The Book of Sand, Recovered and Lost - Part 2 by Owen Townend

The man in the kimono was waiting for me at the bench. One would think his green clothes would have made him seem quite natural in the setting but, of course, no dew-dotted leaves or grass shined quite like it.

With one last glance around, I showed him the book. I was careful only to show the first couple of pages before snapping the cover shut.

“I want a hundred for it,” I told him.

I watched him warily as he reached inside his kimono and produced a silver cashmere purse. He filled my hand with notes. I counted them twice before passing the Book of Sand to him. As he began to riffle through the pages, I stood up and hurried away.

“Why do you run?” he asked me.

I glanced back once. “Don’t question my motive. The book is yours now.”

He said nothing else, just left me to run as fast as I could. Of course my suspicious behaviour might have prompted him to check the book but then I could tell he was an idle sort. He had his thick leatherbound tome for display purposes so why worry himself with page numbers and narrative consistency?

As I reached the bakery and placed my order, I earnestly hoped never to see the fool again. Of course, my irrational fear was nothing compared to fate’s irascibility.

Barely a week later, I was confronted by the man in the green kimono. On spying him at the entrance, I expected the man to storm in and drop the book in front of me so that the librarian and the rest of the staff took notice. However, his body language was quite the opposite. He slinked across the carpet, eyes downcast and fingers clutching a rag bag over his shoulder. The look was entirely unbecoming. Panic overtook me. What had the book done to the fiery determination of the man in the kimono?

When he arrived at the counter, the librarian had blissfully stepped into the back office. Nevertheless I glared at the man who dared to return a cursed book.

“The deal is done,” I hissed at him.

He held up an apologetic hand and laid the bag on the table. He reached inside and withdrew the Book of Sand. This had ballooned to twice the size I remembered it. While I had an inkling the book’s pages were infinite, this new growth seemed different in nature. The edges of the pages were curled and dark in patches, with the leather cover barely holding them together at all.

On closer inspection, I worked out the reason for his shame.

“You dampened this?” I asked.

The man winced at the accusation in my tone. “I took my bath the other night and fancied some reading material to pass the time. Without my newspaper to hand, I grabbed the book you sold me.”

I glanced around, checking that nobody heard. 

        “And?” I spoke hurriedly. “Did you read it?”

        The man in the kimono locked sorrowful eyes with me. “No. I had it open on the title page when my fingers slipped. The book landed face down in the water and sank to the depths. I did pull it out immediately but, as you can see, the damage is done.”

         I opened the book near the middle, or rather where I thought the middle might be. Each page I turned was as illegible as the last, ink running down the paper with only the occasional word spared. I had, of course, seen such carelessness in the past but never before had it lightened my heart to know a book so utterly ruined.

        Nevertheless I affected the appearance of a disgruntled librarian’s assistant.

        “So you brought it back to me,” I spoke sharply. “A book I sold to you. This is now your property to deal with.”

        The man in the kimono clutched his hands. “I wondered or rather hoped you could offer me another? In its place?”

        I heard the librarian tutting behind me. He mustn’t have heard the detail of this interaction but he stood close by, watching my response.

       “Sir,” I said to the man in the kimono. “I’m afraid I cannot accept this water-damaged book. Furthermore the library is not at present selling any of its stock to the public. You would be better visiting the antique shop near the underpass. I hear tell that they have taken to selling novels second-hand for reasonable prices. I trust these books will be desirable, inasmuch as they will be both dry and intact. Good day.”

       The man in the kimono bristled as I handed him back the ruined Book of Sand. Even so he didn’t say a word as he slid it back into his bag. Gazing down once again at his sandalled feet, he turned and shuffled out of the National Library.

       The librarian frowned at me a moment but then left to perform some other task. Apparently he was satisfied that his troublesome assistant had handled the situation appropriately. However I still had my concerns. When he was out of sight, I hurried out the door and found the rag bag abandoned outside. Peering inside, I glimpsed the corner of The Book of Sand and felt repulsed.

       Though it was undoubtedly an unnatural creation, I had still allowed this book to come to harm. An important book. One that deserved to be known, if only by reputation. Now no-one would know its true potential, be astounded as I was the first time I uncovered it in the basement.

       The Book of Sand was indeed a great wonder of the world, now devastated and lost to time. I have no doubt that I saved many from the madness of its impossible pages but, in truth, I had no right. I acted out of existential panic.

       So I say again, Lo siento, Señor Borges. Perdóname.