The Cat Who Saved Books(10)

And with that, he turned his chair to face away from his visitors and toward the bookshelves. He opened his book again, then raised one hand to point in the direction of the door.

“Please leave.”

Rintaro didn’t move. The cat, too, appeared to be deep in thought. The silence became oppressive. The man went back to turning the pages of his book. The dry, rustling sound filled the cavernous hall.

Suddenly there was a different, swishing sound. The white fusuma door had slid open, but there was no one on the other side, no sign of the woman who had brought them here. All they could see was a deep, sinister darkness. Rintaro shuddered.

“Think about it, Mr. Proprietor,” whispered the cat. “This one is only a tough rival because there’s truth in what he says.”

“Truth?”

“Right. This labyrinth runs on the power of truth. And it doesn’t matter how contorted that truth may be—as long as personal conviction is involved, it won’t collapse easily. But not everything he says is true.”

The cat took a measured pace forward.

“He has a weak spot,” it hissed. “He’s very skilled at spouting heaps of words, but they can’t all be true. There’s got to be a lie in there somewhere.”

“A lie?”

Something in the atmosphere changed. Rintaro turned to look at the door. Beyond the darkness a wind had begun to blow. Or rather, there was a wind blowing through the hall, toward the darkness, easing Rintaro and the cat toward the fusuma door. This wind was steadily increasing in strength, its destination that mysterious black vortex of emptiness outside. A chill ran down Rintaro’s spine.

He turned back to see that the man was still engrossed in his book as if nothing were happening. It looked as if he’d nearly reached the end of that great thick volume . . . And after he turned the last page, that finished book would be no more than a decorative object somewhere in the chaos of this book vault. Stuffed into one of these showy glass-fronted cases. Locked up, never to be handled again.

All these books really were imprisoned.

The wind had begun to howl now, and Rintaro couldn’t hear the cat, who was trying to tell him something.

But Rintaro’s attention was still focused on the books. He turned to the man.

“Something’s not right.” He’d only mustered a faint mutter, but the man’s shoulders twitched in response.

“I’m sure you’re lying.”

This time Rintaro’s voice was louder, and the man turned to glower at him. But Rintaro refused to buckle under the force of his glare.

“You’re lying to us. You say that you love books, but that’s not true.”

“What a thing to say.” The man’s reply was too quick. “You’re just a kid. Before you incur the wrath of your superior, you’d better take that offensive eyesore of a cat and get the hell out of here.”

“You don’t love books at all,” repeated Rintaro, standing up straighter and looking the man directly in the eyes. His opponent noticeably flinched.

“On what evidence—”

“Just look around you.”

Rintaro’s voice came out more powerfully than he’d expected. But it wasn’t only the force of his voice; it was that he knew exactly what to say.

“I agree that there’s an amazing number of books here. I’m sure it’s rare to find such a variety in one place. And you even have precious old books that are really difficult to find these days. But that’s all.”

“All?”

“Take for example this ten-volume edition here: The D’Artagnan Romances.”

Rintaro pointed to a row of ten beautifully bound books on a shelf to his left. The titles stood out boldly in gold lettering against a white background. Alexandre Dumas’s greatest works, translated into Japanese, were enshrined in a display case.

“It’s not every day you get the chance to see all these works together like this. All ten books looking as if they’ve never been opened, in perfect condition. Look at the size of these volumes. No matter how carefully you read them, they must surely end up with a mark or two, perhaps even a bent spine. And yet they look as if they have only just been delivered, brand new.”

“Books are treasures to me. I read each book with the utmost care and place it into the display case when I finish. It’s a part of my daily routine, and it gives me great pleasure.”

“Then where’s volume eleven?”

The man’s eyebrow twitched.

“In the Japanese translation, The D’Artagnan Romances is an eleven-volume set. The final volume, Farewell to the Sword, is missing,” Rintaro said, causing the man to freeze.

Rintaro ignored him. He gestured at the shelf to his right.

“Over there you have Jean-Christophe by Rolland. I can see the first and the last groupings of volumes, but there should be a middle grouping, too. And what about The Chronicles of Narnia? Where’s The Horse and His Boy? You say that books are your treasures, but it doesn’t look that way. On the surface, everything seems to be in perfect order, but when you look closely, these shelves are a mess.”

Rintaro looked up at the ceiling of the great hall. At some point during his speech, the raging wind had dropped to a breeze.

“This isn’t a library for holding your precious books. They’re for showing off whatever books you managed to get your hands on. The whole place is nothing but a showroom.”