I told myself that I,too, should go to Paris. I wasn't quite sure why, but I couldn'tdesert Belbo now. Maybe he was counting on me to slip, under coverof night, into Jhe cave of the Thugs, and, as Suyodhana was aboutto plunge the sacrificial knife into his heart, to burst into theunderground temple with my sepoys, their muskets loadedwith.grapeshot, and carry him to safety.
Luckily, I had a littlemoney on me. In Paris I got into^a taxi and told the driver to takeme to rue de la Manticore. He grumbled, cursed; the street couldn'tbe found even in those guides they have. In fact, it turned out tobe an alley no wider than the aisle of a train. It was in theneighborhood of the old Bievre, behind Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre. Thetaxi couldn't even enter it; the driver left me at thecorner.
Uneasily, I entered thealley. There were no doorways. At a certain point the streetwidened a little, and I came to a bookshop. Why it had the number 3I don't know, since there was no number 1 or 2, or any other streetnumber. It was a grimy little shop, lighted by a single bulb. Halfof the double door served as a display case. Its sides held perhapsa few dozen books, indicating the shop's specialties. On a shelf,some pendulums, dusty boxes of incense sticks, little amulets,Oriental or South American, and tarot decks of diverseorigin.
The interior was no morewelcoming: a mass of books on the walls and on the floor, with alittle table at the back, and a bookseller who seemed put theredeliberately, so that a writer could write that the man was moredecrepit than his books. This person, his nose in a big handwrittenledger, was taking no interest in his customers, of which at themoment there were only two, and they raised clouds of dust as theydrew out old volumes, nearly all without bindings, from teeteringshelves, and began reading them, giving no impression of wanting tobuy.
The only space notcluttered with shelves was occupied by a poster. Garish colors, aseries of oval portraits with double borders, as in the posters ofthe magician Houdini. "Le Petit Cirque de PIncroyable. MadameOlcott et ses liens avec 1'Invisible." An olive-skinned, mannishface, two bands of black hair gathered in a knot at the nape. I hadseen that face before, I thought. "Les Derviches Hurleurs et leurdanse sacree. Les Freaks Mig-nons, ou Les Petits-fils de FortunioLiceti." An assortment of pathetic, abominable little monsters."Alex et Denys, les Geants d'Avalon. Theo, Leo et Geo Fox, lesEnlumineurs de 1'Ecto-plasme..."
The Librairie Sloanetruly supplied everything from the cradle to the grave; it evenadvertised healthy entertainment, a suitable place to take thechildren before grinding them up in the mortar. I heard a phonering. The shopkeeper pushed aside a pile of papers until he foundthe receiver. "Oui, monsieur," he said, "c'est bien ca." Helistened for a few minutes, nodded, then assumed a puzzled look, orat least it was the pretense of puzzlement, on account of thosepresent, as if everybody could hear what he was hearing and hedidn't want to assume responsibility for it. Then he took on thatshocked expression of a Parisian shopkeeper when you ask forsomething he doesn't have in his shop, or a hotel clerk when thereare no rooms available. "Ah, non, monsieur. Ah, ca... Non, non,monsieur, c'est pas notre oulot. Ici, vous savez, on vend deslivres, on peut bien vous conseiller sur des catalogues, mais ca...II s'agit de problemes tres personnels, et nous...Oh, alors, il ya¡Xsais pas, moi¡X des cures, des... oui, si vous voulez, desexorcistes. D'accord, je le sais, on connait des confreres qui sepretent... Mais pas nous. Non, vraiment la description ne me suffitpas, et quand meme... Desole', monsieur. Comment? Oui...si vousvoulez. C'est un endroit bien connu, mais ne demandez pas mon avis.C'est bien ca, vous savez, dans ces cas, la confiance c'est tout. Avotre service, monsieur."
The other two customersleft. I felt ill at ease but steeled myself and attracted the oldman's attention with a cough. I told him I was looking for anacquaintance, a friend who, I thought, often stopped by here:Monsieur Aglie. Again the man had the shocked look he had had whileon the telephone. Perhaps, I said, he didn't know him as Aglie, butas Rakosky or Soltikoff or... The bookseller looked at me again,narrowing his eyes, and remarked coldly that I had friends withcurious names. I told him never mind, it was not important, I wasmerely inquiring. Wait, he said; my partner is arriving and he mayknow the person you are looking for. Have a seat, please; there's achair in the back, there. I'll just make a call and check. Hepicked up the phone, dialed a number, and spoke in a lowvoice.
Casaubon, I said tomyself, you're even stupider than Belbo. What are you waiting for?For Them to come and say, Oh, what a fine coincidence, JacopoBelbo's friend as well; come, come along, yes, youtoo....
I stood up abruptly,said good-bye, and left. In a minute I was out of rue de laManticore, in another alley, then at the Seine. Fool! I said tomyself. What did you expect? To walk in, find Aglie, take him bythe lapels, and hear him apologize and say it was all amisunderstanding, here's your friend, we didn't touch a hair on hishead. And now they know that you're here, too.
It was past noon, andthat evening something would take place in the Conservatoire. Whatwas I to do? I turned into rue Saint-Jacques, every now and thenlooking over my shoulder. An Arab seemed to be following me. Butwhat made me think he was an Arab? The thing about Arabs is thatthey don't look like Arabs, or at least not in Paris. In Stockholmit would be different.
I passed a hotel, wentin, asked for a room, got a key. As I was going upstairs, woodenstairs with a railing, from the second-floor landing the desk wasstill visible and I saw the presumed Arab enter. Then I noticedthat in the corridor
