Читать книгу The Bad Book Affair - Ian Sansom - Страница 6

Tumdrum. Tumdrum. Tumdrum was not the back of beyond. No.

It was much, much farther.

No. Farther.

A little bit farther.

There. That’s about right.

Tumdrum, the armpit of Antrim, on the north of the north coast of the north of Northern Ireland, a place where the sky was always the colour of a pair of very old stone-washed jeans, beaten and rinsed, and where the only pub, the First and Last, was a harbinger of Armageddon, and where the Bible Shop was the bookshop, where the replacement of what little remained of Edwardian and Victorian historic architecture with stunning, high-spec turnkey apartments was almost complete, and where a trip to Billy Kelly’s edge-of-town Car and Van Superstore (‘Please Pull In To View Our Massive Stock With No Obligation’) represented a day out, and where scones—delicious, admittedly, served warm, buttered and spread with jam—were the height of culinary sophistication at Zelda’s Café, the town’s ‘Internet Hot Spot: The First And Still The Best’.

And here, of all places, was Israel Armstrong, back at his post in this godforsaken Nowheresville, sitting on the mobile library, parked up in a lay-by, doing nothing but issuing true crime books about local thugs, and thinly fictionalised books about local thugs, and books by local thugs, and memoirs by the wives of local thugs, while enjoying all of the usual banter and craic with his regular readers. Such as Mr McCully.

‘I’m looking for the De Saurus.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The DE SAURUS.’

‘Right. And it’s a foreign author?’

‘A foreign author?’

‘De Saurus. Like the Marquis de Sade?’

‘The what?’

‘Or De Maupassant?’

‘Are ye having me on?’

‘No. No.’

‘Are ye having a wee laugh?’

‘No. Not at all. I’m trying to help.’

‘Good. So, it’s the book with the words in it.’

‘Well, sir, I think you’ll find that…most books have words in—’

‘Don’t ye be patronising me now, ye wee skite, I know exactly what your game is.’

‘I can assure you, Mr McCully, that the last thing I would do would be to patronise you.’

It was as if he’d never been away.

‘Come on, then. The De Saurus. The book with all the words in it.’

‘The book with all the words in it,’ repeated Israel. ‘The…Book…With…All…The…Words…In…It.’

‘Aye! THE DE SAURUS!’

‘Ah, right! Yes! Roget’s Thesaurus?’

‘No. That’s not it.’

‘I think it might be, actually. If you want to have a look here…’

‘No.’

‘The classic book of synonyms and antonyms?’

‘No! Cymbals and Antimals?’

‘I think it’s the Thesaurus.’

‘It is not. The De Saurus.’

‘OK, well, sorry. We can’t help you with the De Saurus.’

‘D’ye have any books on the Foreign Legion, then?’

‘Certainly.’

‘And a guidebook to Prague for the wife?’

‘Of course.’

He was harmless, really, Mr McCully. They were all harmless: the only real harm they did was to Israel’s fragile mental and emotional health.

Like Mrs Hammond, for example.

‘I’m looking for a book.’

‘Yes, Mrs Hammond. Good. You’ve come to the—’

‘It’s a true story.’

‘OK.’

‘About a man.’

‘Good. What kind of a man?’

‘It was on the telly yesterday, sure. A fella was talking about it.’

‘I see. And the man was…?’

‘It was the fella on the telly. The English man. With the lovely hair.’

‘Right. The man who wrote the book was an English man with lovely hair? Or the man who the book is about is an English man with lovely hair?’

‘Ach, no, the man with the programme on the telly with the lovely hair.’

‘Ah. The man with the programme on the telly…who interviewed the man…? about his book…about the man…is an English man…with lovely hair?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, let’s see what we can find here.’

And Hughie Boyd.

‘I was in last year, sure, and there was a book on a shelf down there, but it’s not there now.’

‘Right.’

‘D’ye not have it, then?’

‘Erm. Whereabouts on the shelf was it exactly?’

‘Just there, look. There.’

‘Here?’

‘No! There!’

‘Ah. Oh. Right. There. Well. I’m afraid we’ve moved that book.’

‘Typical.’

‘Thank you, Mr Boyd! Lovely to see you! Have a nice day!’

And George Kemp.

‘D’ye have Bibles?’

‘Yes, indeed, we do, Mr Kemp. Bibles. Bibles. Let me see. A Bible, anyway. Here we are. Yes.’

‘I’ll take it.’

‘Erm. Well. It’s reference only, I’m afraid.’

‘What do ye mean?’

‘I can’t issue it to you.’

‘But it’s the Bible.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘You can’t stop me getting out the Bible.’

‘Well, yes, I can, actually, if it’s a reference book.’

‘It’s not a reference book!’

‘Yes it is. It’s—’

‘It’s the Word of God.’

‘Yes. But I’m afraid it’s our reference copy of the Word of God. I’m afraid you can’t take it with you right now. I can get you a copy on interlibrary loan for next week.’

‘That’s no good to me, is it? I want to read it now.’

‘Well, you can read it here, if you want to.’

‘In here? Are ye mad? I want to read it in the privacy of my own home. It’s for the purposes of private devotion.’

‘Well, I’m sorry, I can’t—’

‘Yer not a Christian, are ye?’

‘Erm…’

‘Ye’re not washed in the blood of the Lamb?’

‘Erm…’

‘You know you’re going to hell, unless you turn to Jesus.’

‘Right. Good. Thank you, Mr Kemp. Have a nice day!’

And of course Mrs Onions’ friend, Noreen.

‘Now, young man, will ye choose me a book?’

‘Yes, of course, Noreen. I…Just remind me, what sort of books do you like to…’

‘I’ve read them all now.’

‘OK. What, all the books in the library?’

‘Every last one of them.’

‘All the books?’

‘Aye.’

‘Everything?’

‘Aye. I’m eighty-four, you know.’

‘Yes. Well done.’

‘I waited fourteen years for a knee replacement.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘It was crumbling away.’

‘Right.’

‘I’ve read all these books, you know.’

‘Yes, you said.’

‘All the Mill and Boons.’

‘There are other books you could try, Noreen…’

‘Ach, no. I don’t have time for them. I had a friend, she died while she was reading one of them other books.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘You’re all right—it wasnae a library book. She bought her own books.’

‘Right.’

‘Her son looked after her rightly. Not like mine. I’ve not a phone call from them from week to week. I wonder, would ye be able to do me a few bits of shopping in?’

Misplaced, that was the word for it. That’s what he was, Israel. That was his problem. He was misplaced. He rightly belonged in delightful places, Israel, filled with delightful people: Ravello, for example, in the 1920s, or somewhere around Lake Como, perhaps, with people who enjoyed painting watercolours of old buildings, and who drank prosecco, and grappa, from small tumblers, while enjoying intellectually stimulating and ever-so-slightly-erotically-charged conversations. His natural habitat was formal terraced gardens, swagged with wisteria, with ancient fig trees and vine-covered trellises, and shaded patios leading into light-filled villas with shutters and faded parquet flooring. Even back home in leafy north London, with access to good coffee and a reliable broadband service, that’d do. Instead, he’d somehow ended up as the mobile librarian in a town where Pat’s Manicure and Footcare (‘Manicure, Polish, Acrylics, Corns, Callouses, And Verucas’) in the town square was a popular meeting place for young and old alike, and where local fishmonger Tommy Turner’s recent winning of the local Chamber of Commerce’s Small-To-Medium Business Personality of the Year Award was a cause for celebration (‘Small-To-Medium Personality of the Year Awarded to Local Man’, ran the headline in the Impartial Recorder).

Israel had always liked to think of himself as a warm, outgoing, friendly sort of an individual who could rub along with anyone. Until he came to Tumdrum, where warm, outgoing, friendly sorts of individuals who thought they could rub along with anyone but who weren’t from round here were generally considered to be pushy, uppity good-for-nothings. He was a square peg in a round hole, a fish out of water, out of step, out of time, and out of place. He was a misfit, though admittedly a slightly lighter, bearded misfit, after his two weeks in bed, contemplating the meaning of life, the universe and everything, and weeping over Gloria, and the plight of the Hebrew people, and the thought of his forthcoming thirtieth birthday, which he would be celebrating, unbelievably, in Tumdrum. Alone.

He grimaced at his reflection in the windscreen. He’d lost quite a bit of weight, what with pretty much surviving on wine, cider and spoonfuls of peanut butter for the past few weeks, with only the occasional variation.

Not that he was on a diet. Not as such. Since he’d split up with Gloria he’d been losing weight at a rate of several ounces a day—the equivalent of about a bag of lean beef-mince a week—and had gone down from a size 36 waist to a 32 in just a couple of months, achieving a weight and a size that he’d last seen when he was a schoolboy. He was using safety pins on his trousers, and had had to trim some of the vast expanses of his shirt-tails and use them for rags. His duffel coat flapped around him like a dirty brown toggle-tie blanket left out on the line to dry.

It wasn’t that he’d decided not to eat. He just found that he couldn’t eat; he wasn’t able to eat. It wasn’t a diet; it was more like an unofficial hunger strike: his body was refusing him. Tayto cheese-and-onion crisps—certainly the best and possibly the only good reason for living in Northern Ireland—tasted like ashes in his mouth. And champ—often he couldn’t manage more than a mouthful of old Mr Devine’s creamy champ at dinner, all that potato and spring onion and good salted butter going to waste, scraped away for the pigs. Potato bread likewise. Sodas. Even the tray bakes—he’d not been able to finish a tray bake for weeks. At lunchtime he’d go to the Trusty Crusty and buy himself a couple of caramel squares, and a church window, a fifteen, maybe a Florentine—just the normal day’s Tumdrum home-baked snacks—but it was no go. He’d be about to tuck in, and suddenly his body seemed to just give up, seemed to say, ‘What’s the point?’ Since splitting up with Gloria he’d changed from a coffee-guzzling, comfort-eating, vaguely troubled fat person into a graze ‘n’ nibbling, wine-bibbing, deeply troubled thin person. He was hardly eating anything, but felt bloated the whole time. His hunger, which had always been his friend, had seemingly deserted him. His headaches were worse than ever, and at night he was having these dreams, vivid dreams all the time—bobbing around on a life raft, scanning the horizon, no land in sight; tripping down mountainsides; wandering lost through vast deserts…abandonment.

He was not only a misfit. He was an eating-disordered misfit.

As he was musing on his profound, increasing, ageing misfittedness, a young woman had come up the steps into the library. Israel glanced up. She looked to be in her mid-teens, although it was difficult to tell, because she had long, blonde hair hanging down over her face, big mascaraed eyelashes, and a black beanie hat pulled down tight over her head. Israel gave her a second glance: if she was indeed in her mid-teens, she should probably have been at school. They had this problem all the time, children bunking off school and skulking around the library. They called it ‘mitching off’, the children. ‘Aye, I’m mitching off, what are ye going to do about it?’ they would retort to Israel’s polite suggestion that they return to school. He always felt vaguely responsible for truants, in the same way he felt vaguely responsible for the future of the rainforests, and global warming, and the war on terror. He felt bad, ineffectively bad, ruminatively bad. He felt bad, but could do absolutely nothing about it. He wasn’t a politician, or a policeman, or a teacher, he was just a librarian, and alas librarians aren’t able to save the world, or even to act in loco parentis. He was powerless. In the end Israel’s only real responsibility was towards the books, rather than the readers. There wasn’t really much he could do for readers. The books he could cope with. The great thing about books is that they don’t talk back—unlike the teenagers, and the Mrs Hammonds and Hughie Boyds and Mrs Onions of this world. Israel absolutely dreaded teenagers coming on board the mobile library, more even than he dreaded reading to the children of Tumdrum Primary, or even dealing with Mrs Onions. Children are bad enough—children are rude, selfish, greedy and unthinking individuals who are unable to distinguish between their own selfish wants and needs and the wants and needs of others. And adults are children with money, alcohol and power. But that in-between stage, the teenage, is even worse, the interim between childhood and adulthood. In the interim between raging, selfish, impotent childhood and raging, impotent, insignificant adulthood you have adolescence, which is childhood with hormones. He hated Tumdrum’s teens.

The girl was wearing a short, black skirt, and thick black tights, and heavy black boots, and a long black jumper, and she carried over her shoulder a black bag covered all over in black plastic spikes. It was a bag that looked as though it might have been useful as a cat-scratcher, or as a kind of orthopaedic aid for people with lower back problems caused by bad posture from sitting staring at a computer all day playing multiuser-dimension games.

She looked like trouble. She looked like a Goth. He hated Goths.

‘I don’t like the Goths,’ he’d mentioned to Ted one day.

‘Why not?’ said Ted.

‘I don’t know. They look like they’re in the Addams Family.’

‘That’s the idea, isn’t it?’ said Ted.

‘Yes, but it’s…weird.’

‘Weird!’ said Ted. ‘Weird?’

‘Yes, weird.’

‘Aye, and ye’d know weird, right enough.’

‘Yes. I would.’

‘Aye, ye see, that’s just like ye—you’re a terrible hypocrite, so you are.’

‘I am not.’

‘’Course you are. You’re all for this political correctness, and then ye’re after saying ye don’t like the Goths.’

‘Well, I don’t.’

‘Ach, ye’re a sickener, so you are.’

‘They come in wearing trench coats and…’

‘What’s wrong with trench coats?’ said Ted. ‘You don’t like people wearing trench coats?’

‘No. It’s just…People wearing long black coats and…’

‘Who are those people in Israel?’ said Ted.

‘Jews?’

‘Yes, them. The ones in the long black coats and the hats.’

‘That’s different. That’s religion.’

‘Well, it’s the same thing for the young ones here.’

‘It’s not a religion.’

‘It is to them.’

‘Anyway, Ted. I do not like the Goths coming on the library and smoking. And we’re not meant to be issuing them with X-rated DVDs and…’

‘It’ll do them no harm, sure. And at least if they’re on the van they’re not out cloddin’ stones.’

‘Clodding?’

‘Throwing stones, ye eejit.’

‘Right.’

‘Not a jot of harm in ’em.’

‘How do you know there’s not a jot of harm in them?’

‘I just know,’ said Ted. ‘When you’ve known people as long as I have, you just know.’

‘Well, when the Goths go on the rampage and…’

‘Ach, Israel, will ye lighten up for just one minute, will ye? It’s like listening to an auld man, so it is.’

Israel peered at the girl Goth over his book—Infinite Jest. She did look familiar, the Goth, but then all Goths looked the same to him: pale faces, dark clothes, like priests, or Pierrots, or members of Parisian mime troupes. The only discernible difference between all of Tumdrum’s Goths seemed to be in size: there were fat ones, and thin ones, but nothing in between. There didn’t seem to be any such thing as a medium-sized Goth: Gothicism seemed to be a minimal and a maximal kind of a teenage subculture.

‘There are no medium Goths,’ he remarked idly to Ted one day.

‘A medium Goth is called an emo,’ said Ted. ‘Keep up, ye eejit.’

Ted, of course, had no problem with Tumdrum’s Goths. Or the emos. Because, of course, Ted had no problem with anyone: Goths, emos, drunks, loonies, children, Mrs Onions, OAPs. As part-time driver of the mobile library, and proprietor-driver of Ted’s Cabs (‘If You Want To Get There, Call The Bear’), Ted knew everyone in town by name, and mostly from birth. He certainly knew all of Tumdrum’s Goths from when they were mewling and puking in the children’s book trough, and so was able to handle them with his usual aplomb, which mostly meant slagging, mocking and teasing them, but also allowing them to smoke on board the library when it was raining. Ted called the Goths the Whigmaleeries, or the Wee Yins.

‘And what are Whigmaleeries when they’re at home?’ asked Israel.

‘They’re Wee Yins,’ said Ted.

So that had cleared that up.

The young female Goth hovered nervously around the fiction shelves for a few moments, glancing over her black-jumpered shoulder.

‘Good morning, madam,’ said Israel, breaking the Gothic silence. ‘How can I possibly help you?’ He found sometimes that if he pretended to be positive and helpful it made him feel positive and helpful, for a brief moment at least. Were all positive and helpful people just pretending? ‘Edgar Allan Poe, perhaps?’

‘What?’

‘Edgar Allan Poe?’ he said. ‘Master of the macabre.’

The girl looked blankly at him.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was just…You know. I like to guess sometimes which books people are going to borrow, just from the way they…You know…big…fat person, probably going to borrow a…diet book. Child, probably going to borrow…a children’s book…And a weird-looking person is probably going to…Anyway.’

Israel looked at the young woman’s unsmiling face. Either that was very heavy make-up and eyeliner she was wearing, or she had a very pale complexion and hadn’t slept for weeks.

‘I’m looking for something…’ said the young woman. She looked around again, over her shoulder and lowered her voice. ‘From the Unshelved.’

‘Ah,’ said Israel, lowering his voice conspiratorially also. ‘Of course. The Unshelved.’

‘Yes.’

Israel winked at her and reached down under the issue desk.

The Unshelved was an unofficial category of books that the library service—under considerable pressure from representatives from churches, and so-called ‘community’ groups and local political parties—had agreed not to display on open shelves in the mobile library. The arrangement had been made long before Israel’s time in Tumdrum, but apparently, unbelievably, it had been agreed that because of the unique status of the mobile library—its stock being so small, and its serving such diverse communities—certain books would be kept under the issue desk, duly catalogued and available for loan but unseen by the young, the impressionable and the mentally infirm who thronged the van’s potentially virulent, morally infecting eight-foot-by-three-foot browsing area. Books in the Unshelved category included perennial favourites such as Lady Chatterley’s Lover, A Clockwork Orange, Nineteen Eighty-Four, and American Psycho, and one or two racier titles such as Nancy Friday’s My Secret Garden and The Hite Report. During quieter moments in isolated laybys Israel had been known to have an occasional glance at the latter titles. There was, it seemed, no limit to human ingenuity and imagination. He’d also spent one entire uneventful afternoon on the van counting the various offensive words in Lady Chatterley. Thirty fucks or fuckings; 14 cunts; 13 balls; 6 each of shit and arse; 4 cocks; and 3 pisses. Which was quite a lot, really, when you thought about it.

Not that he agreed with censorship. Not at all. On the contrary. He did not agree with the Unshelved, on principle. As a north London Jewish vegetarian liberal freethinker—someone who would most certainly be reading the Guardian on a daily basis, if the Guardian were available on a daily basis in Tumdrum—Israel saw no problem with open access to all available books and to all of the rich and peculiar outpourings of the human mind. Once you were about eleven, frankly, in Israel’s opinion, you could and should be reading whatever was out there. You might not be able to drink alcohol, or marry, or drive a car, but surely you should be allowed to read Under the Volcano, and Madame Bovary, and Crash? How else were you going to learn? Personally, Israel had gone through all of William Burroughs, and D. H. Lawrence, and Norman Mailer, and Lolita in his local library back home in north London in his early teens, looking for the dirty bits, which usually someone else had already found and had marked on your behalf, and it hadn’t done him any harm at all. Or not much.

The only books in the library that Israel had any real doubts about were in fact the young adult readers, which were proudly and openly displayed on the mobile on the ‘Teen Fiction’ shelves, in their garish jackets with their sub-literate jacket blurbs. Israel avoided uplifting, joyous, life-affirming reads as much as the next man—who cares about the Five People You Meet in Heaven with Morrie?—but even he found some of the young adult material depressing and creepy. In Israel’s experience as a librarian most young teenagers these days seemed to be reading deeply disturbing, adult-sanctioned psycho-sexual fantasies about zombies and vampires. This probably tells you something very profound about where we are as a society, but Israel would have needed the Guardian, or perhaps the Daily Telegraph, to remind him exactly what.

The Goth waited patiently while Israel scooped up the dozen or so books from the shelf under the desk, and placed them on the table. It was always a slightly awkward moment, the displaying of the great Unshelved—you never knew if the borrower really was looking for George Orwell, or was really angling for Madonna’s Sex. Israel suspected that Nineteen Eighty-Four was borrowed more times out of embarrassment than out of choice. He always preferred to absent himself while the borrower…browsed.

‘I’ll, er…just tidy a few books here,’ he said.

When the young woman’s nervous shuffling made it clear that she had made her decision, Israel swiftly and discreetly issued the books with half-closed eyes.

‘Thank you, then. Enjoy your reading!’

Philip Roth. American Pastoral: the young woman would not be disappointed.

Israel glanced at his watch.

Eleven o’clock.

Which in a town like Tumdrum, wherever you were, meant only one thing.

Zelda’s.

He called Gloria, again, quickly.

No reply.