'Can I get one from the shop?' asked Jon, pointing towards the ceiling.
'Of course,' replied Iversen. 'Take your time.'
Jon left the room and went upstairs to the bookshop. Iversen had locked the door and turned off the lights so that only the glow from the street lamps outside lit up the room. Jon let his eyes adjust to the dimness and then walked up and down the aisles at random. Every once in a while he stopped to pull out a book, which he studied but then quickly rejected, putting it back in its place. Finally he realized that it didn't make any difference what book he chose, because how was he to know what was a suitable text for this sort of test? He closed his eyes and let his fingers run along the spines of the books in front of him until he stopped at random on a volume, which he pulled from the shelf. With his trophy in hand, he returned to the reading room in the basement.
'Fahrenheit 451,' said Iversen, nodding in acknowledgement. 'Bradbury. A brilliant choice, Jon.'
'Science fiction, right?'
'Yes, but the genre is of no importance. Are you ready?'
'As ready as I'll ever be.'
'What about you, Katherina?' Iversen asked, turning to look at the redhead who was sitting motionless in the leather chair. She raised her eyes and inspected Jon. Meditatively she rubbed her index finger over her chin before she again placed her hands in her lap and nodded.
'All right,' said Iversen, clapping his hands together. 'You'd better sit down, Jon.'
'And I'm just supposed to read to myself?'
'Correct,' replied Iversen, gesturing towards a chair. 'Go ahead and begin, and don't worry. She'll take good care of you.'
Jon sat down on the chair across from Katherina. She nodded, as if giving the signal to start, and instinctively Jon nodded in return and then turned his eyes to the book.
It had once been an ordinary paperback edition, but the owner had laminated the front cover and reinforced the spine and back with cardboard and leather. The edges of the paper were yellowed and slightly frayed from wear, so the book bulged a bit as it lay on his knees.
Before he opened the book, Jon cast one last glance at Katherina sitting opposite him. She was sitting erect with her hands in her lap and her eyes closed.
Then Jon began to read.
At first he proceeded very slowly. He read cautiously, on the alert to see whether he noticed anything unusual. That was how he read a couple of pages, without really taking in what it said, but all of a sudden it felt as if the text seized hold of him, and he read more freely and fluidly as the story sank unhindered into his consciousness.
The main character in the book, Montag, was apparently a fireman, but a fireman who started fires instead of putting them out. His job was to burn books, which were regarded as dangerous in his society. One day on his way home from work he runs into a girl who tags along with him as he walks. The description of the girl was incredibly vivid and Jon could picture her in his mind, lithe, smiling, flirty and spontaneous. His heart started beating faster, and his mouth went dry. This girl was amazing. He couldn't wait to read more about her, he had to find out where she came from and what role she played in the story. She appeared so clearly to him he could almost feel her at his side, walking along with fluttering red hair, her steps light as a feather, on the way to Montag's house, and he was already starting to miss her, to fear the emptiness when she would leave him there on the doorstep to his home.
The description was so convincing that Jon wanted to glance to the side to get a closer look at the girl, but his eyes no longer obeyed him. They refused to leave the page and carried on wandering through the text towards the leave-taking with the girl. In despair, Jon tried to stop reading or at least to slow the pace, but the story moved inexorably forward before his eyes. He noticed that sweat had begun to appear on his forehead and his pulse was elevated.
In the story Montag and the girl reached the fireman's house, where they stood and conversed on the doorstep, calmly, lingering, as if they were stretching out the time, for the sake of delighting or tormenting Jon. He felt an incredible warmth for this girl, as if he had always known her and loved her. Finally Montag said goodbye to the girl, and Jon suppressed a fierce desire to call out to her, to entice her back into the text, which now seemed banal and impoverished. He noticed that his eyes were moist, but at the same time he realized that once again he was able to control them, and he immediately took the opportunity to stop reading.
As he glanced up, Katherina at the same time slowly opened her eyes, but she avoided looking directly at him. He noticed that her eyes were red-rimmed. Jon shifted his gaze to Iversen, who stared back expectantly.
'Well?'
Jon glanced down at the book. It looked like any other book, a stack of pages with letters and words, without a hint of the life and wealth of colours he had just experienced. He closed the book and turned it in his hands, examining it.
'How did you two do that?' he asked at last.
Iversen broke out in a laugh. 'Isn't it amazing? I'm just as impressed every time.'
Jon nodded absentmindedly. 'And you could hear me reading?' he asked, turning his gaze on Katherina.
She blushed and nodded almost imperceptibly.
'Except,' said Iversen, raising his index finger, 'it wasn't your voice she heard. Or her own either, or even the author's, for that matter. That's the most incredible thing about it. Apparently every book has its own unique voice.' He stared with obvious envy at the red-haired woman. 'It's like communicating with the book itself – with its soul.'
'The fantasy of all bibliophiles.'
'Er, well, yes,' said Iversen, smiling with embarrassment. 'I suppose I was rather overcome by the mood. Sometimes I forget that there are significant costs associated with being a receiver. Costs you and I can't even imagine.'
Jon happened to think about the man drinking stout he'd met in the Clean Glass pub after Luca's funeral. At the time he'd written him off as a wino, a drunk spouting nonsense about readers and texts that sang and shouted. Yet the man's words were now adding credence to Iversen's explanation.
'Okay,' said Jon, setting the book on the table. 'Let's say I believe your explanation that Lectors exist and that you can manipulate my thoughts and feelings through a book.' He threw out his hands. 'So what do you expect from me?'
'Who says we want anything to do with you?' said a voice from the door.
All three of them turned towards the new arrival. In the doorway stood a thin young man about twenty years old, wearing a tight T-shirt and a pair of baggy, army-green trousers. He had a narrow face with a goatee, but otherwise he was bald and as pale as flour. His burning dark eyes were fixed on Jon.
'Hi, Pau,' said Iversen. 'Come in and say hello to our guest.'
The young man came into the room and took up position behind Katherina's chair with his hands on his hips. 'Guest?'
'It's okay,' said Iversen soothingly. 'This is Jon. Luca's son.'
'I know that. I saw him at the funeral,' replied Pau. 'The guy wants to sell Libri di Luca. You said as much yourself, Svend.'
Iversen cast an embarrassed glance at Jon, who seemed unaffected by the scene.
'I said there was a risk of that. We don't know for sure, Pau,' said Iversen. 'That's why we're here.'
'So what's going to happen?'
'We were just about to explain everything to Jon when you arrived,' replied Iversen.
'How much?'
'Everything.'
Pau stared first at Iversen and then at Jon. His jaw muscles tightened and his eyes narrowed.
'Could I talk to you for a moment, Svend?' asked Pau, motioning with his head towards the door. 'You too, Kat.'
Jon noticed that Katherina briefly rolled her eyes before she cast an enquiring glance at Iversen. The old man nodded.