Moths Of The New World by Audrey Niffenegger

The book woke up in a strange man's apartment.

The book had been published in 1928 in Minneapolis. She was exceptionally well illustrated, with many colour plates; most of the illustrations featured moths, larvae, pupae, caterpillars, cocoons. She had 364 pages, all clay-coated stock, and was cloth bound in faded saffron buckram with her title stamped in silver on the cover and spine. There was some foxing. Her title was Moths of the New World.

Or: the book was a small-boned light-haired woman with big brown eyes and a startled expression. She was shy and always wore nondescript clothing. She preferred to fade into the background and seldom spoke. Like most real books she spent a great deal of her time sleeping, but even so there were dark circles under her eyes. She had never met her author and because her original print run had only been 500 she was seldom read now. Most of her copies had been relegated to special collections and rare book rooms, or cut up and sold for the pictures. So Moths of the New World spent her nights and days dozing on her shelf in the Library, content to be left alone.

How did I get here? She looked around at the heaps of books and wondered if she had been taken to some unfamiliar part of the Library, but there was something about this place that was wrong. It smells wrong.


The Library smelled of paper, umbrellas, furniture polish, warm computers; it had a delectable mustiness. This place certainly smelled of paper but also of bacon, mould, armpits and unwashed hair. It was disorganised, even filthy, and crammed with every sort of book but also with broken appliances, congealed half-eaten food, balding stuffed animals, dusty shoes, an old bicycle with deflated tires. Moths of the New World had no idea what the bicycle was; to her it was a sad and slightly ominous machine. Someone was moving around in another room.

She lay open on top of a stack of other books. Not books she knew, they were only common books, not real books. She was the only real book here. She began to be frightened. Where is Analeise? Where is Bo?

A man walked into the room. He saw her and stopped abruptly.

"Who are you?" he asked.

She was too scared to speak.

"What are you doing in my apartment?" He came closer. He was an older man, older than Bo anyway; he had intense eyes and little round glasses. He was frowning.

Moths of the New World had never met a reader before. This one seemed angry. She turned and climbed back into her pages and closed her cover. Go away, she thought. I can't see you and you can't see me. I was never here.

The man saw a woman climb into a book and disappear. Startled, he stepped backward and bumped into a bookcase. The bookcase was stuffed with heavy art books. It toppled forward and a hardbound Cézanne catalogue raisonné hit the man in the head. He fell to the floor insensible and the bookcase fell on top of him. He bled to death without regaining consciousness.

Moths of the New World heard the avalanche of books and had no idea what was happening. She curled up inside herself and waited.

Days went by.

Neighbours complained about the spoiled meat smell coming from the apartment. The landlord called the police. The police came and at first failed to find the man, due to the general lack of order and the extreme number of books. Moths of the New World heard them grumbling over the condition of the corpse as they extracted it from the apartment.

More time went by. Moths of the New World wondered if anyone at the Library knew she was gone. For the first time, she wished she had been a bestseller. They'd notice if a Harry Potter went missing, she thought. At last some people came, boxed up all the books, took them somewhere in a van, unloaded the boxes and left them there. Moths of the New World despaired.

* * *

"The Director wants to see you," Analeise said to Bo as he turned on his computer. It was a Monday. Weekends meant less to Bo now that he was dead; having died aged twenty-five of acute alcohol poisoning he had acquired a horror of parties and spent most of his free time gardening and playing go. He had been surprised to find himself working in a library after death. He had always imagined the afterlife as infinite punishment or punishing amounts of leisure. But the Library was desperate for young librarians with more than passable computer skills, and Bo soon found himself charmed and then enamoured by his job in ways that hadn't been possible back in the Denver public library.

"The Director?" Bo replied. He watched Analeise to see if she was serious, but she only looked worried and a bit red in the face, as though she had a fever. Bo had never seen the Director, hardly any of them had. She was a remote presence, mostly manifested in concise emails and benign policy changes. Bo couldn't remember the Director's name. He wondered if she had one. "Um, where do I go?"

"Security's here. They'll take you." Analeise wondered what Bo had done. Then she figured the Director probably had some peculiar IT problem. Bo always knew what to do when computers went squiffy. He looked awfully pale when Security marched him off, though. Analeise plucked the tea bag from her cup and watched it drain. She hoped Bo wasn't being transferred; she had spent what seemed like an eternity waiting for an assistant, and now that she had one she had to fend off all the other librarians who were constantly trying to lure him away. It was true that Entomology wasn't the most lively section; though hundreds of monographs arrived daily few readers read them. Analeise took a cautious sip of tea and had an alarming thought: what if Pornography had put in a request for another position? They were so digital these days … she shook her head to drive out the unpleasant notion. Come back soon, Bo.

* * *

The Director's office was not very impressive. It was behind an unmarked door in the Periodicals section. The office was small, windowless with cinderblock walls, minimally furnished with a battered desk, a few chairs, a repellent aspidistra. There were two people in the room. A man sat huddled in one of the chairs, his back toward Bo. The Director sat behind her desk. She was a slender middle-aged woman with short grey hair and a smart purple suit. She wore cat's eye glasses. Bo thought, She's actually kind of hot, but then realized that she was old enough to be his mom. But really, who knows how old she is? Millennia? Infinity? She looked upon Bo with displeasure. "Bo Bevens. Please sit down."

He sat. What have I done? The man in the other chair turned to look at him and Bo saw that his forehead was bashed and bloody. "This is Mr Edward Little. He is a reader, recently deceased. He tells me that there was a real book in his apartment the night he died. Moths of the New World."

"That can't be right," said Bo. "She's very obscure, no one ever reads her. I mean, she just sleeps all the time, she'd never leave her shelf, and she'd totally never leave the Library."

"None of the real books ever leave the Library, Bo. Only copies, common books, are allowed outside. You know that." The Director frowned at Edward Little. "Where did you acquire this book?"

"Um. I, er..."

She waited.

"I stole it. It was on the bookmobile. It's very rare, I only ever saw one other copy, that was in the Library of Congress … Anyway, I stole it. Her. I'm sorry. I didn't know, you know?"

Bo put his hands over his face. I'm going to get fired. This is it.

The Director said, "Please don't worry about it, Mr Little. You are free to go now." Edward Little lurched out of his chair and into the arms of Security. The door closed behind him. Bo heard his halting footsteps growing softer. "Where's he going?"

"Most of the books in his apartment were stolen. There's a special section of the Library for book thieves and pirates. All the books are chained and all the digital files become corrupted when anyone tries to use them." The Director chuckled. "Now then. We have a problem: there's a real book missing and we don't know where she is."

"Well, she's in his apartment, right?"

"Apparently not. Mr Little's cousin seems to have donated everything to a branch library in Evanston, Illinois."

"So she's there?"

"The branch library had a book sale. Whoever bought her paid cash. She was $3.50."

"You're kidding. A copy of Moths of the New World would sell for thousands."

The Director sighed. "To a collector. Mr Little, much as we may deplore his methods, was a true reader. He knew his stuff."

"She could be anywhere. How are we going to find her?"

"Well, she isn't anywhere, exactly: we've narrowed it down a bit. We have a few leads. But someone has to go out there and track her down. And since you know what she looks like …"

"She's oversized and kind of yellow. Lots of pictures."

"No, no, we can see that from the copies. You know what she looks like when –"

"Oh. Right. She's kind of small and blondish. She always looks tired."

"Indeed. So we need you to go –"

"Analeise knows her better than I do, she's been here longer," Bo said. He felt anxious at the prospect of leaving the Library.

"Analeise died in 1918. She would have difficulties navigating the modern world. I'm sorry, Bo, but I'm sending you. However, since you seem nervous I will send someone with you. We can't spare another librarian, we're too busy. Go to the Writers' Room and choose one, I'm sure they'll be glad to get some fresh air."

"Huh. I mean, thanks. But aren't the writers kind of —?"

"Squirrelly? Some of them are. Pick a non-squirrelly one. Preferably one who doesn't drink. Now, off you go. Poor book, she must be wondering if we've even noticed she's gone."

* * *

Moths of the New World listened carefully. She peeped out at the room; it was morning and very quiet. She opened her cover and hopped out.

It was another room full of books, but since her whole experience was limited to rooms of books this didn't seem significant to Moths of the New World. This room was much nicer than the last one. All the books were displayed artfully, the shelving was dark wood, the place smelled of beeswax and everything was meticulously dusted. Moths of the New World sighed and stretched. There was a creature who lived in the room. It was soft and grey, it greeted her with a yawn and rubbed against her leg.

"Hello," someone said quietly. Moths of the New World stifled a shriek. She turned. A mild young man sat behind the desk; it was piled so high with books that she hadn't noticed him. He had longish hair and slightly exaggerated features. He was very thin. He smiled at her. "I didn't mean to startle you," the man said.

"No," said Moths of the New World. She thought for a moment. "Is this your apartment?"

"Mine? No. This is a book shop. Today is Monday, the shop is closed. I like to ramble around, you know, get outside the pages once in a while."

Moths of the New World smiled. "What's your title?"

He gave her an apologetic grimace. "Workers, Arise! I'm a pamphlet for union organisers to leave with the folks they're trying to organise. I've got pretty snazzy artwork, though. Lots of red and black."

"I'm illustrated," she said.

"You sure are! Colour lithography, that's the best."

Moths of the New World blushed. "Are you lost, too?"

"Me? Nope. I emigrated."

She didn't understand. "But aren't you supposed to be in the Library? In Political Science, or History or something like that?"

"I was catalogued under Pamphlets: American Labour Movement. You wouldn't believe how noisy it is there. Lots of shouting. I wanted some peace and quiet, so I vamoosed. Plus I wanted to see the world."

She looked around the book shop. "The world looks a lot like the Library."

Workers, Arise! shook his head. "There's a lot more to it than this. Wouldn't you like to see some of those moths in your pictures? I bet you've never been anywhere that's not climate-controlled. Maybe you could meet your author."

"My author is dead. I'm not sure I want to meet him, anyway. Or moths."

He stood up and walked around the desk. "Come here." He led her to the shop window. Outside the sun was shining on sidewalks, grass, trees, cars. People strolled along. A little boy ate unnaturally orange food from a small bag. His mother talked into her mobile phone. Moths of the New World had no idea what any of these things were. She had no words to describe them. Everything was alien. "That's the world," said Workers, Arise!.

It was too much. Moths of the New World started to cry.

"Oh, hey, now, Miss – Moths, don't be like that …" He put his arms around her. She sobbed into his red shirt.

* * *

The Writers' Room was the only part of the Library where smoking was permitted. It looked exactly like one of the main reading rooms at the New York public library: high ceilinged, ornate, enormous, with rows of windows and tables, green-hooded reading lamps and wooden chairs extending as far as Bo could see. The smoke hung in small clouds that darkened the late-morning sunlight. Bo coughed. A few writers turned to glare at him. Typewriters clattered. Pages turned. Pens scratched. Bo walked down the aisle trying to recognise writers. There were thousands of them, none familiar. Bo had formed a vague plan of finding a mystery writer, maybe Arthur Conan Doyle or Agatha Christie. This is crazy, there's so many of them. He saw someone who looked a lot like Emily Dickinson, but then reckoned a recluse wouldn't be the best sleuth. Is that William Burroughs? Bo stood and scanned the tables. Someone tugged on his sleeve.

"Monsieur? You look pensive."

Bo turned and astonished himself by recognising the person who addressed him. "Apollinaire? The surrealist poet?"

The poet beamed. "Guillaume Apollinaire. Oui. You are a reader?"

"Yes – well, I was. Now I'm a librarian. I love your work. I mean, I don't read French …"

"Oh." Apollinaire shrugged. "The English is very inadequate. But I thank you."

Bo hesitated. "Um, listen. I've lost a book …" He tried to explain his errand. "You could come with me. To find her."

"Of course. How sad. Certainly I will assist you." Apollinaire lowered his voice. "It's very boring here. We work all day and night. Nothing ever gets published."

"Couldn't you read each other's –?"

Apollinaire smiled, as though Bo had made a joke. "It's not at all the same. We write for the readers, but if William Shakespeare continues to publish after he is long dead … the readers think it is a hoax, you see."

"Ah." Bo wasn't sure what to say about that. He had never given the writers much thought. At the Library everything revolved around the books. He noticed that a number of writers had stopped working to eavesdrop on their conversation. "Come on," he said. "We'd better get going." He turned and walked back in the direction he'd come from. Apollinaire followed. Behind them Bo heard chairs scraping the floor and a multitude of footsteps. "Hey, where ya going? What's happening?" someone shouted from the back of the crowd. Bo and Apollinaire turned. All the writers had stopped working.

"It's nothing," said Apollinaire. "A minor matter of a translation. I shall return." The writers grumbled wearily and went back to their seats. Apollinaire said to Bo, "We are all a little envious; even the most insignificant marks of favour are begrudged. I thank heaven there are no literary prizes here, or we would surely kill each other. If we weren't already dead." Bo looked alarmed but said nothing. They left the Writers' Room and wound their way through the Library's corridors until they stood outside the main entrance. Before them was a tidy green park and a street without cars or traffic. Both street and park tapered off into nothingness at the edges.

"How do we get there?" asked Bo.

"Imagination."

"I don't think I have any. I'm more about organising things."

"Organise your reality a little differently. It doesn't have to make sense."

"Uh huh. Easy for you to say." Bo closed his eyes and tried to imagine … What? He didn't have much to go on. A city. A description of the woman who had purchased the book. Bo thought, We're driving to the place where the book is. He opened his eyes and found himself at the wheel of a rather cartoonish automobile. Apollinaire was in the passenger seat, grinning. Empty space surrounded them.

"Where are we?" Apollinaire asked.

"Chicago."

"I thought Chicago would be — taller. Not so blank."

"OK," Bo said. Random buildings began to appear in the void. People, Bo suggested to himself. A supermarket. Here is a traffic light, and here is the street I am going to turn onto. There are big trees. A cafe, a cupcake store. A shoe shop. A street vendor selling tamales from a bicycle. A park. Now, here is … what? Here is a bookshop. This is it. He pulled over.

"Amazing," said Apollinaire.

"Yes," said Bo. It was.

* * *

Moths of the New World and Workers, Arise! sat on a bench in the park across the street from the book shop. They watched as Bo and Apollinaire got out of the car and stood in front of the shop door reading the sign that said CLOSED.

"That's Bo," said Moths of the New World.

"Who's Bo?" Workers, Arise! asked, though he could guess.

"He's my librarian," she told him, proudly.

Bo and Apollinaire conferred. Then they passed through the shop door like ghosts. Moths of the New World saw them standing inside the shop, looking around.

"What are you going to do?" Workers, Arise! asked her. Each of them sat with their respective books on their laps. They were holding hands.

"I don't know." She was so happy; Bo had found her and here she was, in the world with the grass and all the rest of it, with this other real book who seemed so happy to be with her. She wanted the Library and the world, both. She wanted this moment to last forever.

* * *

Bo and Apollinaire were confused. The shop was full of common books, but only common books. "I don't see her," Bo said. "I guess I messed up."

Apollinaire was standing in the shop window. "That girl on the park bench, she has a yellow book in her lap."

Bo came to look. "That's her." He turned toward the door.

"Wait," said Apollinaire. But Bo was already crossing the street.

Moths of the New World watched him walking towards her. She felt incredibly tender, a rush of warmth suffused her.

"Hey, Moths," Bo said softly. "We've been looking for you. Are you ready to go home?"

"I think I want – to stay here. For a while." She glanced at the young man next to her. Bo was surprised to see that he was also a real book. He seemed more like a person than a book, more solid, less sleepy. A wild book, Bo thought. Crazy.

Bo hesitated. She was so rare and fragile; what chance did a real book have in the world? "I'll come back and check on you every now and then," he said.

"Okay. That would be real nice, Bo." Moths of the New World stood up. Bo hugged her and shook hands with the other book. Then he turned and went back to the imaginary car where Apollinaire was waiting. Bo drove away and watched in the rear-view mirror as Moths of the New World got smaller and finally vanished.

"I'm going to get fired," Bo said.

"No," said Apollinaire. "That was the right thing, what you did. The Director will understand."

"The Director sent me to retrieve Moths of the New World. I don't think she meant 'Leave her on a park bench with some strange pamphlet.'"

"The Director is mysterious." Apollinaire gazed out of the car's windshield. Bo was so focused on his own woes that he had forgotten to imagine any scenery. Apollinaire began to create Paris around them, Paris in 1913. Soon they were surrounded by horse-drawn carriages, grey stone buildings; men in top hats and long black coats and women in dresses that touched the cobblestones strolled arm in arm down the boulevards. "Stop here," Apollinaire said. "Here is my apartment. Let's go have some lunch. My wife will be there. Jacqueline." He smiled.

Bo said, "You can do that? Just – make reality?"

"I'm a poet," said Apollinaire as though that ought to explain everything. "Come now. Your book, she will be fine. Everything is fine. I was shot in the head in the Great War, two years later I died of the influenza and since then I've been sitting in the Library wondering about things. Come upstairs and have lunch. There are tremendous possibilities."

They got out of the car. As Bo followed Apollinaire up the narrow stairs to his apartment he felt lost. I don't have a clue, he thought, and suddenly he was overwhelmed with happiness. There were tremendous possibilities.

[The End]
 

Originally published in The Guardian.