12:09 AM
I have waited up all night. Mr. Yilmaz did not come to fix my heater.
12:10 AM
I fed the dosa to the cats.
7:00 AM
I got to the library at 6:30 this morning. I felt a bit restless. If Mr. Yilmaz DARES show his face on these streets with his stupid coffee and his stupid accent, then I shall set him on fire. With a flamethrower.
7:02 AM
And throw his crispy remains under a bus.
7:06 AM
There is a group of people trying to get into the library. They seem rather excitable; how odd. No one around here gets this excited about books.
"The Library is closed." They aren't paying attention to me. I guess I'll have to go and order them off the property.
"The Library is CLOSED." They can see me now--at least, they're pointing at me and shouting--but they aren't leaving. I'll just open the door and--
They've broken through the glass of the door! I'm going to be murdered. This is the end. It wasn't enough that God sentence me to a jilted, broken heart. He had to have me sliced to death by an angry mob armed with broken glass. Death by the glass of my own library. The irony is astonishing.
7:10 AM
How dare they push an old woman like myself over like that! What if I was terribly frail? What if I had osteoporosis and they had snapped my brittle bones? Do they care? Who are these maniacs? I would ask, but they aren't very approachable.
7:12 AM
They're stealing books! MY books! The books that are supposed to be in the library! It's not a case of just a gap here and there--they're running off with whole shelves of books from the World Religions and Science sections. I will not stand for this!
So I'll just stay here under this study table until they've gone away and then call the police. With any luck the police will be the sort of neanderthals that are armed with cattle prods and are willing to use them against dangerous book thieves.
7:13 AM
They're singing...hymns? Yes... Hymns. Old ones.
"What can wash away my sin?
Nothing but the blood of Jeeee-sus./
What can make me whole again?
Nothing but the blood of Jeee-sus./
Oh, precious is the flow
that makes me white as snoooow./
No other fount I know,
Nothing but the blood of Jeeesus..."/
That brings back memories of the Southern Baptist Church. What are they doing out there?
What can wash away my sin?
They're piling books up behind the building. The chickens are nowhere to be seen; they've probably fluttered off in fear. Silly birds are smarter than I am.
Nothing but the blood of Jeee-sus.
I've seen films that have scenes like this; historical documentaries that come on in the evening on P.B.S. Books piled in huge masses; "unacceptable" books. The Nazis did book burnings; so has every other ignorant group.
Well whoever these bastards are, they're about to burn my books while they sing about their God, like it's his will to destroy knowledge.
Over my dead body. God's gonna have to tear down the whole damn library before I give up. See if his pathetic little mob of supporters can march seven times around my library.
What can make me whole again?
I'll tear them apart.
Nothing but the blood of Jeee-sus.
7:25 AM
I've got my umbrella. And an envelope opener. There's nothing else for it. CHARGE! I won't actually shout that, obviously, because I'm going to try and appeal to their better nature and howling and spearing their leader with an umbrella might make a bad impression.
"Excuse me? Excuse me, you can't burn those books. They're the property of the Public." I jabbed the man closest to me with my finger. It's taking a bit of effort not to prod him with the envelope opener.
The little prick is looking down at me like I'm sort of fungus growing on the ground. "Ma'am," he's saying, "We are the Public, and we're spreading the will of Gaw-ud. Please stay back. We're cleansing Satan from this town."
"Cleansing Satan? Are you an idiot?! They're books! Written by people!" I grabbed at one of the books off the pile--Buddha: A Journey of Haiku. "This is a bunch of poetry," I howled, but the man snatched the book back and threw it back into the pile.
"Light it!" He sounds and looks like a rabid vulture. If vultures could get rabies...
"Don't you DARE get a single candle near my--" but I was cut off as another man poured a gallon of gasoline on top and a young woman with a frighteningly benevolent smile on her face threw a lit match into the whole mess.
FWOOOM!!
More than anything else, I can feel the exothermic reaction of the hundreds, thousands, millions of pages, expelling light, heat, and sound--the skin on my face is stretched tight from the sudden influx of heat.
7:32 AM
"AIIIIIIIIIIGH!" I shall kill them all! Starting with this nitwit who ordered the burning! I swung my umbrella at him and conked him on the head.
A flash of light shot through the air, followed by a boom that rocked my arthritic bones. The mosque is on fire! It's been struck by lightening...
"HA!" I pointed up at the sky. "YOU MISSED, YOU MISSED!" God missed my library! He can have deluded minions try to burn my books, but he can't even hit the right building with his lightening! The Universe must be on my side! Perhaps this sudden pouring of rain will put out the fire!
7:35 AM
No such luck. There's too much gasoline for the fire to go out yet.
There's Macy! Macy! Oh, I'm so glad to see her--
"MACY! Macy, help! They're burning the books!" I abandoned my whalloping of the man to wave my arms at her and beckon. She's coming! And running at another of the men! I knew she cared about the library books. SHE'S TACKLED HIM! YESSS!
"Good, Macy, keep it up--" Oh dear. Her hair's on fire. "Macy, just put your head under one of the gutters--" She's not listening, the silly girl. Nevermind. Someone will sort her out. I need to finish teaching these ignoramouses that books are for being neatly lined on shelves, not burning.
7:37 AM
The prostitutes from the antique shop have gone insane. They're out here in bathrobes and little else--and by little I mean...nothing...--and they're flinging alchohol onto the flames! FEEDING THE FIRE! There are too many of them. Too many...
Oh, precious is the flow,
that makes me white as snooow.
And they won't stop singing--they've thrown a couple rocks at me, but no matter what, they won't stop... The homeless men have joined in, too. The lyrics aren't difficult. Perhaps that's why Christianity succeeded so well; easy lyrics, easy tune, something you can learn when you're drunk as a drowned pansy.
It's flashing again--lightening? No--it's camera flashes. What are those little Japanese people doing? Good heavens. They're from that tour bus by Jorri Rae's. What kind of person would come here as a tourist? I have half a mind to beat them with my umbrella for treating this like some kind of performance. Why aren't they helping?! All they can do is stand there and take flash picture after flash picture, capturing this crime forever in pouring rain. What a contrast. Roaring flames while it's raining cats and dogs.
No other fount I know...
I can't see Macy. I'm here by myself, swinging my broken umbrella for a pile of books that don't love me any more than my own daughter does. I'm soaking wet, my umbrella's spokes are all bent out of shape, and yet the fire is still burning and they're still singing.
One of the prostitutes is pouring a whole bottle of whiskey on the fire. What can I do but watch the flames dance higher, reflecting eerily off of individual raindrops, the crackle of the swiftly incinerating books blending into the violent hiss of rain smacking against the pavement? My shoulders can heave and I can sob and I can scream at them all I want, and they probably wouldn't even be able to tell in this downpour.
7:42 AM
My umbrella is useless now. It's too broken. I'll leave it in the dumpster behind the library. I'm going home.
Nothing but the blood of Jeee-sus.
15 years ago
His eyes lit up a little, and his dog raised its head. Questions started piling up in my brain, just like the books that Edith E. Evans piles up on the shelves every day.
ReplyDeleteAs soon as he turned to the first page, something in his mind clicked... Ms. Evans! It came flooding back now, that she asked him to fix her heater, him not knowing how, his forgetting their appointment, and now he feared for his life. People say many more things around a person who they think can't understand them than around someone who they think can. Atlan, being Turkish and old, heard a lot of things of that sort, some of which were about Ms. Evans, none of which were good (being chased out of the library by a white-haired midget with a letter knife was a common one). Altan sat frozen for a long while, deciding whether he should face her or flee the country. A bright flash and a sharp crack broke his trance.
ReplyDeleteImmediately the screams from the street grew in number and volume. Altan turned his head toward the window, but before his gaze reached the crowd below, his eyes caught a sea of brilliant flames dancing in the sputtering rain.
"Bok!" Altan cursed in his native tongue, "No, no, no, Allah not now..." Altan fell to the floor, in prayer before he hit the ground. Within seconds, he was up again moving as fast as he could toward the door. He grabbed his coat just before he slammed the door shut and rumbled down the stairs. Oh, his legs hurt, arthritis was painful, but there was no time to wait for the elevator - the mosque was on fire and the only conclusion that Altan could come to in his hasty thinking was that the world was about to end!
Flying through the exit of Wilshire tower, Altan landed among chaos. Ragged men, naked women, and Asians pushed past him hurriedly, some shouting, some shrieking, some with cameras glued to their faces, clicking away. It was like one of those bizarre dreams where nothing going on makes sense, yet that wasn't important; the dreamer's mission and purpose unified and organized the nonsense so that it wasn't distracting. At this point in time, surrounded by madness, Altan's mission was to find Edith E. Evans before it was too late.
AN EXCERPT FROM "Dragon Burns, Badger Dances"
ReplyDelete. . .
The library is burning. I'm running now, and, as I get closer I see that's not quite true. The books are burning. It's a massive billowing fire, and naked women are dancing around it; a pagan ritual in the city streets. I stand transfixed.
They are singing, and dancing, and yelling, and throwing books and fuel into the fire. They are as wild as the Furies. They sing a song I can't recognize, some incantation of dark power. Slowly I move closer to the inferno, and the chanting resolves itself into words.
What can wash away my sin? Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
Now I see there are other people here too. An old woman. It's the librarian. She's attacking the fire-makers with an umbrella.
What can make me whole again? Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
I've never seen her move so fast. She's screaming, but it does no good. Her umbrella catches fire, forcing her to retreat. I should be helping, I want to help, but I don't know what to do.
Oh, precious is the flow that makes me white as snow.
I'm only a few feet from the fire now. The dancing, singing women ignore me. They just circle and circle. I stare into the flames, the all-consuming, mindless destroyer. I only wanted to read a book. I watch it eat the words, the patterns of letter and meaning. It's insatiable, always eating. It's eating my pattern too, and it's done it before. But this time I cry.
No other fount I know, nothing but the blood of Jesus.
Through the distortion of my tears, I see something. The two. There it is, swiftly turning into ash and cinders. My feet can move again, and they move even closer to the fire. The women notice my presence, they push and jostle me. Heedless, I move forward until the heat threatens to burn my eyebrows.
I thrust my right hand into the fire.
I feel no pain. I'm grasping, gasping, searching. Then I feel it between my fingers, precious impermanent paper, and I'm pulling up and out. The book is in my hand, but so is the fire. Just like I learned in elementary school, I stop, drop and roll. The world spins around me; a vortex of concrete, fire, and moving bodies. I don't stop until I feel the pain.
Terrible, wonderful pain. I hold my hand out in front of me, just as charred and mangled as the book it holds. That gargoyle's fist can't belong to me, but the pain tells me it does.
I sat there a long while, without thought or motion, only dimly aware of my surroundings.
Eventually, slowly, like an old man, I used my left hand to push myself up, off the concrete. There was nothing left here for me, nothing to be done. I hobbled back down Mercy, clutching the useless copy of A Tale of Two Cities, its title barely readable. Behind me, the singing faded, but the pain did not.
I entered the apartment building, glad the doorman was not there to witness my shame. Stiffly, I climbed the stairs and walked down the hall to my door. Once there, I carefully ripped a piece from the cover of the book and lodged it between two of the three remaining apartment numbers. Standing back, I read it aloud:
1 1 Two 3