A Book Like No Other

The rain has only started freckling his forehead when Ahsan realised how utterly lost in the disorientating vastness of the city he was. Buildings morphed into a maze of steel and glass, foreboding and threatening as they rose all around him. Dozens of his reflection strode along beside him in the endless glass fronted shops. In this place, the internal map which once dictated his sense of direction back in his hometown was useless, a scruffy child’s drawing of narrow passages and dirt lanes he’d never encounter in this sterile landscape. The unfamiliarity made him miss the streets of his hometown, which were dusty and full of people he recognised. Back there, he’d take his time walking, pausing to chat to vendors or cast a bargain-hungry eye over whatever produce was displayed in the ramshackle farmer’s stalls. Here everyone was rushing, stern faced and barking down cell phones or glaring straight ahead, eyes afraid to meet a stranger’s. 

The peppering of droplets became a steady pour and umbrellas were unfurled like flowers opening to the morning sun. Unprotected by just a simple jacket, Ahsan bowed his head, feeling water trickle down his neck as his hair became slick with rain. None of the polished shop fronts looked welcoming to a desperate man seeking shelter from the downpour. Even if he did attempt to stand in a doorway, no doubt the prim shop assistants would force him away, suspecting him to be a shoplifter or homeless bum. He was like a stray animal, unwanted and avoided for fear of the contagious nature of his foreignness.

The letters spelt ‘Library’ above the wooden doorway. He felt a swell of delight that he was able to translate it. From his knowledge, it’d be unlikely that librarians would be as cruel and judgemental as the stuffy shop assistants. If he feigned that he could read more than basic sentences in the city’s native tongue and pretended to study a book, then they had no reason to shoo him away.

Heaters hummed and blew hot, stagnant air at him as he pushed the door open. It was a welcome sensation against his shivering, drenched skin. More than anything he missed the heat of his home country. Here, it was permanently cold and damp. No matter how many clothes he bundled himself in, of which he didn’t pack enough, he was still never even close to the pleasant, constant warmth he was accustomed to. Standing directly below a heater, he basked for a few minutes, hoping it’d perhaps dry out his hair and clothes slightly.

Floor to ceiling bookshelves organised the library into narrow corridors, copying the layout of the city outside the arched windows. The same maze structure but in leather, paper, and wood rather than steel, glass, and concrete. Long tables sat centrepiece, with small gatherings of university students leaning over books, glancing at pages and scribbling notes or tapping away at laptops. They whispered to friends and kept their laughter small and discreet, hiding it behind polite hands. People wandered through the aisles of books, scanning spines on their quest for a particular title. Others were hovering with a book in hand, already absorbed in the first few pages.

The signs on each vast bookcase were just gatherings of symbols which Ahsan could not unscramble to reveal meaning. Letters which he did recognise stood out yet he couldn’t fill in the gaps to create tangible words. Here, he faced a greater problem of what to do in a place devoted to reading in a language he barely grasped. The rain was relentless now, aggressively slapping the windows, demanding to be let in. Despite the crescendo, none of the bowed heads glanced up at the source of the noise. They stayed firmly rooted in the refuge of academic articles or the realms of fantasy.

He couldn’t understand how people could love books so much that they come here to read for hours. To him, books were for school. The teacher told you to read a page or a chapter and you did, but it was dull. Books were just like lessons, functional but not enjoyable. This place was a temple, where devotees came to worship authors and meditate over paragraphs.

Eventually, he lifted a book. He had wandered to the section which looked less serious; the books displayed were not leather bound and colourful plush chairs were dotted about. There was a creeping suspicion in his mind that it was the children’s section. The book he’d picked up had a cover dominated by illustrations rather than a minute, austere title in gold lettering. It was a prop for him, part of a character he needed to play which would allow him stay in from the cruel rain and the overstimulating alien city. He took a seat.

The book was all pictures, each page divided up into frames of individual scenes. It reminded him of the cartoons he would watch on weekends or when school was off. There would be a mad dash between him and his sister to the small television which held pride of place as the most luxurious item their family had ever owned. They’d sit, zombified by the bright colours and jovial dialogue of anthropomorphic animal characters who went on adventures or made friends. Flicking through the pages, he was relieved to see it had sparse dialogue. At first glance, it seemed to be a child’s book, yet the colours were toned down and the characters looked mature and realistically proportioned, not comical in any sense. There were scenes with guns and blood, the only vivid hue displayed on the pages. The book contained real world pain which never polluted the chipper and innocent lands of children’s entertainment. The main character was, judging by the fact he was featured throughout, a young man with faded teal hair and eyes permanently slanted in a contemplative expression.

***

The last page came too soon. He’d started slowly at first, dawdling over each frame. Then every page left him hungry, hungrier than how he felt in Ramadan. He just had to know if the young man would destroy the gang who were stealing peoples’ souls. He had to know if the young man would ever find the soul of his sister, who’d been transformed into a bird. It was like every frame was a crumb of the mshabak his mother always made; each taste of it made him desire more. He began flipping through the pages so fast that he feared he’d tear them and have to pay.

The rain had ceased long before he even noticed. Not only that, but the light had dropped and evening was in full swing. Ordinarily, this would spark anxiety about having to navigate his way back to the hotel when the city’s unsavoury residents began to emerge. Yet the only concern he had was finding more  of these wonderful books. Striding up to the front desk, he began threading together the best of his English. He prayed that the librarian, a middle-aged woman with thick glasses and a mustard cardigan, would be patient with the scattered and dishevelled nature of his speech.

“Ma’am, excuse me…where I find more these books?” He held up the book to get his point across. The librarian peered at the book’s title. He was relieved that his English hadn’t been so incoherent that she’d scowled at him or pretended not to hear.

“There’s more in the graphic novel section but if you want that particular author, I can show you the rest of the series?” She spoke gently yet her words felt garbled to him. He could make sense of ‘author’ and ‘rest’. Was she saying they had the rest of the books by that author? He took a chance and nodded enthusiastically.

Ahsan loved movies, not books. Movies were finished pieces of art, rich oil paintings to stare at. The story was given to you, the characters introduced themselves, all you had to do was let it play and enjoy. Authors were lazy; books had the reader do the creating, the painting. Books were a paint by numbers, and the paint Ahsan had in his mind was limited. Writing never aroused his brain to create beautiful scenes or realistic characters. But these books were like frozen movies, a frame-by-frame guide, where all he had to do was look and follow along. The young man fascinated him, with his stoic stare and dedication to getting justice in the ruined city he dwelled in.

The librarian wandered over to where Ahsan sat, back against a bookshelf, the third title in the series balanced on his knees. He pulled his eyes away from the climax of the story. She was tapping her watch. Getting up, he presented the pile of eight books to her.

“I wish to…keep read this. Can rent this, yes?” He asked. The librarian smiled at him, so he politely smiled back. She seemed like a kind lady, not one of the many foreigner-hating witches who held their purses close or swerved to avoid him.

“They need to be back in two weeks, alright?” Luckily, she held up two fingers and Ahsan knew the word ‘weeks’, so the time limit was understood. He gave a nod and beamed at her.

“Thank you, much grateful. I never read book like this. Very, very good!” He expressed, carefully arranging the books into his backpack, wishing he could explain more deeply how much he loved the books.

 The librarian handed him a slip of paper with dates on it.

“Enjoy reading them!” She added, waving to him as she politely ushered him out of the two grand doors and onto the street. Ahsan waved back.

“Thank you, Ma’am! I come back, no worry.” He clarified before walking off. There was a newfound confidence in his posture as he strode, imaging himself as the blue-haired young man, on his journey to clear the city of its seedy evil-doers.