The Cat Who Saved Books(22)

His curiosity piqued, Rintaro had finally looked up from his book. His grandfather wafted his teacup slowly under his nose as if savoring the aroma of the tea.

“Reading isn’t only for pleasure or entertainment. Sometimes you need to examine the same lines deeply, read the same sentences over again. Sometimes you sit there, head in hands, only progressing at a painstakingly slow pace. And the result of all this hard work and careful study is that suddenly you’re there and your field of vision expands. It’s like finding a great view at the end of a long climbing trail.”

Under the light of the old-fashioned lamp, Rintaro’s grandfather sipped at his tea, calm and self-assured, and looking just like the wise old wizard in some fantasy novel.

“Reading can be grueling.”

The old man’s eyes twinkled behind his reading glasses.

“Of course it’s good to enjoy reading. But the views you can see hiking on a light, pleasant walking trail are limited. Don’t condemn the mountain because its trails are steep. It’s also a valuable and enjoyable part of climbing to struggle up a mountain step by step.”

He reached out one thin, bony hand and placed it on the boy’s head.

“If you’re going to climb, make it a tall mountain. The view will be so much better.”

The voice was warm and comforting.

It surprised Rintaro that he had had such a conversation with his grandfather.

“Mr. Proprietor?”

At the sound of the tabby’s voice, Rintaro’s eyes flew open.

The first thing he noticed was that there was an obvious change in Sayo’s appearance. Her cheeks had lost their healthy glow, and her sparkling eyes, emptied of all vitality, were no more than reflections of the pallid neon lighting. The strange paleness of her complexion now matched the faces of the white-coated workers they’d seen on their way here.

The symphony was reaching its climax, and as if being sucked into the music, Sayo began to walk toward the scholar. Instinctively, Rintaro reached out and grabbed her hand and pulled her back. Her hand was ice cold, and her slight frame put up no resistance. It was horrifying. Rintaro winced at her frigid skin, but didn’t let go of her hand until he’d managed to lead her to a chair and sit her down.

“That’s not going to buy you much time, Mr. Proprietor.”

“I know.”

Rintaro seemed unfazed by the warning. He had neither the majesty of the tabby cat, nor the wit of his friend Sayo, but in his dull uneventful life he had come across his fair share of crazy predicaments and crises.

The white-coated scholar in the middle of the room was still brandishing the scissors in his right hand, book in his left, as if conducting the music. Each time both hands came together, snippets of white paper flew through the air.

Rintaro knew nothing of “The Streamlining of Reading.” However, it was obvious to him that speed-reading or reducing a book to a synopsis would completely take away its power. In the end, chopped-up sentences were nothing more than fragments.

Hurrying means that you miss out on many things. Riding a train will take you far, but it’s a misconception to think that this will give you more insight. Flowers in the hedgerow and birds in the treetops are accessible only to the person who walks on their own two feet. Rintaro pondered all this before stepping toward the scholar.

He took his time, didn’t rush, made no hasty decisions. He reached out with his right hand toward the cassette player on the desktop. Immediately, the scholar’s pudgy hand shot out and grabbed Rintaro by the sleeve.

“Please don’t turn off my music.”

“I’m not going to turn it off.”

Rintaro’s amicable tone seemed to confuse the scholar, and Rintaro was able to reach out and press the fast-forward button.

There was a whirring sound and Beethoven’s Ninth came tumbling out at three times the speed. A headlong, breakneck, and rather unsettling “Ode to Joy.”

“Stop that! You’re ruining it!”

“I totally agree,” said Rintaro quietly. His finger never left the fast-forward button and the cacophony continued. “But if I fast-forward, you’ll be able to get so much more out of your beloved Ninth Symphony.”

The scholar was about to reply but he suddenly raised his eyebrows and swallowed his words.

“However,” Rintaro went on, “it also means the music will be ruined. The Ninth Symphony has to be played at the Ninth Symphony’s pace—if you want to listen to it properly.”

Rintaro took his finger off the button. The chorus resumed its majestic song.

“This is the speed at which this song should be heard. Fast-forwarding sucks.”

The chorus shifted one octave higher. Freude! Freude! they sang in rapturous joy.

The scholar looked at Rintaro.

“Books, too . . .”

His mumbled words were barely audible over the music.

“You’re saying that they’re the same?”

“I’m saying that speed-reading and quick summarizing is just like listening to the finale of this symphony on fast-forward,” Rintaro said.

“The finale on fast-forward . . . ?”

“What I mean is, it might be interesting and stuff, but that’s not Beethoven’s symphony. If you love Beethoven’s Ninth, you’ll understand—it’s the same way that I love books.”