The Blue Book

The eleventh chapter. The room.

A pale, white-haired young woman stood outside Mr.Bookman's window, looking worn out and tired, dithering and uncertain with a fine coiffure at the back of her head that seemed to be at least a day old given the strands that had slipped through the needles and ribbons nestled in her silver-hair. Her skin clear and young was stretched in a doubtful, serious grimace that I thought she was far too young to wear. I put down the mug with the fluid Mr.Bookman had given me and was just about to wave at her to come in when her face changed from uncertainty to hopelessness, a face she definitely was too young for. She seemed irritated with herself, until she turned her frustration to determination. I thought she was on her way into the shop so I hurried to a drapery I could temporarily and for no reason stand behind while waiting for Mr.Bookman to show up. He never did, and neither did she. I grew tired of waiting and when I looked outside again, the woman was already gone. My stomach hurt for some reason as I thought about the countless novels Jeremija had read for me, each and every one, except for the scientific ones, about one person having one quest (of various types depending on each individual book), and then finding (or that that one person already had) another person to ease their weight which always was far too much for one to bear. Jeremija called them friends. Allies. Comrades. Those which I had ruled out Jeremija and I were.
No matter, I had no quest. No burden which was too much for one to bear. I don't need one. I should probably try and find Jeremija though, shouldn't I?
'And here I was thinking you'd do the smart thing.'
I said that out loud?
'Mr. Bookman.' I greeted him.
'It's Mr. Alder, you know, name's Kit.'
'Ah, but Bookman suits you so much better.'
"Well, what if I'm lost, missing, nowhere to be find and you need to look for me? No one will know it's me you're looking for if you keep calling med that.'
'Why would I look for you? Besides, you're not missing if no one is looking for you.' This seemed to surprise him, but he decided to find it funny and smiled.
'Then let's go with Mr. Bookman.'
And this was how our conversations continued, there really wasn't much of a flow between us, instead the conversations we had was somewhat limping, awkward and ended quickly. Not that I wanted it to, I quite would've liked to have a flow, but we just didn't have it. I still very much considered him odd, but I had forgiven him for poor the eloquence when we first had met and for intruding on my first and only safe haven, since apparently the roles had been reversed and I had done the intruding in his sanctuary. Although, he didn't throw me out, he hadn't even asked how I got in here. It was the shock, perhaps. Or ...
'Will you be alright? I have to ... I really must ... There's someone, a very important someone I have to be go and see.' He hesitated for a long time but then bursted with words that he had probably kept inside for a long time. 'He and I, we have something remarkable planned, utterly ridiculous, we'll probably never be able to pull it off. I mean there are a thousand and one things that could go wrong but, Blue, if we fix the, by all means, major issues we've encountered, if ... if we actually might have a flying chance to do this, I can see it, so close, it'll be been an event, a memory, a story to cherish until we remember nothing else. Our plan, it's not even insane, it's brilliant. It ... I can't even ...' He stopped, looking for words. 'Blue, I'm a jeweller, an ordinary man with an unusual collection of random books, I know many, many words, I do but I cannot describe what this idea means.' I watched him dream his body away to this event, I could almost picture how his daydreaming scenario played out, even though I didn't have the faintest to what his plan was about. I also saw the moment he was brutally plucked from the top of a cloud where he'd been forging and polishing his plan by something called the present. A pity.
'Would you like to come?'

***

'I love my legs!' I howled and hooted. 'Look at them! How is it even possible? Look at them, I mean really! Can yours do all of this as well?' I wasn't exactly dancing, walking or sprinting, more like all of that at one and something there wasn't any word for.
'I'd rather not, and no, I can't.'
'Oh, no, what happened?'
'No, I can, we all can do ... that,' There was a quick, uncertain look directed towards my feet and their rapid, unsteady but, may I add, bold steps that stirred the gravel and dust until we were surrounded by a haze and a cloud of dirt, 'but nobody ever does.' He finished the sentence.
'You people are idiots. If you have legs and they can all do this you ought to walk them tired every day.'
'No, we shouldn't. You'll wear yourself down, not just your legs, and after a while you're bound to get hurt.'
'Aren't I bound to get hurt either way?'
'That's very likely, yes, but we can still do our best to minimise the chance of it.'
'Do you believe that?'
'I suppose. Why?'
'I'd say it sounds as if you've been harmed in some way. Were you hurt by something?'
'Let's take a left here, come on, you're not keeping up.'
Odd. It was almost as if he hadn't heard me.
'So, who is this Very Important Someone?'
'His name is Charles.' I waited for more, a surname, an occupation, anything, but nothing else came. And with that we lapsed into a, now familiar, silence. Oh, but I didn't mind, not at all. I was far too preoccupied by the advancements my legs were making. They weren't quite mine yet, they skipped steps and stumbled numerous times, and each and every time mr. Bookman seemed equally horrified as the last, but after the eleventh stumble, and the eleventh catch I told him not to touch me unless I was laying down and all he could offer me was a hand up.
Slowly, with time, as it usually takes with most things, I grew more and more used to and fond of my legs, they allowed me many, many things I couldn't have done without them.
Suddenly the scenery altered, houses, flower-covered, well-decorated, pretty houses appeared. Bushes of ivy growing neatly on the stone walls in beige and white, the thatched roofs offered protection and the chimneys of different sizes provided with warmth. We walked the streets, which I liked, passed the people who greeted mr. Bookman and didn't know where to look when they saw me.
'What's wrong?' I asked.
'Nothing. Just keep on strolling, they'll stop.'
'What? Staring? It seems not.'
'They'll get used to you.' He reassured me kindly.
'They don't even know me.'
He nodded. Smiled. Put a hand on my back to hurry me along.
'They will.' I promptly insisted.
He nodded again. Smiled, again.
Eventually we apparently arrived at out destination which was a sort of house, sort if studio. What we were supposed to do here was beyond me. What could be so extraordinary in here? What could mr. Bookman possibly need for his big day in this leaning chaotic cottage? I heard voices from inside, mostly women, but also a man who I think was used to having to raise the volume for all kinds of reasons, but as soon as the noises subsided he adapted and spoke in a mellow, confident tone that made you want to confess you darkest fears and innermost personal stories. This seemed to be a burdening talent, and also tiring and dangerous. Luckily I had no dark fears or intimate stories yet to share. Except that of the lack of air in a glass coffin, not knowing the beast that put me there, the mixture of anxiety and relief in my amnesia, the worry that I might be storyless, the gnawing sensation that I had no one, no where to go and no where to be. And the lack of ancestors troubled me a bit and the feeling that I'd not been abandoned, but came from nowhere, and belonged to nothing and knew very little of anything.
Yes, I was clearly lost, as mr. Bookman had put it, but lost and not knowing if anyone had lost me. If I was indeed missing, that is, missed by somebody or if I was just lost and there was nobody to be found by and no elsewhere to return.
No, no, no fears, no worries, I'm alright.
'Charles!' I heard from a distance. Happy eyes greeted each other and pats on backs were exchanged.
An old man with pretty eyes and worn out fingertips hugged mr. Bookman hello before inviting us in. No questions asked who I was or how I was connected to his friend. No staring or gawking. I was with Kit Alder, and that was enough for him. This awe-inspiring man clearly loved and trusted mr. Bookman.
Chatter, updates and compliments followed and I decided to mute them for a bit while I soaked in the marvels of the house insides.
'... look lovely, Monica. Are those the flowers from last week? How on earth have you made them last this long?'
'Oh, charmer there, that's Charles' secret, he won't tell me, the old bugger, but he says he got them from a good friend. Lilacs and daisies, every week, it's true. Apparently it's a kindness he gladly can afford, I don't know about ...'
My eyes wandered on to the drawing room where a gentle orange light neatly spread over the room like a blanket. White papers with black lines and dots peeked from the shelves and were thoroughly packed down in folders on the floor. Everywhere you could see the mark of people, a chipped tea cup, a chemise with a stain, a pair of shoes where the lacings were missing, a drawing of a giraffe, fingerprints on the glasses, blond hair here and there, and a book half-read about ice. I loved it.
From the kitchen, without my noticing six pair of eyes were attempting to discreetly ogle at me.
'Who's she?' They asked each other.
Hell I if I know, I thought.
'How does Kit know her?' A smart-looking girl asked.
We met, twice and apparently that sufficed for him to drag me along here.
'We've never seen her before, where did she come from?'
Yeah, no, slight problem there, I don't know.
'Look at her feet, she doesn't have any shoes!' One exclaimed.
That I didn't know I needed.
'She looks so odd.' Another judged.
Thanks.
'You think this is the one Virginia saw before?' Curiosity laced their hushed questions.
Who now?
'It must be.' The happy-looking one established.
No, it mustn't.
'Yes, of course.' The eldest agreed.
Jeez.
'Kit!' I heard from the kitchen 'The girl!'
Okay, that'd be my cue.
'What about her?'
'Is she ...'
'Sane? I'm not sure.' He admitted. The corners of my lips twitched. Humour? Really?
'With you?'
'Yes, I couldn't leave her in my library.'
Monica wanted to protest and drive the matter further but choose the more delicate alternative and let it slide. I waltzed into the kitchen and sank down on a colourful chair. A tea cup was placed in front of me by the man with pretty eyes and mellow voice. This was the second beverage I'd been offered already. I smiled but didn't say anything because I didn't have anything say. Most of them concentrated on Kit and each other, but every now and then they glanced at me and then seemed embarrassed that they had done so. I didn't really listen to what they said, I just looked at them trying to figure out who they were. My conclusion after an hour of onlooking and chatter was that every single person in the room loved each other. I wanted more than anything to be included in this room. I'd been so focused on wether or not somebody was looking for me I hadn't paused to think a about who they were. Do you think that if there was a somebody, or several, you think they love me? It felt like I'd been loved once, but I couldn't be sure.
Out of the blue, Mr. Bookman rose and had decided that it was time the family knew who I was. I found that a bit amusing, in fact. I could imagine how they'd ask me all the questions they'd asked each other earlier and it made smile.
So, Blue, who are you? They'd ask.
Excellent question, but you know, are we all somebody, really? Aren't we just particules wandering around, you know? How do we any of us know if we're somebody? And when the puzzlement got too much they would wonder if I really was insane and I'd have to admit I just didn't know. But none of that happened.
'So, all of you, this is Blue.' He said, with a hint of pride.
I was wrong. The scenario I thought would play out didn't happen. They didn't ask me who I was. They didn't care about how I knew mr. Bookman. They asked me about politics instead, about what kind of music I liked, about wether i preferred horseback or walking, if I had to choose between living forever and being able to fly what it would be, which sister was my favourite, if I'd like to try the violin someday and so on.
I'd known them for less than three hours and I could already feel myself morphing together with the room.
Charles and mr. Bookman stayed in the kitchen while we scattered around in the little garden, and I didn't feel a bit anxious without him. Mr. Golovin and mr. Bookman were the only two people in my life so far, and while I did wanted to be fine on my own, run by my own steam and all that was it highly reassuring knowing he wasn't too far away.
And he never would be.

***