The Blind Book

A Short Story by Roberto Peña

I’d learned from my friend Sohaib that some of the world’s most amazing pieces of literature were actually never meant to be read. That this is why some books are considered as hidden treasures, one of these books would be discovered every 50 years or so, and when somebody found something like that….it was like finding uncharted land. So I asked him:

-What’s a ‘hidden treasure’ book I should get my hands on?

-You need to read The Blind Book, by Constancia Leitão —he said— It’s an amazing book, recommended to me by an Ivy League faculty member who got his recommendation directly from an old bookstore owner in South America. You MUST read it, It’s witchy and visceral, it’s intoxicating and unconventional.

So naturally, I wrote the title and the name of the author in my booklist and kept on with my week. Back then I used to run a small online business that required few of my time and paid reasonably well for a solo student with no real financial burden. The rest of the time I’d spend reading books or poetry, watching my criterion film list or playing Go. After a couple of weeks I finally finished my ongoing reading of Candide which shocked me by the amazing work of literature, the themes, the setting and the plot. I was hungry for more and after reviewing my reading list only a couple of words kept haunting my thoughts as I tried to make up my mind on the next book to read. Witchy, visceral, intoxicating and unconventional. Witchy, visceral, intoxicating and unconventional. See, for me choosing a book to read was a rather important choice, because often books would end up defining my way of seeing the current world around me. A theme I hadn’t explore I suddenly see everywhere in my life because of a book, a question I hadn’t considered is suddenly the answer to many of my problems, I can connect almost all my conversations to one of these books, and so on.

After some careful consideration I decided that witchy, visceral, intoxicating and unconventional was a great approach for my life during the upcoming summer. So I surfed the internet for a copy of The Blind Book and ended up ordering it through Amazon, the weird thing was that a few days later an e-mail arrived stating the following:

Hello, we are sorry to inform you that your order has been canceled. A full refund will be issued in the following 2-5 business days, there’s no need for further action.

It didn’t seem to explain the reason as of why the order had been canceled, but anyway, these things happened more often than not and I didn’t thought much about the issue. But since this was the only Amazon seller with this specific title, I had to find another online bookshop. After a few days (and having received my refund) I was reminded of an old bookstore in Paris which held almost any book you could possibly want, famous during the 60’s, this had been a bookstore I was eager to try and so I figured this could be my chance. After some research and some euro conversions, I ended up ordering a hard copy of The Blind Book with notoriously fast shipping. But I received the same answer, this time in French.

Salut, j'espère que tu vas bien. Nous vous remercions de votre commande. Malheureusement, le livre que vous avez commandé n'est plus disponible. Souhaitez-vous le remplacer par un autre titre?, Ou souhaitez-vous que nous vous remboursions le montant?

Which roughly translates to ‘Sorry, the book you ordered is no longer available’. I found it weird that two different bookshops across the ocean happened to leave me at the exact same situation. Back then I wouldn’t derive much meaning of the things that happened to me, things just happened to me. And if my mind was up to something I had this feeling I most obtain it. I’ve had never spend so much effort looking for a book, and any time I wasn’t looking for it I felt like I was missing on something potentially great. Well to be honest, that feeling kinda lost its charm after a few days of finding no more possible sellers, some never answered and some stores kept telling me they no longer carried that book. I even tried a few Russian websites to try and find the PDF version, I had no luck. So I decided to forget about the entire thing and continue on with my reading list.

Well, that was until a few weeks later when I went out drinking with some friends. And in our drunkenness we began walking by some old streets of downtown, some beautiful, some sketchy and lot of abandoned places, but all of them with the same distinctive aspect of old buildings being showered by moonlight. And in that moonlight, which made the concrete glow a subtle shade of blue, my eyes were suddenly caught by the bright sign of a coffeeshop in the distance. It was a weird find, we all looked at each other thinking how come a coffee shop could be open this late. It’s green doors, which looked like early 20th century design were wide open and they allowed the store to exhale the smell of fresh coffee.

I never liked to drink coffee, but the smell of it….yeah, the smell of it gets me every time. There were rows of lemon trees lined outside the store with big bright lemons hanging from their branches, their yellow peel secreted this lemony oil which combined and danced with the fresh air of the night. You could see the inside of the coffee shop lined with maybe a dozen bookshelf’s, a small counter-table were the coffee was made, a series of empty tables and chairs placed here and there all the way to the back of the store. All of it showered under the yellowy light of lamps and a bright chandelier which hanged in the center of the space. Seeing the store from the outside, we felt how all of our senses were kidnapped by its charm, it was almost like looking through a spiral or a kaleidoscope. Entering was no longer a matter of choice, but a matter of impulse.

As soon as we entered we felt ourselves absorbed by the atmosphere. Curiosity was the only guide as we ventured forward, there was no pre-designated route, only your instincts and interests guided you. I thought the place was empty, or that we might have come as a surprise to the night shift staff, maybe someone had forgot to close the store or left in a hurry. All these thoughts dissipated as I overheard the conversation of a couple a few meters away and I saw a lady with a green apron serving a cup of coffee in one of their mugs. Then she turned back and saw me standing there like it was the most natural of occurrences at two AM.

-Hi, How can I help you?— said the women

-Hey, I was just walking around with my friends and we came across your store. Is it cool if we look around? 

-Of course! Take a look around and let me know if you need anything

She walked right by me, leaving a fresh aroma of perfume. A perfume I had smelled somewhere else before, but I was having a hard time knowing where exactly. I remembered trying so hard to engrave this smell in my memory because I knew whatever smelled like that would naturally perish and fade away. But as anything you try intentionally to remember I ended up forgetting where it came from. Because the thing about remembering and forgetting is that they’re both involuntary acts of the mind. 

I was looking around the store, my friends had stayed a few steps behind me as I lead the way unto uncharted land. Every step of the way was filled with interesting artifacts, books (both old and new) as well as some original artistic yawns hanging on the walls. That’s when I started to pay attention to the couple sitting a few meters away, the man was noticeably tall and spoke in a fine British accent, the lady looked beautiful in a tasteful outfit that made her look classy (at which point I became aware I was off tone wearing my clubbing gown and my probably very noticeable smell of tequila as someone had spilled their drink on me earlier). I couldn’t avoid to overhear their conversation as I walked by:

-So, do they miss me back home?—said the lady

-They sure do, everybody sends their regards! Although most of the things you loved have changed, I’m afraid you wouldn’t recognize the place today.

-Well, everything must change. Otherwise it’s just waiting around for things to go back to what they were, and you know that was never my intention. 

Then they both fell silent for a while, it was like something was burning to be said between them, a thought waiting to transform into an inflection of their tongues and then into vibrating waves of air that would travel across the table at the speed of sound to reach the other’s ear and then burst within them into a series of synapsis that they would then (hopefully) derive meaning from. But they didn’t seem to figure out what could be said and when something like that happens it’s better to not say anything and share a moment of silence under the cozy light of a coffeeshop. 

At that moment I turned back to my friends and saw one of them, Chetna, buying a book at the counter-table. I approached her and she told me all about it, it was a new novel by a Japanese award-winning author. She told me all about how this book came out with great expectations from the audience, the author had won the Nobel prize of literature a few years ago and this was the first book to come since. 

-Interesting — I said 

-Yeah, very interesting. Hey, weren’t you looking for an old book yourself?

-It’s true! I’d forgot about it—and then, suddenly, the memory and the feelings came rushing in like a waterfall and as the lady owner of the store was finishing up with Chetna, I didn’t hesitate to ask

-Hey, do you think you have The Blind Book in stock?

-Hmmm, sorry?— she said while she put some change inside the register machine and a subtle smile of confusion was revealed through the edges of her face mask.

-Oh sorry— I said—you see, I’ve been trying to get my hands on a book for some time now and I haven’t been lucky. It’s honestly kinda frustrating, but I was wondering if you’ve happened to come a cross a copy of a book called The Blind Book by author Constancia Leitão

-Hmm, let me think….she’s Brazilian right?

-YES, Brazilian

-Cool, I actually live in Brazil. I only happen to be around here every once in a while. Actually you know what? Let me check, I think I saw it somewhere ‘round here

So I followed her around the store with the type of excitement I’d never experienced over a book in the AM, still smelling of tequila and spicy tamarind vodka. We stepped into a small (and kinda hidden) section of the store above an old wooden and beautiful staircase, she told me about her. She used to live here in Mexico but she divided her time (and life) between here and Brazil, she opened this bookstore/coffeeshop a few years ago on the hopes of killing some time and maybe read some books. We had that kinda conversation that I guess only happens in the AM, when the streets are silent. She kept looking around some pile of books, still off the shelfs, when I asked her:

-So do you generally open the coffeeshop this late?

-Only a few days a month, whenever I get insomnia or I’m jet lagged 

-Hmm, and which one is it today?

-Oh I’ve had insomnia for a couple days now, so I keep the store open in case somebody comes along. I’ll go back to Brazil in a few weeks. You’re a lucky men you know?

-And why is that?

-’Cause here it is, The Blind Book

And then she proceeded to hand me a perfectly average book. One might say this is the incarnated and generalized idea of a physical book, decent size, decent paging, width, height, perfect to grab with the hand, great texture as well. I don’t know why this is important but that was my first thought as I held the book in my hands for the first time.

-You’re actually really lucky, some guy came in to sell this book about three days ago and I haven’t had time to put it on the shelfs. 

-Well, lucky indeed

I opened the book cover (which had an embossed image of a white heron in the front) and saw some handwriting on the top-right edge of the fist page, which read the following:

___________________________Maria Chidan, 1995 __________________________

I paid for the book and bought a cup of….something, I don’t really remember. To be honest it’s kind of amazing that I remembered all of this already because let’s not forget, I was really drunk. We spent some more time looking around the shop and talking about the differences between Mexican and Brazilian beaches and about the unpredictable nature of weather in this city.

When I woke up the next morning the white heron was facing me, and I was facing the unknown. I avoided touching the book ‘cause I knew I would begin reading it right away but I couldn’t afford to postpone some daily activities. Plus, at this point I wanted to make it a quasi-religious experience from reading it. So it wasn’t until later that day, right before sunset, that I finally picked up the book I’d long waited for.

It was something dark from the beginning, the very first sentence was a mix of darkness and sweet relief. What I’m saying has probably stopped making sense, but I can recall it just as clear as If I was there right now. I don’t know how many times I repeated that first fucking line in my head, I can recall it by memory (in fact I’m recalling it right now) but I’m not going to curse you by repeating it. Let’s just say it was witchy, visceral, intoxicating, unconventional and over all beautiful. I actually lost track of time while reading. It happens some times, more often than not, that I get so involved in something and loose track of time passing. I can only tell from the sun outside my window being long gone that it has been some time since I started reading. You know that feeling, if you’re reading this you must be familiar with that feeling. When you spend so much time in the dark that your eyes get accustomed to the light, or more like the lack of it, and you have no trouble continuing what you’re doing. It is until someone steps in and turns on the lights that you can tell just how very deep into the dark you were, because your eyes are soaring.

I’m having trouble writing about this next part, because this next part is the unknown. The book, which is narrated by a women, tells her collection of thoughts and some aspects of her daily live. It’s told in a beautiful and intimate narrative that speaks to the reader, like breaking the fourth wall. I could hear her voice so clear, talking to me. And many of the things she said were things I never realized I wanted to say, it’s like she knew me, maybe that’s what literature does. You think you’re the only one who has these type of ideas and then you read, you read and that connects you to the endless stream of thoughts which have been held by mankind since the dawn of civilization. After a few days of reading, I felt like I knew this women, the book made a really nice job conserving a moment in time through its pages, because page after page I get to see the inner workings of a lady’s mind and it’s almost like having a conversation. A conservation I knew never could have happened because the author died many years ago. But this, this is the closest I’ll ever be to meet her, her mind lives in these pages.

I’m walking, we’re all walking. Together in circles, I walk behind someone and someone walks behind me. We’re all wearing our small time suits, we’re in this…classroom. Walking counterclockwise, walking, taking a step this little podium, walk for a little, take a step down the podium and then walk some more. I look down and the floor is stained by the dirt of our shoes combined with some form of liquid, our black footsteps marked all over the floor all twisted and combined into an undistinguishable mess. And then I look at myself, blood pouring down my neck, staining my suit, staining the floor. I’m bleeding out in this endless clock-like motion and my blood is the liquid we all step on. I get this feeling I can’t breathe and my eyes become too heavy and I desperately try to stop my bleeding, when suddenly I wake up.

Nightmares like this became the usual. It really only got darker as the days progressed, I began feeling tired all the time. My neck hurting more than anything, my head all dizzy with constant headaches and every moment of the day I had to read The Blind Book. Hooked by its prose, prisoner of its intentions. Each word follows the next creating a collection of instants, here’s one, here’s another and they’re all gone as fast as they come. The book progressively became heavier, I mean literally heavier and heavier until I couldn’t physically hold it over my head without having it smashed to pieces. So I laid it down it in my desk as I kept reading about the witchy rituals that occur in the great fields of Brazil, people dancing, fire burning, sex, blood, deep sound of drums, meat, animals, plants, and moonlight. Suddenly my desk broke and the book, which had become bigger and heavier without me noticing, now laid on the ground of my room opened like an ancient magic book, huge, it’s size way out of its original proportions. Like rejecting its innocent nature. 

At this point I became afraid of the book, if it had the power to grow it might be living, and if it’s living, then it definitely fuels on something. So I sat down on my chair, waiting, seeing the book laid like that, like a spiders web waiting patiently for its prey. I woke up amid the heat of the summer night and my heart was beating fast, my body sweating, my neck hurting….and I heard the drums, an ongoing, deep, rousing sound of drums which seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. And I knew what they wanted, they chased me, they wanted me to continue reading. And as the sound grew louder it got harder to ignore them, the sound of the drums made my heart beat harder and harder….then I guess I must have fainted. 

Sunlight beams on my face and my body was relaxed for the first time in a long time. Wasn’t even scared anymore when I saw the book back to it’s normal size, perfect normality across my bedroom (except maybe I had to buy a new desk). After my morning routine I’d almost forgot that the incident had occurred at all, blamed the weird dream on my tired mind. That is of course until I got down the stairs and my eyes were caught by a subtle white dust laid all over the ground in the living room, I looked up to realize that the dust came from a series of marks in the ceiling right beneath my bedroom. Scratches, claws, handprints, marks, bitings, an amazing array of shapes of different kinds and sizes all with the common denominator of being left with violence. I learned to appreciate the thing almost like a work of art, something beautiful was hiding in that violence and I became absorbed by this view. That’s when the phone rang, and it kept ringing, its sound echoing in the walls and halls of the house filling every room with its mechanic crying. When the crying seized, my door was violently slammed several times like something was desperately trying to get inside, then my windows, then the doors again. It stopped when I did some more reading, each violent paragraph darker than the one before and yet somehow it remains a certain beauty to it.

I decided to call Sohaib, If somebody had answers about what was happening it was him. Calling his phone didn’t seem to work, I tried reaching him on social media but there was no answer either, same with e-mail. But I needed answers, so I decided to take a little road trip and see them man face to face. Packed everything I needed for a few days on the road while the white heron stared back to me, after some thought, I decided to take the book with me, It wouldn’t make much sense to meet Sohaib without it. When I walked out the door I realized it was almost nighttime, I had to be quick, I really couldn’t wait any longer. 

I was racing through the high way, my heart was beating faster and my temperature was raising, I could tell by the friction that formed between my skin and the wind that gave me chills each time. I tried playing the radio but the distance from the city and the interference produced pure static noise. At this moment that I saw an old lady at the side of the road carrying a couple of bags and wearing sandals, her looked almost lost in the horizon, the cars passing by like bullets and then just as I was passing by she stepped into the highway, carelessly, almost suicidal, my foot slammed on the breaks, the car shook as she kept walking, always looking forward, the other cars breaking as well and an orchestra of car horns went off. She faced towards me and approached the front of my car with her hand stretched out, her small hand, I could tell she was in this kind of dream state, she wasn’t really looking at me, it was almost like she was looking at something that wasn’t even there. She reached the bonnet of my car until she touched it and the burning sensation of the engine seemed to have woken her up to the real life, my gaze was probably the first thing she saw, my stupid gaze. Before she could tell where she was we shared stares, I looked at her with some worry in my eyes and she looked at me like saying poor thing, the way you look at something that’s lost….but even worse than that, she looked at me the way you look at something that’s lost and doesn’t even know it yet. Someone from the cars next to me came by and took the women away, they showed her the way to the other side of the road, stayed with her for a while. 

I kept driving with a little commotion after the event I’d just witnessed, a beautiful purple sunset shined over the the road, over the large trucks carrying goods to the US, over the desert that laid at both sides of the road and over the mountains in the horizon. The night was now fully here and the lights of my car lit the road ahead. Driving made me feel dizzy after some time, like when you’ve driven for so long and the road feels like one of those rotating spirals each second new road ahead and each second new road behind, you know what I’m thinking of. That feeling made my eyes heavy and I went into this, almost meditative space in my head. I felt her presence again, she was here, all the other cars in the road were now gone and my car suddenly began to speed up, she showed me things, flashes really, like seeing a dream where you somehow know what’s going on in the picture but you can’t really tell why. I lost myself in these flashes and I went along for the ride.

It must have been almost two AM when I reached Sohaib’s, he lived in top of a hill, the only house there, at the end of a private road. I was parked at the bottom of the road, I must have driven here automatically, not sleeping but not very awake either. My car was off and it was freezing outside, even though it was July, so I tried turning on my engine without any luck. Figured I could get my stuff later, I only needed to make it to the house, so I got off the car, grabbed the book from the trunk and began walking. It was a long winding road, longer than I remembered. Large pine trees on both sides of the road made the walk an almost cinematic experience and Sohaib’s decision to not put lights on the road (which wasn’t really intended to be walked) made the thing almost a horror movie, several times I reconsidered, thought about going back to the car. But I needed answers, going back wasn’t a choice. Just as I convinced myself from not going back down, a deer stepped right in front of me it came straight from the mountain side and stared at me for a second, moonlight shined above us and I could feel the weight of its stare and its huge antlers where magnificent. I held my breath to try not to scare it, but suddenly it kept on going down the mountain. It was beautiful.

My feet sore by the time I saw the house all lit up in the woods, I noticed the door was open about a fourth of the way through. The door was made from black steel forged in a peculiar shape and the spacing was filled with glass which allowed you to see through the house and into the main corridor. As I approached I heard some music; Midnight, The Starts and You played inside the house, I though Sohaib was awake so I entered without announcing myself and stepped forward into the house. Decided to approach the source of the music, it came from the dining room and as I turned the corner, the music ended and I saw there a group of people all gathered together in ceremonial robes starring at me. 

-Roberto! Glad you finally joined us—said the man sited on the far side of the table—and I see you brought the book with you, excellent. That way we can begin

-I’m sorry…I…I don’t understand. Where’s Sohaib?

-Well, this party wouldn’t be complete without him, would it? After all he helped us planning this 

The man pointed his hand to my left and I turned to see Sohaib standing right there, dressed the same way, looking at me.

-But this is not about Sohaib, you see….well before we get down to it, where are my manners? we have guest here! would you like a glass of water? a drink maybe? please sit down, c’mon sit down, good, good. I’d introduce you to my friends but i’m afraid you already know some of them, and the rest you’ll have time enough to know each other later. But go on, take a good look

And so I did, I looked around and there was everybody. The coffee/book shop owner, the English couple from the shop, my friend Chetna, Sohaib of course, and the rest (some six or seven more people) I didn’t knew. 

-Well, Now that you’ve seen some familiar faces, I hope you feel more comfortable. Please let me ask you, how are you going with the book?

-It’s weird—I said 

-Weird? Yeah, I guess you’re right

-Are you all going to kill me?

-Kill you?! —they all laughed— what?! no! we’re not going to kill you, c’mon Roberto relax. This is not about that 

-So? What is this about?

-Well, by this time you’ve probably noticed that The Blind Book is no regular book, now is it? No, of course not, you see there’s something of what some people call magic surrounding this book. When this particular book chooses you, it’s almost like it speaks to you isn’t it? We know you’ve felt it, we’ve felt it ourselves.

-You need to finish the book Roberto —said someone in the back, a women, beautiful to the eye

-She’s Maria—said the man—you too must be very close, after all you shared the same copy. You two’ll get along just fine

-I don’t see why that would make me any closer to anyone and honestly I don’t see why is there this interest on me finishing a god damn book!

-Careful boy! —said another man, this one looked rather old and fat. He had a white beard and a black hat, his skin was almost pale and his eyes were dark, darkest I’ve ever seen.

-Let’s not get too carried away —continued the first man—but Maria here has a point Roberto, you MUST finish the book. When the book chose you and you began reading it, you fed it what some cultures know as….your soul. Our souls live in the different incarnations of The Blind Book. Maria’s soul, for example, lives in that one copy you hold right there, where soon yours will reside as well, we all live in the collective Blind Book. The book extends our lives, we’ll die until the book decides we die and we live for generations. We do only the will of the book, nothing more. Some of us have seen the world go to hell and back and yet we stand here, asking you to join us. 

-Why is it called The Blind Book?

I could see his stare of confusion, he looked at his hands for a moment, like fixing his thoughts and then turned to me again to say:

-After all I just told you, that’s your first question?

-It’s a question I’ve had from the beginning. Why is it called The Blind Book?

-Well—he stood up—the book by itself is blind to this world, we become it’s eyes and see the world for what it is, not what we want it to be.

-Living forever (sort of) seeing the world for what it is, doing only that one is told to do, sounds sad. What if I say no?

-Then you’ll never leave this place alive

-That’s not what we agreed on, the book asked for him—said Sohaib

-I’m sure it’ll understand that the boy here doesn’t want to cooperate—said the man

-I think there’s one option we’re not seeing—I said, then the image became pitch black by the action of my bare hands and I released a scream of pain, deep pain that can be mistaken by a howl of sweet relief. It was witchy, visceral, intoxicating and unconventional. This way I wouldn’t be of much service to The Blind Book, if that’s what it wanted then neither of us would get it. 

The white heron stared at me and I saw it for the first time clearer than ever, I felt relief of not feeling the presence of the women. It took several discussions between them, but they finally allowed me to leave, the book didn’t allow them to do otherwise. I woke up in a hospital bed next morning. I still think about it sometimes, it’s been almost seven years since. The coffeeshop has been closed, I never heard from any of them anymore. And just the other day as I was cultivating my garden I thought I heard a whisper, the wind was blowing strong and It lead me into this bush of roses and patchoulis. Only then I remembered, this is where I’d smelled that perfume before.