Inkheart (29 page)

Mo tried for a smile, without much success. "My copy was stolen as well," he said at last. "And that was a very special edition, too."

"Extraordinary." Fenoglio raised his eyebrows, which were like hairy caterpillars creeping above his eyes. "Come on, let's hear your story." All the hostility had vanished from his face. Curiosity, pure curiosity, had won out. In Fenoglio's eyes Meggie saw the same insatiable hunger for a good new story that overcame her at the sight of any new and exciting book.

"There's not much to tell," said Mo. Meggie heard in his voice that he didn't intend to tell the old man the truth. "I restore books. That's how I make my living. I found yours in a secondhand bookstore some years ago, and I was going to give it a new binding, then sell it, but I liked it so much I kept it instead. And now it's been stolen and I've been trying in vain to buy another copy.

A friend who knows a great deal about rare books and how to get hold of them finally suggested I might try the author himself. She was the person who found me your address. So I came here."

Fenoglio wiped a few cake crumbs off the table. "Fine," he said, "but that's not the whole story."

"What do you mean?"

The old man scrutinized Mo's face until he turned his head away and looked out of the narrow kitchen window. "I mean I can smell a good story miles away, so don't try keeping one from me.

Out with it! And then you can have a piece of this magnificently perforated cake."

Paula clambered up onto Fenoglio's lap, nestled her head under his chin, and looked at Mo as expectantly as the old man himself had.

But Mo shook his head. "No, I think I'd better say no more. You wouldn't believe a word of it anyway."

"Oh, I'd believe all manner of things!" Fenoglio assured Mo, cutting him a slice of cake. "I'd believe any story at all just so long as it's well told."

The cupboard door opened a crack, and Meggie saw a boy's head emerge. "What about my punishment?" he asked. Judging by his fingers, which were sticky with chocolate, this must be Pippo.

"Later,"
said Fenoglio. "I have something else to do now."

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Disappointed, Pippo came out of the cupboard. "You said you were going to tie knots in my nose."

"Double knots, seaman's knots, butterfly knots, any knots YOU fancy, but I have to hear this story first. So go and fool around with something else until I have time for you."

Pippo stuck his lower lip out sulkily and disappeared into the corridor. Rico, the little boy, ran after him.

Mo remained silent, pushing cake crumbs off the rough tabletop, drawing invisible patterns on the wood with his forefinger. "There's someone in this story, and I've promised not to tell you about him," he said at last.

"Keeping a bad promise makes it no better," said Fenoglio "Or at least so a favorite book of mine says."

"I don't know if it was a bad promise." Mo sighed and looked up at the ceiling as if the answer might be found there. "Very well," he said. "I'll tell you. But Dustfinger will murder me if he finds out."

"Dustfinger? I once called a character that. Oh yes, of course, the poor trickster in
Inkheart. I
killed him off in the last chapter but one. A very touching scene. I cried tears while I was writing it."

Meggie almost choked on the piece of cake she had just put in her mouth, but Fenoglio went on calmly. "I haven't killed off many of my characters, but sometimes it just happens. Death scenes aren't easy to write — they can too easily get sentimental — but I thought I did pretty well with Dustfinger's death."

Horrified, Meggie looked at Mo. "He dies? Did — did you know that?"

"Yes, of course. I've read the whole story, Meggie."

"But why didn't you tell him?"

"He didn't want to know."

Fenoglio was following this exchange with a puzzled look on his face — and with great curiosity.

"Who
kills him?" asked Meggie. "Basta?"

"Ah, Basta!" Fenoglio smiled. Each of his separate wrinkles expressed self-satisfaction. "One of the best villains I ever thought up. A rabid dog, but not half as bad as my other dark hero Capricorn. Basta would have let his heart be torn out for Capricorn, but his master is a stranger to such loyalty. He feels nothing, nothing at all, he doesn't even enjoy his own cruelty. Yes, I really did think up some pretty dark characters for
Inkheart.
And then there's the Shadow, Capricorn's hound, as I always called him to myself. Though of course that's far too friendly a name for such a monster."

"The Shadow?" Meggie's voice was hardly more than a whisper. "Does
he
kill Dustfinger?"

"No, no. I'm sorry, I'd quite forgotten your question. Once I begin talking about my characters it's hard to stop me. No, one of Capricorn's men kills Dustfinger. It was a very successful scene.

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Dustfinger has some kind of tame marten. Capricorn's man wants to kill it because he enjoys killing small animals, so Dustfinger tries to save his furry friend and dies in the attempt."

Meggie said nothing. Poor Dustfinger, she thought. Poor, poor Dustfinger. She couldn't think of anything else. "Which of Capricorn's men does it?" she asked. "Flatnose? Or Cockerell?"

Fenoglio looked at her in surprise. "Well, fancy that. You know all their names? I usually forget them soon after I've made them up."

"It's neither of them, Meggie," said Mo. "The murderer's name isn't even mentioned in the book.

A whole pack of Capricorn's men is hunting Gwin, and one of them draws a knife and uses it. A man who's probably still waiting for Dustfinger."

"Waiting for him?" Fenoglio looked at Mo, confused.

"That's terrible!" whispered Meggie. "I'm glad I didn't read any more."

"What do you mean? Are you talking about my book?" Fenoglio's voice sounded hurt.

"Yes," said Meggie. "I am." She looked at Mo, a question in her eyes. "And Capricorn? Who kills him?"

"No one."

"No one!"

Meggie stared at Fenoglio so accusingly that he rubbed his nose awkwardly. It was an impressive nose. "Why are you looking at me like that?" he cried. "Yes, I let him get away with it.

He's one of my best villains. How could I kill him off? It's the same in real life: Notorious murderers get off scot-free and live happily all their lives, while good people die — sometimes the very best people. That's the way of the world. Why should it be different in books?"

"What about Basta? Does he stay alive, too?" Meggie remembered what Farid had said back in the ruined hovel: "Why not kill them? That's what they were going to do to us!"

"Basta stays alive, too," replied Fenoglio. "I remember toying for some time with the idea of writing a sequel to
Inkheart,
and I didn't want to do without those two. I was proud of them! And the Shadow was quite a success, too, yes, he really was, but I'm always most attached to my human characters. You know, if you were to ask me which of those two I was prouder of, Basta or Capricorn, I couldn't tell you! Even though some critics said they were just
too
nasty!"

Mo stared out of the window again. Then he looked at Fenoglio. "Would you like to meet them?"

he asked.

"Meet who?" Fenoglio looked at him in surprise.

"Capricorn and Basta."

"Good God, no!" Fenoglio laughed so loud that Paula, quite frightened, put her hand over his mouth.

"Well, we did," said Mo wearily. "Meggie and I — and Dustfinger."

141

Chapter 25 – The Wrong Ending

Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons
attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it
will be shot.

BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR per G.G., CHIEF OF ORDNANCE

–
Mark Twain, The
Adventures of Huckleberry
Finn

Fenoglio said nothing for a long time after Mo had finished his story. Paula had gone off long ago in search of Pippo and Rico. Meggie heard them running over the wooden floorboards above them, back and forth, jumping, sliding, giggling, and squealing. But in Fenoglio's kitchen it was so quiet you could hear the tick of the clock on the wall by the window.

"Does he have those scars on his face? I expect you know what I mean? The fairies treated the cuts — that's why there are only slight scars left, little more than three pale lines on the skin, is that right?" Fenoglio looked inquiringly at Mo, who nodded.

Fenoglio looked out of the window again, brushing a few crumbs off his pants. "Basra scarred him," he said. "They both fancied the same girl."

Mo nodded. "Yes, I know."

A window was open in the house opposite, and you could hear a woman scolding a child inside.

"I suppose I ought to feel very, very proud," murmured Fenoglio. "Every writer wants to create lifelike characters — and mine are so lifelike they've walked straight off the page!"

"That's because my father read them out of the book," said Meggie. "He can do it with other books, too."

"Yes, of course." Fenoglio nodded. "A good thing you reminded me. Otherwise I might start taking myself for a minor god, mightn't I? But I'm sorry about your mother — although depending on how you look at it, that wasn't really my fault."

"It's worse for my father," said Meggie. "I don't remember her."

Mo looked at her, startled.

"Of course not. You were younger than my grandchildren," said Fenoglio thoughtfully. "I'd really like to see him," he added. "Dustfinger, I mean. Naturally I'm sorry now that I thought up such an unhappy ending for the poor fellow, but it somehow seemed right for him. As Shakespeare puts it so well, 'Everybody plays his part, and mine is a sad one.'" He looked out into the street.

Something fell and broke on the floor above them, but Fenoglio didn't seem particularly interested.

"Are those your children?" asked Meggie, pointing up at the ceiling.

"Heaven help us, no. My grandchildren. One of my daughters lives in this village, too. They're always visiting me and I tell them stories. I tell half the village stories, but I don't feel like writing them down anymore." He turned to Mo with an inquiring look. "Where is he now?"

"Dustfinger? I can't tell you. He doesn't want to see you."

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"He got quite a shock when my father told him about you," added Meggie. But Dustfinger must be told what happens to him, she thought, he
must.
Then he'll understand why he really can't go back. And all the same, she thought next, he'll still be homesick. Homesick forever.

"I must see him! Only once. Don't you understand?" Fenoglio looked pleadingly at Mo. "I could just follow you, inconspicuously. How would he know who I am? I want to find out if he really looks the way I imagined him, that's all."

However, Mo shook his head. "I think you'd better leave him alone."

"Nonsense. Surely I can see him whenever I like. After all, I invented him!"

"And you killed him off," Meggie pointed out.

"Well." Fenoglio raised his hands helplessly. "I wanted to make the story more exciting. Don't you like exciting stories?"

"Only if they have happy endings."

"Happy endings!" Fenoglio snorted scornfully and then listened to what was going on upstairs.

Something or someone had landed heavily on the wooden floorboards. Loud howls followed the thud. Fenoglio strode to the door. "Wait here! I'll be back in a minute!" he called, disappearing into the corridor.

"Mo!" whispered Meggie. "You've got to tell Dustfinger! You've got to tell him he can't go back."

But Mo shook his head. "He won't want to listen, I promise you. I've tried more than a dozen times. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea to bring him together with Fenoglio after all. He might well be more likely to believe his creator than me." With a sigh, he brushed a few cake crumbs off Fenoglio's kitchen table. "There was a picture in
Inkheart,"
he murmured, raising the palm of his hand over the tabletop as if to conjure up the picture itself. "It showed a group of women standing under an arched gateway, in splendid clothes as if they were going to a party. One of them had hair as fair as your mother's. You can't see the woman's face in the picture, she has her back turned, but I always imagined it was her. Crazy, isn't it?"

Meggie placed her hand on his. "Mo, promise you won't go back to the village!" she said. "Please!

Promise me you won't try to get the book back."

The second hand on Fenoglio's kitchen clock was dividing time into painfully small segments. At last Mo answered. "I promise," he said.

"Look at me and say it!"

He did. "I promise!" he repeated. "There's just one more thing I want to discuss with Fenoglio, and then we'll go home and forget about the book. Happy now?"

Meggie nodded. Although she wondered what else there could be to discuss.

Fenoglio returned with a tearful Pippo on his back. The other two children followed their grandfather, looking crestfallen. "Holes in the cake and now a dent in his forehead, too. I think I ought to send all of you home!" Fenoglio told them crossly as he put Pippo down on a chair.

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Then he rummaged around in the big cupboard until he found a Band-Aid, which he stuck none too gently on his grandson's cut forehead.

Mo pushed his chair back and stood up. "I've changed my mind," he said. "I'll take you to Dustfinger after all."

Fenoglio turned to him in surprise.

"Perhaps
you
can make it clear to him once and for all that he can't go back," Mo continued.

"Goodness knows what he might do next! I'm afraid it could be dangerous for him — and I do have this idea, rather a weird idea, but I'd like to talk to you about it."

"Weirder than what I've heard already? I'd say that's hardly possible!" Fenoglio's grandchildren had disappeared into the cupboard again. Giggling, they closed the doors. "Very well, I'll listen to your idea," said Fenoglio. "But I want to see Dustfinger first!"

Mo looked at Meggie. It wasn't often that he broke a promise, and he clearly felt far from comfortable about it. Meggie could understand that only too well. "He's waiting in the square,"