all of it. This time, we can do better. So much better.”
I could hardly fathom what he was prattling on about. He did not seem to require a response though, and continued as we passed through an arch onto a grand staircase.
“Think of what you are witnessing here, Mr. Clover. I am creating a true Republic of Letters, a living Library of Alexandria! When I heard Vao speak English so perfectly, I realized in that moment that the natives of these islands were sponges, ready to soak in alien languages and knowledge on a vast scale—and in a purer way than we ever can—just as they had done with our religions, believing in them with directness and simplicity. Books are only as strong and as weak as pieces of paper, ready to be engulfed by all the elements around us. They are bound to disappear into dust. But people—well, you will recall how I was so struck by Tulagi, that little man carrying around the history of his islands on his sturdy shoulders like Atlas taking the world upon his back. That is what gave me the first germ of my idea. Here, I use the money provided by the Tongan government to train natives from dozens of South Sea islands in all the world’s civilized languages, and then each one memorizes one of the great books. Fortunately, the churches here and at many other islands have already taught English to some of the natives, and made them familiar, generally, with higher sorts of morals.”
We walked through another reading room, filled with carpets and silk hangings. My guide paused to lean in and listen to a younger man, missing one arm, reading aloud the moment in the tale of Sir Gawain when the green knight calls on Gawain to cut off his head. The bookseller, delighted, gestured for me to listen.
Gawain gripped his axe and raised it on high, the left foot he set forward on the floor, and let the blow fall lightly on the bare neck.
I pulled Mr. Fergins aside. “Where did these books come from? I thought there were hardly any to be found in this part of the world.”
“I had my collection transported here,” he replied, then showed a moment’s hesitation. “Come with me, if you wish. I’ll show you.”
He led me to another staircase, from which we returned down below. There seemed to be two types of people inhabiting this mansion, the memorizers and the servants. Though it was difficult to tell them apart, since they were all South Sea natives of one kind or another and they all bowed and, it seemed to me, very nearly wept to encounter Mr. Fergins in the flesh. I continued to feel light-headed and had to steady myself at several points as we climbed through a hatch and down a ladder into a kind of basement story, which was supported by huge pillars of stone.
“Don’t you see what you are doing here?” I asked as we descended. “I don’t think you do. These people you have gathered together are outcasts. That’s what they are. You have taken vagabonds and outcasts who are desperate for something more than what they are offered by their people, and you tempt them with the promise that these stories—stories that are not even their own—will make them ascend into a life of meaning, a life of happiness.”
He thought about this and then gave a low whistle. “Why, Mr. Clover, that is a remarkable formulation. Yes. I must remember that. Promise that stories will make them ascend into a life of meaning. That is exactly what literature has done from the beginning of time!”
Behind a heavy door was a kind of library that was more like a dungeon. The floor was slippery, the walls slimy. The air seemed to have a film of dust in it. There were books everywhere.
“There,” said Mr. Fergins.
“Why, you’ve practically buried them down here.”
He nodded thoughtfully, pushing his spectacles up his nose until they seemed to stick to his face. But he seemed unwilling to look directly at his once-beloved volumes. “I’m afraid there is no choice but to store them away, for each memorizer must be restricted to a single book, in order to maintain their knowledge of it, and the temptation to find more books from my library would be too great.”
“You’ve gone mad. This is mad. These books will shrivel away in this crypt. It is too humid. You might as well burn them!”
He gasped. “I would never do that, Mr. Clover.” He ran a finger gently across the spines of the books.
“I won’t allow it,” I cried out. I began to grab books from the shelves. Soon I was cradling a large pile of them, some of them practically disintegrating in my arms. “I will take them back myself—back where they belong.”
He picked up a bell and rang it.
“Call for your giants and criminals, and whomever you have tricked into being here, Mr. Fergins. I am taking these with me.” But my fanciful rescue stopped as my head felt lighter and my vision blurred.
I could hear the former bookseller whistle for help and a moment later I was being carried away. I let my eyes creep closed. When I opened them again, I was inside a room propped up on some pillows on a sofa. Across from me, there was a young girl with cocoa-colored skin and big eyes, fanning me with a large feather. Her hair was twisted up above her head and my eyes were drawn to the brightly colored seashells that formed a rainbow from one ear to the other.
“Methought a serpent eat my heart away, and you sat smiling at his cruel prey.”