The Bad Book Affair. Ian Sansom
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said Israel.
‘It just depends,’ said Ted.
‘On what?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Ted.
‘So, is it Pod-rig? Or Paw-rick?’
‘Paaah-ric?’ said Ted, rolling the vowels around in his mouth. ‘I don’t know. Paw-drig.’
‘Oh, come on,’ said Israel.
‘Just call him Paddy,’ said Ted. ‘That’s what I do.’
‘Marvellous,’ said Israel.
‘I’ll just have a wee smoke here, then,’ said Ted.
‘But—’
‘Me back’s a bit sore, still. You hurry on there, sure.’
While Ted waited cosily in the van Israel trudged towards the classroom and the moon-faced children of Tumdrum, who stared up at him, as they always did, loudly fidgeting, while Tony Thompson, headmaster of the school, sat at the back, in his shiny black suit, and his grey shirt, and black tie, smirking, and poor Israel droned.
The reading was bad enough. He read from a supersized book about someone called Red Ted, who sat on a shelf and did very little else, except clearly demonstrate some pointless rule of phonics. There were the usual skirmishes. It was awful. But there was worse to come. Question time. He absolutely hated question time.
‘Yes, Laura,’ said Tony Thompson, when Israel had finished reading about Red Ted, on his shelf. ‘You have a question for Mr Armstrong—the librarian.’
Tony somehow always managed to make the word ‘librarian’ sound dirty and sinister, as though a librarian were a sort of a book pimp.
‘Why have you grown a beard?’ asked Laura, a girl with pure pale blue eyes, and a full head of fizzing ginger hair, like a changeling out of a horror film.
‘Erm.’ Israel was thrown. ‘Just to make my face look…smaller. Any other questions?’
‘Are you on a diet?’ asked Laura.
‘No. I am not on a diet. Any book questions?’
‘Do you make books?’ asked Laura, without pausing for a beat.
‘No,’ said Israel, trying to muster what might pass for a tone of infectious enthusiasm. ‘No, personally, I don’t actually make the books myself, I just…’
Laura’s eyes bored into him, withering his confidence.
‘I just…look after the books,’ he continued. ‘Like a…zookeeper looks after the animals.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Thompson. ‘Any other questions for Mr Armstrong, the bearded book zookeeper?’
A hand shot up. It was Padraig.
‘Any other questions?’ said Israel, eyeing up Padraig. ‘Anyone else?’
No hands were raised.
‘Sure?’ said Israel. ‘No one else? Any questions?’
Silence.
‘Good. So…Yes…Paddy,’ said Israel.
‘My name’s Padraig,’ said Padraig.
‘Ah, yes, sorry. Of course. Porr-idge?’
‘What do you do?’ said Padraig.
‘What do I do?’ said Israel. ‘I’m a librarian.’
‘But do you have another job?’ interrupted Padraig. He had intricate whorl-like ears, Padraig, and a head like a pug.
‘No,’ said Israel, ‘I don’t have another job. This is my actual job.’
‘D’ye not have another job?’
‘No. I don’t. It’s actually quite a busy job, being a librarian. You have to…sort the books out, and put them on the shelves, and…’
‘Thank you, Padraig,’ said Tony Thompson. ‘Any final questions for Mr Armstrong this week before he rushes off to rearrange his books on the shelf?’
Hands again.
‘Yes, Billy?’
‘What are books?’ asked Billy, whose face was as wide as it was tall.
‘What are books?’ said Israel. ‘Erm. Books? Good…question. Excellent…question.’
‘I’m sure we’d all like to hear your answer to that question, Mr Armstrong,’ said Tony Thompson. ‘What is a book? Listen, children, to what Mr Armstrong has to say.’
‘A book is…’ Israel was struggling here slightly. ‘Well, a book can be about…’
‘Sorry,’ said Tony Thompson. ‘Sorry to interrupt you, Mr Armstrong. But I think what Billy was asking was not what is a book about, but a wider and more general question—wasn’t it, Billy?’ Billy nodded obediently, his pure white lardy child-jowls shaking. ‘About what exactly a book is.’
‘Ah, yes, what is it? A book?’
‘Indeed,’ said Tony Thompson.
‘A book?’ repeated Israel. ‘What is a book?’
‘Yes,’ said Tony Thompson. ‘That’s the question, Mr Armstrong. And the children would love to hear your answer.’
‘Well, a book is a kind of…’ Israel looked around desperately for inspiration. ‘It’s a dead tree, basically.’
‘A dead tree,’ repeated Tony Thompson, grinning and showing his teeth. ‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ said Israel, ‘basically.’ He got the sense he was maybe losing his audience here, but he’d started so he’d have to finish. ‘Not a tree that’s been killed, exactly, by a…gun or anything. It’s more…I mean, more like a piece of a dead tree.’
‘A piece of dead tree,’ said Tony Thompson.
‘Yes. That’s one way of looking at it,’ said Israel. ‘Or, I know…a tree flake.’ Oh God. ‘Yes! That’s it, that’s what books are. Tree flakes. Little parts of the body of a tree, you see, that have been…Like pork scratchings…It’s not something alive, anyway. If you turn it over in your hand.’ He turned over the supersized Red Ted on the Shelf in his hand. ‘Here we are, then,’ he said. ‘Listen! Can you hear it saying anything?’ He held the book up to his ear. ‘Hello, Mr Book? Red Ted? Anybody there? No? No. That’s because a book is not a disembodied voice. Can you hear it, children?’
Tony Thompson was shaking his head.
The children were leaning forward in their seats.
A hand shot up.
‘Yes?’
‘I can hear it, Mr Armstrong.’
‘No. No. You can’t. That must be a…voice in your…head. You can’t hear the book,’ continued Israel, changing tack. ‘Because a book can’t speak. Because a book is not…a person.’
‘Is it imagination?’ asked Laura.
‘Yes. Well, not exactly. A book is not itself imagination, or an idea, or anything like that. It’s just…A book is basically…I mean, literally of course a book is just…paper covered in ink, like lots of…little black…maggots crawling around on a big…white sheet, or snow, or…’
‘Thank you, Mr Armstrong,’ interjected Tony Thompson. ‘I think that’s enough this morning. Thank you very much for your little talk. As enlightening as ever.’
‘No, thank…you,’ said Israel.