The Labyrinth of Dreaming Books by Walter Moers Page B

to the ground in exhaustion, like a balloon from which all the air has escaped. And that is just what I felt like: the poem had left me, all of it with the exception of one strophe, which I memorised myself. It now lived on in the collective memory of us all.’
    Ovidios smiled. ‘Do you know what they christened us in Bookholm later on?’ he asked. ‘
The Forgotten Writers’ Choir
. We were a more united community than before, except that what united us was the will to live, not thoughts of suicide. We appeared in the streets of Bookholm and recited the poem together. Just like that, without special intent and exactly in the way we’d practised it, one strophe apiece. We had, of course, written it down in the interim, but it gave us the greatest satisfaction to recite it from memory like actors upon a stage. We performed in markets, at weddings and topping-out ceremonies, and we attracted steadily growing audiences. The choir became locally celebrated, an institution. By expressing what all of us had been through, my ballad brought consolation, so it helped the Bookholmers to rediscover their instinct for survival. Dramatic though this may sound, it’s true. It was the best thing I’d ever written. I didn’t know then that it would remain so, but I’ve come to terms with that.’
    Ovidios sighed.
    ‘I don’t want to exaggerate the choir’s importance to the rebuilding of Bookholm, but it would be false modesty to deny it. We were a living symbol that a vibrant culture and a strong community can survive the worst of crises and catastrophes.’
    ‘Still,’ I ventured to put in, ‘that doesn’t explain why you’ve become so prosperous.’ I indicated his jewellery.
    ‘Not so fast! The story isn’t over yet. Now comes the commercial part.’ Ovidios grinned self-confidently. ‘Well, after a while the
Forgotten Writers
went their separate ways. A few of them married and moved away. A few died in the nature of things. When the first of us announced that he was leaving Bookholm, we resolved never to recite the poem in public again. That was to remain the privilege of our old closed community. I hadn’t until then thought of publishing it in book form, believe me, but when word got around that the
Forgotten Writers
would never perform again, a publisher convinced me that this piece of literature must definitely be preserved for posterity in print. Well, how could I quarrel with that? We made a contract under which all surviving members of the choir would share equally in the proceeds. We were reckoning on sales of a few hundred at most – I mean, who was going to buy a slim volume containing only one poem? That’s that, I thought. We had a good time and we’re alive, what more could anyone want? But then things really took off.’ Ovidios grinned again.
    ‘The book became a bestseller. Only within the narrow confines of Bookholm, admittedly, but with a vengeance! To begin with it was bought by every Bookholmer who had survived the fire. Then it became required reading in schools. Tourists started to take an interest in the book. It became a souvenir, the number-one souvenir from Bookholm. And today, two centuries later? If anyone buys a keepsake from this city, it’s my Orm poem. All new and second-hand bookshops display it right beside the till. There’s a children’s version complete with pop-up illustrations – blazing buildings and paper flames and all! Can you imagine what the royalties have amounted to over the years? It has guaranteed us all a life free from care. The editions are still mounting up from year to year. I’ve even been able to establish a home for destitute writers.’ Ovidios spread his paws wide, a contented and successful Lindworm expatriate.
    I subsided in relief, tacitly congratulating myself on having joined his table. A long-standing weight had lifted from my shoulders.
    Ovidios reached into his cloak, brought out a small booklet and slid it across the table to me.
    ‘A