Something gleamed in the man’s narrowed eyes. It was a gleam that came from such utter self-confidence that it had begun to border on insanity.
At a loss for words, Rintaro held his tongue and watched.
What the man was saying was not completely unreasonable. The building blocks of his argument, however distorted or misshapen they may be, had been neatly arranged into a great, unbroken wall. He’d built his case, and because the man was so proud, so sure of himself, it was solid and unshakable.
“Books have tremendous power.”
That was his grandpa’s pet phrase. And now the man in front of Rintaro was claiming that books had made him the man he was today—it sounded to Rintaro as if the two men were saying the same thing.
And yet . . .
Rintaro reached up and began to fiddle with the frame of his glasses. There was something very different about this man; his words were twisted somehow. If he had been Rintaro’s grandpa, he would have taken the time to respond to the boy’s questions calmly and kindly.
“I’m extremely busy,” the man repeated.
And with that, he turned his chair to face away from his visitors and toward the bookshelves. He opened his book again, then raised one hand to point in the direction of the door.
“Please leave.”
Rintaro didn’t move. The cat, too, appeared to be deep in thought. The silence became oppressive. The man went back to turning the pages of his book. The dry, rustling sound filled the cavernous hall.
Suddenly there was a different, swishing sound. The white fusuma door had slid open, but there was no one on the other side, no sign of the woman who had brought them here. All they could see was a deep, sinister darkness. Rintaro shuddered.
“Think about it, Mr. Proprietor,” whispered the cat. “This one is only a tough rival because there’s truth in what he says.”
“Truth?”
“Right. This labyrinth runs on the power of truth. And it doesn’t matter how contorted that truth may be—as long as personal conviction is involved, it won’t collapse easily. But not everything he says is true.”
The cat took a measured pace forward.
“He has a weak spot,” it hissed. “He’s very skilled at spouting heaps of words, but they can’t all be true. There’s got to be a lie in there somewhere.”
“A lie?”
Something in the atmosphere changed. Rintaro turned to look at the door. Beyond the darkness a wind had begun to blow. Or rather, there was a wind blowing through the hall, toward the darkness, easing Rintaro and the cat toward the fusuma door. This wind was steadily increasing in strength, its destination that mysterious black vortex of emptiness outside. A chill ran down Rintaro’s spine.
He turned back to see that the man was still engrossed in his book as if nothing were happening. It looked as if he’d nearly reached the end of that great thick volume . . . And after he turned the last page, that finished book would be no more than a decorative object somewhere in the chaos of this book vault. Stuffed into one of these showy glass-fronted cases. Locked up, never to be handled again.
All these books really were imprisoned.
The wind had begun to howl now, and Rintaro couldn’t hear the cat, who was trying to tell him something.
But Rintaro’s attention was still focused on the books. He turned to the man.
“Something’s not right.” He’d only mustered a faint mutter, but the man’s shoulders twitched in response.
“I’m sure you’re lying.”
This time Rintaro’s voice was louder, and the man turned to glower at him. But Rintaro refused to buckle under the force of his glare.