[alja123]

Synopsis: Once every year there is a ball in the University Library in Cambridge. On this night the characters of every book come alive and join the fun. Also, this is partly a illustration of some aspects of life at that university.

Content:

People often ask me whether I have ever heard of the Great Library in the University of Cambridge. We called it simply the "Uni Library" or "U.L." during my days there; its spire rose somewhere behind and above the gate towers of the great town colleges. Those of us who came here from the soviet era were warmly reminded of the stern Lomonosov building in Moscow, while to the rest of them, it was probably just a phallic symbol.

The interior outrivals any of the other major buildings of the university both in beauty (marble floors and solid walls and such) and exclusivity (no to tourists). The first few halls of the place are generally crowded by the studious and modern things such as computers. However as one journeys deeper - the students are first replaced by prominent academics, then they turn into aging greatnesses still wearing the Nobel prizes of their youths. The shiny LCDs of the computers switch to un-renovated cathode rays and then all technology disappears and books are all that is left. They say it houses every book ever scribed. Indeed as one goes deeper the increasing security measures testify to that - glass panels or locked cages prevent careless students from getting at a tome unless they were completely sure they needed it and it is safe to say that history is safe in the walls of the U.L. in Cambridge.

Most of the year one would miss the extravagance of the building itself looking instead for a journal or some person. But one day in the very middle of May Week when students wander to the May Balls of the great town colleges - one night in the year you may notice a radiance flow from the place. Most ignore it since it happens to be the one night in the year when they do not have to research, but some curious students do enter the place seeking perhaps to close the tome they opened days before, or just to find a lecturer for some advice. However, what they find there is the marvelous magnificence of the U.L. Ball!

Picture walking past the twisting gate on a slightly dark summer evening. You are heading to town to see some friends but glance past the iron bars at what looks like the stern Lomonosov building. A slight radiance flows out of the spire and you are drawn to look over the wall at the place you used to study at. Cheerful but very quiet voices reach you and beckon your curiosity to float over the surrounding wall and up the many steps. Then you squeeze through the keyhole and find yourself surrounded by lights and people. Perhaps you recognise a lab partner or two and shyly tag along with their little group to investigate what is going on. Your friends in town can wait a while. You grab an oyster shell start a conversation, dance in the halls (with people you never met). It all feels very natural at the U.L. Ball. Then the crowds float higher up the tower to those older parts of the building with older books. You notice that you recognise more people than seem to recognise you. They are all here - the checkered man wearing a monocle, the uninvited guest drinking gin and water, an aged detective smoking a pipe.

Most of the books seem to fade from attention on the night of the UL Ball. Only a few very scientific tomes whose sole characters are "δυαλ" and "κομπλετε" stand out in the shelves. The rest are of course still there (for could they really leave the Great Library?), but unless one looks very closely they are always obscured by a shadow falling from a much more noticeable human or by the distraction of noticing a much brighter human.

* * * * *

I remember the student years when I stood on the highest floor of the library trying to remember how I got there through locked doors in the middle of the night. Then I remembered that I'd sat there in that very room evenings ago, and that I'd left a collection of Bulgakov’s there for purposes of recollecting later. Meandering through the strangers I searched for the tome between glasses of champagne. After lack of luck on several tables, I reached a déjà vu and guided by my sense of familiarity came to a desk where I sensed the tome had been left. Just then a stranger sitting in an armchair beckoned me with his mind and I turned my head from the book I was staring at to answer his question.

"No, this is my first time at the U.L. Ball." I answered.

"Well Добро Пожаловать" he said in a thick Russian accent. Cryptically and with a sense of regret he added: "The first time is always the one hardest to forget."

"No, no I shall not forget this Ball. Have we met?"

"Surely you remember - you became acquainted with me three days ago." with a bit of effort I traced my days back thrice and found that I had indeed seen this man before and in fact followed him for hours. Slightly surprised I replied:

"Ah yes Monsieur Voland I have indeed observed you. But you knew I was there all along? Personally I thought myself well hidden." the man we now know to be called Monsieur Voland smiled:

"There are ways. I feel we may get to know each other over the years. Perhaps I will teach you these ways. But let's not talk of the future. This night is much more about the present. Have you danced in the ballroom on the fourth?"

"No" I replied as I danced through the corridors to what used to be a computer room on the fourth floor.


The room with the high ceilings on the fourth was built during the post-industrial era. Its architect had no interest for the efficiency of today and instead opted for a space in which the academics could "let their minds wander" and "not be restricted by society of today". When today did come, the management of the building saw the value of such a fine room and networked it up. The pleasant hum of a hundred PCs now fills the cubic feet, but freedom still radiates from the room as much as ever.

However, one night in the middle of May Week the candles lining the walls light up once more. All the technology filling the place disappears somewhere (somehow), and the tiles beneath are glazed afresh. A fountain sprouts up in the centre, and mirroring it a chandelier comes down from the sky flowing and splashing in perfect unison with the waters. An orchestra rises up from the surrounding rooms and starts playing as the guests come in and start dancing synchronized with the water, the music and with each other.

It was thus that I found myself in the ballroom on the fourth floor of the U.L. Ball.

She and I danced to the union of music and passing time. It was as if every second carried a note and the orchestra played that very note each second, moving the two of us to the tune written on time. Between every beat of the clock were hidden moments, but as the second hand struck we noticed each other as two people exchanging glances for the first time. I remember that it felt like with every step we made - a chord resonated - and that if we were to pause then the music would pause too, giving us freedom to stare at each other out of both time and music. It was at a moment like this that I wondered at how I found myself in her green eyes.

Some days earlier, if you were in the room with the high ceilings you could have seen me there - looking at a man looking at an oval portrait of a woman with green eyes. This night in May Week both you and the man faded somewhere into the silence. Freely I approached the woman, asking her to dance. As one raised from the dead, she looked up and took my hand, as music took the two of us.

Moving, we communicated the following words:

“You are a victim of art itself.” I said

“And you? You are free, yes? Will you not come rescue me from my oval prison?”

“Come; let us fly to the roof of this building”

Up we flew through the spirals and staircases of the University Library. The orchestra still sounded on our minds even as the ballroom grew distant. Even as we ran, our hearts beat together and in tune (perhaps during the dance they just became extra instruments in the “band”). As the night sky drew nearer I got the curious sensation of losing my breath - Between every breath I counted more steps, and more heartbeats. By the time we saw the window to the roof, I realised that my breathing was only an act. As for her? I don’t think I remember her inhaling once over the entire night.

Standing on the roof of the U.L. we looked out over the city of Cambridge.

“Come let us leap from this place out over the fence and onto Burrell’s Walk.” I shouted.

“Wait” she whispered. “Look up!”

Up above us stars were falling in the most epic meteor shower ever. It was what every fireworks display tries very hard to imitate but fails at miserably. Mesmerized and holding hands, we watched every star fall.

* * * * *

The last one was slower and brighter than the rest. Our eyes followed it as it glided from the cosmos, eventually settling on the moonlit dome we were standing on. We approached it to recognize a golden bird perching on a golden bough sprouting from the roof of the Library. (On reflection, it’s hard to say whether it actually came from the sky or had been in the U.L. the whole time).
Imagine my (relative lack of) surprise when the statue opened its mouth and sang:

Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

I enquired as to where we were going, who the woman was, why we were on the roof, whether anything interesting was going on in the halls below, how the committee organising the ball intended to clean the place in time for the morning, and what time it was. However the bird produced no new words. The lady too was silent receding to the portrait from which she had come. Together the three of us sat on the roof of the U.L. and watched the sky brighten over the city of Cambridge. As the first few rays hit our eyes the bird pushed its chest forward and crowed three times.
"KAAAARRRR KAAARRR KAARR"
As these words echoed through the building, all the people gathered felt their eyelids grow heavy, and began to look for a book to curl up in. All the characters returned to the tomes from which they’d come.

As for me? I too found some blank pages lying around on some desk. Blanketing myself in them I felt more and more comfortable as I relived the night in my dreams and the dreams of those around me. “It was a good night” I mumbled, as invisible pens wrote visible words on the papers I was wrapped in.”


“And THAT m’boy is where books come from.” I finished.

“But Da-ad! I asked where babies come from!” asked the annoyed kid I had told all this to.

“That you did son; that you did…” I trailed of as I started getting sleepier again. Personally I thought I’d answered the question rather well. I’m sure some babies are made in the U.L. in a similar fashion. He certainly was. Oh well, maybe I’ll give him the more conventional answer some other time. Guess it’ll have to wait till May Week next year though. Bedtime now…

Authors note: The verse is due to W.B. Yeats.

[Ambrose]

Great job! Hard to follow who's doing what at times, as you like to throw around details from the second person (which I kind of enjoyed actually). The whole thing reads like a dream, and is well executed. Libraries seem like places of great mystery to me: where did all the books come from? who wrote them? how old are they? I think you did a good job exploiting the library mystique.

I wanted to know more about the girl in the painting and the statue that dropped out of the sky and sang. This feels like a part of a larger work, given the strong evidence of extensive background.

I don't get what's going on with the kid and the dad. Truthfully, I didn't like being pulled out of the lustrous illusion that you created and jammed back into "now".

Anyway, nice job with this. The writing is strong with you *says in Yoda voice*. Can't believe nobody's commented on this one yet...

[alja123]

Thanks for you're comments Ambrose.
I'm glad you enjoyed the story, and am delighted you find libraries with an air of mystery too. It was one of the main themes I tried to get across.

You are right that the bird and woman are parts of larger stories. Most of the characters are references to other literature.

Monsieur Voland (also the Devil) - from "Master and Margaritta" by Mikhail Bulgakov.

The woman in the oval portrait - Unnamed woman from "The Oval Portrait" by Edgar Allan Poe - Poe, The Oval Portrait

The golden bird - from the poems "Sailing to Byzantium" and "Byzantium" by W. B. Yeats - Yeats' Byzantium

Each of "Sailing to Byzantium", "Byzantium" and "The Oval Portrait" explore the themes of being consumed/immortalized by art, hence the relevance. All brilliant and worth reading.


I'll think about your point about the ending. Personally I just find it humorous and very natural. Perhaps i'm just scared of writing a completely serious story. I'll see what others think.