The Cat Who Saved Books(21)

His tone switched again; this time he spoke with gentle admonishment.

“If stories aren’t read, they’re going to disappear. I’m just lending a hand to help keep them alive. I summarize them. I provide a means to speed-read. That way, lost stories can leave their mark on the present day, and at the same time people who want to engage with one of those stories, but only have so much time to spare, can do so.”

He rose slowly to his feet, brandishing the scissors in his right hand like an orchestra conductor with a baton.

“Melos was furious. Don’t you think that’s the perfect summary?”

He set about his own imaginary conducting of Beethoven’s symphony.

“Books and music are so similar, don’t you think? They bring wisdom, courage, and healing to our lives. Created by human beings as tools that bring comfort and inspiration to ourselves. And yet, there is a major difference between the two.”

As the rotund form of the scholar twisted and twirled to the multilayered melody, his white coat drew an exaggerated arc in the air, and the scissors flashed dangerously as they caught the light.

“Music can reach us every day in a variety of situations: your car stereo while driving, earbuds while you’re out jogging, my cassette radio here in the lab. It can be heard by you anywhere, anytime, whatever you’re doing. But not a book. You can listen to music while you’re jogging, but you can’t read a book. You can work on your research while listening to Beethoven’s Ninth, but you can’t write a paper and read Faust at the same time. Those pathetic limitations are why books are dying out. I’m dedicating myself to this research in order to rescue the book from its pitiful fate. I’m not mutilating these books. I’m saving them.”

At the very moment he finished speaking, a baritone began to sing, almost as if the scholar had timed his speech to coincide with the music.

The cat didn’t respond. Rintaro, for his part, could sort of understand what the man was saying. The same was true of the hoarder of books whom he had met on his previous adventure. Their approaches toward reading hinted at madness, but something about their words stung, preventing you from laughing. Perhaps it was the sting of truth.

“These days,” said the scholar mildly, almost as if he had sensed the turmoil in Rintaro’s heart, “a book isn’t considered worthy just because it’s profound or difficult. People want to enjoy masterpieces in an uncomplicated way, pleasurably, fashionably, as if they were a downloadable collection of Christmas songs. A masterpiece cannot survive if it doesn’t adapt to the demands of the times. And so, I wield these scissors to sustain the life of such books.”

“Mr. Proprietor?”

The voice of the cat brought Rintaro back to his senses.

“You’re not impressed by all this, are you?”

“To be honest, I’m a little bit impressed.”

“What the—!” The tabby cat glared at Rintaro, its whiskers stiffening in annoyance.

On the periphery of Rintaro’s vision, the scholar was still waving his hands around, conducting an imaginary orchestra in his head. The overhead fluorescent light reflected in the scissors, and the “Ode to Joy,” which had started out with a solo voice, had reached its first chorus.

“I admit it would be awesome to be able to read Faust in two minutes, but—”

“It’s a fallacy. He’s nothing but a sophist.”

“Whether it’s a fallacy or not,” interrupted Sayo. “I kind of get what he means. I’ve always been a slow reader, and I’m not good with difficult books, so I’d be tempted to choose one that is easier to read, whether by speed-reading or a summary.”

“You get it,” announced the scholar with a good deal of satisfaction. “You really get it. And I want to be of use to people like you.”

Sayo seemed bewitched. The normally intelligent and vivacious high school girl looked at the scholar with a dreamy expression, as if she were in some sort of trance.

The cat raised its voice, urgently.

“She’s about to fall under his spell— Do something!”

“I don’t know what to do!”

The loud tones of the “Ode to Joy” were too distracting for Rintaro to think clearly. The music had become a fence surrounding the scholar, keeping his visitors at bay.

Rintaro wiped the sweat from his forehead, then closed his eyes, and lifted his right hand to his glasses frame. What would Grandpa have said in this situation?

He did his best to summon an image of his grandfather in his mind—the old man sitting in profile, lost in thought with his teacup tilted toward his mouth. His gentle eyes following the words on the page, his reading glasses glinting in the lamplight. Wrinkled fingers gently turning pages . . .

“Do you like the mountains, Rintaro?”

It seemed to come from somewhere deep inside Rintaro’s own head; the rich voice of his grandfather as he carefully prepared a pot of tea.

“The mountains, Rintaro.”

“I don’t know. I’ve never climbed one.”

Rintaro hadn’t bothered to answer properly, probably too engrossed in the book he was reading. His grandfather had smiled and sat down beside his grandson.

“Reading a book is a lot like climbing a mountain.”

“What do you mean?”