BUT HE DIDN’T fall asleep.
He turned on the lights and asked his wife to leave. “Go and sleep next to the little one.”
“But—”
“I need to work.”
“Work?”
“Yes, work.”
“It’s three o’clock in the morning!”
“Please.”
She wasn’t happy when she left, but he didn’t have time to explain. He turned the key twice in the door and began stacking the books into shopping bags and cardboard boxes—anything he could find. Book after book, he made up his mind to get rid of them all. He had always known, somehow, that it would end like this: It was either him or the books. Even the books wouldn’t blame him for saving himself—he certainly couldn’t return the favor. He would simply bring them back to the storerooms as if they’d never been gone.
He carried the heavy bags and boxes out to his car. His wife was in the living room blinking rapidly, her mouth wordlessly opening and closing, wondering what had gotten into him. “Where are you going with all those? To the Authority? Now? How will you get in, outside working hours?”
“I’ll manage.”
“Why now?”
“I have to return them. They belong to the government.”
“Everything belongs to the government.”
He thought of his daughter, her soulful little eyes and frail face, but banished the image from his mind as he hauled the last box into the back seat.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the books, knowing what his decision meant. It meant they would be locked up in the warehouse for a year. After that—
He slammed the door. Why should he have to be a hero?
As he reached for the car door handle, he thought he glimpsed a fleeting shadow on the sidewalk. Lifting his gaze, he saw a man who appeared to be wandering aimlessly through the neighborhood’s neat rows of houses. The stranger looked at him, so he turned away, feigning interest in something else. Upon turning back, he saw the man’s lips part as if he had something to say. The Book Censor threw himself into the car, gunned the engine, and took off, every inch of his body shaking.
It was three o’clock in the morning. Nothing and no one went out walking at this hour except crickets and bats. Definitely not a man like that. The new censor told himself he was having delusions—it was understandable, he hadn’t slept for days. He might suddenly think he was in a book. Or was it the book that was in him?
He sped all the way to the Authority and parked. A light was on in the security room at the entrance. He tapped on the window, waking the sleeping guard, who jumped out of his chair in a panic.
“I’ve forgotten some important papers in my office,” the Book Censor claimed.
The guard rubbed his eyes and gaped at him in disbelief. “It’s three o’clock in the morning.”
“I’ll be quick,” he said, as he showed his badge. He was a man who knew himself—he wasn’t going to lose himself in confusion again.
The guard nodded. “The door’s already open.”
But who had opened the door at an hour like this? “Is someone inside?” he asked.
The guard nodded, yawning. “He’s taking inventory of the storerooms.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know,” said the guard, indulging in a long stretch. “Probably that old man.”
For some reason, the Censor wasn’t afraid. It was as if he had already known what he would find on the other side of the door. As he walked through the marble corridors, he felt he was somewhere else. There were more rabbits than usual, and the smell of cabbage was even more pungent. Strange music flowed from somewhere. I should have known it was the old man. He marched straight toward the familiar office. The Secretary had been waiting for him all along!
Waiting for him here, every night. Just waiting for him to throw all caution to the wind and come back for more books.
Walking to the end of the corridor, he turned right and found the old man leaning back in his chair with his feet up on his desk, reading a book. There were seven white rabbits in the room; some were fast asleep, others were eating from a bucket of cabbage leaves. The Secretary’s features lit up when he saw him. “So, you finally made it.”
He found himself unsurprised by the old man’s presence in the office at this hour, or by the rabbits, or by anything else for that matter. He was past all this madness. He’d come to put a stop to Wonderland.
“Yes,” he said. “I came to return Alice in Wonderland.”
The old man raised his eyebrows and swallowed hard. “Well, where is it then?” he asked the Censor.
“In the car, with the other books.”
“The other books?” The old man slapped his thigh. “A natural Cancer.”
“I told you before, I’m not a Cancer.”
“What a waste of talent. Did you steal those books?”
“I was going to return them.”
“When?”
“When I’d read them.”
“And have you read them?”
“I don’t want to read any more. You need to leave me alone.”
“You’re the one who followed the rabbits.”
“They followed me.”
“You know what’s going to happen to those books, don’t you?”
“I don’t want to know.”
“You already do!”
“What you already know is that I have a daughter. If something happens to me—”
“That wouldn’t be the worst turn of events.”
“What do you mean?”
“What if nothing happens? What if everything goes on the way it is?”
He thought of his daughter again. How would she survive the way things were?
The old man stretched out his arms and yawned. “I spent all night in the storerooms just for you.”
“For me?”
“I was looking for Zorba the Greek.”
The Censor’s chest tightened. He clenched his teeth, digging his nails into his palms. He mustn’t ask the question.
“Did you find it?”
“What do you think? Can’t you tell we’re celebrating?” He nodded at the rabbits nibbling their leaves as he opened a desk drawer. The novel had a blue cover with the shadow of a dancing man on it. The very same shadow. “We were happy about it,” said the Secretary.
“About Zorba?”
“We thought you were going to save it from the Pyre, that we wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore.” He gently stroked the book, as if it was a puppy. “What a shame,” he muttered.
But the new censor had gone from the room, leaving behind Zorba, the old man, the rabbits, and the music. He headed for the storeroom to find a trolley for the books. With a bit of grit and determination, he would transform himself from a reader into a book censor, from softhearted to stone-hearted, from a butterfly into a caterpillar. It could be done. A person could behave as if he hadn’t been reborn, rewind his memory to the moment before he’d met the man who danced on the island. But what if nothing happened? What if everything continued the way it was?
He pushed the trolley toward the car, but the books shrieked in his ears, all mixed together. He felt like a witness to inevitable massacre: arms, legs, children, old people—all turned to ash.
His cheeks grew wet. What if everything goes on the way it is? He was sobbing uncontrollably now, wiping his eyes and nose with the edge of his sleeve as he stacked the boxes onto the trolley, one after another.
He ran his fingers over the spines. Tell me who I am! he wanted to scream, but he knew that these books would never give him answers. Only more questions.
He heard footsteps behind him. “Is that you?”
“Who else would it be?”
It was the Secretary.
“I thought you were Zorba.”
The old man smiled. “He wouldn’t like it here,” he muttered.
“What are we going to do?”
“About Zorba?”
“No—” He felt his voice shake. “How do I become the Guardian of the Library?”