WYSIWIG

"Vissivig? What sort of a name is that?

Martin shrugged. He rubbed at his elbow and his lips clenched, "Hurt my arm against a rack. Have you seen that small room?"

"Where? In the bookshop?"

"Yes. Piled with books. Old man didn't see me. Honestly, Fred, I don't think he notices who comes in."

"You be careful. He's a strange fellow. And why did you go into his room. Suppose he did something to you?"

"Who, he?" Martin grinned, "I don't think he can get off that stool of his. He's - he's ancient. I was just poking around. Then there was this curtain an' I peeked. There was this other room. One small window high up and a dirty tube light. I went in."

Fred stared. "You're mad! If he saw you..."

"So he didn't, right. He doesn't see anything. And the cobwebs. I don't think he ever goes in there himself."

"And you saw this book?"

"Yes, and it wasn't in any of the stacks. Gosh, stacks and stacks! Up to the roof! But this book was on the table. Three legs."

Fred grinned. "What? The book?"

"The table, idiot. Three legs."

"So say so."

"That's what I said," throwing a playful punch, "why dodn't you listen?"

The two boys were kicking alone - actually doing so as they walked home, kicking stones, tin cans, anything that deserved to be kicked, for they were young, steeped in mischief, full of the ambitions of the very young and full of the devastations of being 14 years old in a world of despairing parents, ranting neighbours, awful teachers and sad-faced dogs and prissy priests who whacked them on the head at Sunday school for the good of their black souls.

Martin was the dreamier. He it was who had put on his brother's track suit, knotted a pink bath towel around his neck, worn dark blue socks on his hands and startled Mrs. Vandort next door when he perched on the dividing wall. 

"You get down this minute," she had screeched.

Her son, Brian, who was only twelve, had told the neighbourhood boys, and not without some pride, "My mother is the best screecher. Can hear her for miles, I bet," and everybody had agreed.

"What are those mad clothes you're wearing?" Mrs. Vandort had continued to screech, (and later, Brian had said it was enough to give the cat kittens). And no, Martin did not tell the noisy lady that he was Superman. He leaped, was mildly surprised that he did not fly, and limped indoors.

That, many of Martin's friends said, was Martin's trouble. Always doing something odd, and they voted that his imagination was "outstanding". His stories topped the Empire State building for sure, and that was modestly put.

Eventually Fred said what he felt he should have said at the start. "G'wan! You're fibbing as usual. I don't believe a word."

Martin flamed, "Oh, you don't?"

"I don't! So there."

"Come to the bookshop tomorrow. I'll show you."

"You actually say you sneaked into that room and saw that old book on the table?"

"Yes."

"And this book is called Vissi something? What sort of a word is that?"

"How would I know? But I saw it. On the cover. As if the letters were carved on it. And there were thin lines all over, like tiny cracks."

Fred sniffed. "Mus'be wood."

"And only that funny word." He dived into his pocket. 

Here, I copied it. He produced a crumpled scrap of paper. 

"See, Wysiwyg."

Fred sniffed again, "Mus'be some foreign language."

"Come tomorrow, I'll show you."

"Wysiwyg .. that's not a word. Not even a name. So what was this book about? Stories, pictures, what?"

Martin sighed. "I didn't look. You think I'm lying?"

"Course you are. An' if you think I'am going into that crummy ole shop with that crummy ole man ... you mus' be crazy to go there alone."

"'fraidy cat! Then I'll go. Yes, you think I won't? I'll go and - and I'll go into that room again, see if I don't and" Martin's recklessness expanded," "and I'll bring the book. If that old man tries to stop me, it'll be too bad for him."

"Jeez, Martin, you'll get into all sorts of trouble."

"How? Bet he never even saw me today. You think he can run after me? Have you ever seen him walk? Sits there all day with his turned-up collar and his pointed nose."

"But - but you're going to steal the book...."

"So what? I'll just take it and quick march, right under his nose. What's he going to do? By the time he gets off that high stool of his, I'll be gone."

Fred did not voice his reservations. It was a matter of much amazement to the rest of the class whenever he had one of his hare-brained schemes. After all, no other boy had been accosted by beings in shiny clothes and taken to a spaceship. No other boy had been taken to a secret meeting in the wilderness around the mountains with the heads of the world's defence forces. No other boy had found a secret passage in the hills where a strange people with copper hair and filed teeth lived in their subterranean homes.

"There'll be trouble for sure," Fred said darkly.

Martin made no reply. He was grappling with the old man, then, taking up a whip, he cracked it and watched the old man cower, hunch over and shrink into the corner of the shelves where spiders draped him in their silk. With a sneer, with the book under his arm, Martin marched out and there were thousands of people in the street, clapping and cheering. "The old warlock is helpless!" he cried, "here is his book of evil. Bring fire!" And there, in the street, the book was burned and in the shop the old man gave a shriek as his own body began to smoke and his flesh began to curl in the green fire.

"Hey! You're dreaming again!"

"Eh? Oh no. Just thinking."

With a little less enthusiasm in their kicking, they went home, like boys everywhere, carrying their catastrophes with them.

"You, boy, why have you come again?"

Martin froze. So the old man had seen him yesterday. "Er-just looking. You have lots of books."

The voice was dry. Words like falling scabs. "And what do you know about books, hey? You come in, you leave. Now you come again. Is it the books you seek or something else, perhaps."

"N-no sir - I like books."

"Do you now? But you look and look and do I find a finger print on the dust of them all?"

Martin wanted to run. A thin string of fear stretched from his head - to where? To that grimy curtain? The old man had not moved from his high stool and yet, he seemed to be everywhere, his gnome face winking and blinking and his white hair roving the rim of that high collar. A hoarse cry seemed to come from a tall rack and Martin saw the buzzard peer down at him with its beak - nose and the rimless spectacles and the white hair plastering a lined mottled neck. Fear turned a large key, hitching together the doors of his mind. He whitened as he saw the old man creak towards him. His blood seemed to have run down his legs to form a pool of raw red glue that fastened him to the floor.

"I believe you are afraid." The voice was cracked, and yet, Martin felt it reach inside him, smoothing the ruffles.

The sun rose over the ranking rows of shelves and the shop flooded and the sun's hair was white too, long pencils of white, probing him. Somewhere was the chink-chink of gold and the old man said, "Five hundred thousand sesterces .. really, Cicero offers much."

When the music of gold became the music of mandolins, Martin smiled. All around him stood the masters of antiquity. He did not feel the old fingers on his arm as he was led away, far, far, walking dazedly in a shop without end.

Look at what the books tell of, boy. There is the Meleager of the Vatican and the Venus of the Hermitage. Exquisite, are they not? There, there where the cypress is heavy ... come, come, stroll the gardens of the Tiber ..."

Martin wanted to rend the cocoon, find that curtained doorway, seize Wysiwyg. His mind demanded it. Outside this place of shades and dreams, his friends would be waiting, also demanding. But above him was a sky - a roof? a sky? Where clouds unfurled in Maltese tapestries and Babylonian carpets and oriental rugs and the books danced and danced on rare citrus-wood tables with ivoried legs and where Carthegus sat and Caesar regarded his mosaics and Seneca waked, brows knit, and Verres slunk into the shelf shadows, clutching the ancient wrought silver plate he had stolen.

"See boy, here is the murra drinking cup. Petronius died for this and Mark Anthony made it his particular passion ... and here..."

How did this old gnome leap among the racks with such alacrity, seize a book and riffle its pages ..." see, from the temples of Venus Genetrix and Apollo .. the golden cameos of Caesar and Marcellus ..."

Martin was moving in his own dream and above him, the buzzard squawked. "I am the collector," it croaked, "the collector of books - and I stretch my wings in anticipation, waiting for another's demise. Then do I swoop to seize the long coveted treasure from his trove."

"Don't mind him," said the old man.

"What is he saying?"

"What has been said for sounding centuries, boy. His is the disease of books. He is the buzzard priest who sacked the libraries of the pagan temples and cast his hostile eyes on the classics. Such a poor ascetic, don't you think?"

"I don't know what you are saying," Martin cried.

"Ancient writings, my boy, come, you must meet my friend."

Martin moved as in a waking sleep. The curtain parted. Yes, yes, this is the room of the book; the three-legged table, the volumes rising, rising. A sallow man looked up.

"Ah, my friend Cassiodorus," said the old man, "a poor vivarium is this indeed."

Martin ran to the table and yet, it was so hard to reach. He was in a stone-flagged avenue and there, far away, a sallow, stooped man sat over his book. His book! The avenue was a scroll and all around rose the books and there rose the Academy of Aachen and upon its facade sat the buzzard, tearing at the entrails of Yuan-ti. "A fitting end, don't you think, eh, boy?" the old man rasped in his ear.

Martin paid no heed. His book lay on that beaten table and run as he might, he could not reach it. "I want my book!" he howled.

"One book? Is that all you want? See, boy, see. All the books you see are yours. All. All that you see is what you get."

"Yes," said the Duke of Milan, "gold and silver lose their value in comparison to these."

"Boy, boy," called King Christian of Denmark, "these are the true treasures of princes." Martin's head swam. "Who are all these people!" he cried, "I want my book! My book!"

There was a clap of thunder. Suddenly, he was in the musty inner room and the early evening light stained the table a dull rose. The book lay there and Martin seized it. Where was the old man, the buzzard? Holding the book tightly to his chest he weaved out of the curtain and came to the high stool.

"Boy," said the old man. The voice was sharp with a grumble in it. "What have you there?"

"A - a book."

"Don't I know it? What else do you see around you?"

"The - the buzzard - and your friends ... where are they?"

"Have you come to tease an old man? Thoughtless, that's what you young scamps are. And who gave you leave to take that book?"

"I will bring it back. Honest. And you said that all these books are mine. Truly, you did."

"A pretty tale to be sure. What? I give you all this? I've had my eye on you, boy. Did you think I did not see you come in? And go to my room? Nobody goes there. My business is here."

"But I don't want all these books."

"What will I do with them?"

"You may come here, every day if you wish. Read, read, read."

"Then can I take this book?"

"Oh, very well ... take it. I give you all and you spurn me. Yes, spurn me. I give you the power to wake the dead and you spurn me. What you see, boy, is what you get."

"I must go. I'll bring back the book. Honest, I will."

The old man's hand shook as he pointed to the door. "Such hopes you brought me. You with your dreaming soul and rainbow lies and imagination making patterns on my floor. I had such hopes, boy."

"I don't know what you mean.... I must go." At the door he asked: "What is Wysiwyg?"

"When you read the book, you will know." Fred gave a hoot of laughter. "So you got the book! But what's all this buzzard business. Castles and mansions and gold coins falling around your ears. You've got to stop telling these whoppers. And all this for a blank book! Not a line, not a picture, nothing. I'm sure you're crazy."

Martin was crestfallen. "He said I could have all the books, and I refused."

That night he stared at the blank pages. Page after page. A book of nothing. He shrugged. So he had chosen nothing, hadn't he? The words of the old man tumbled through his mind. I had such hopes ... what you see is what you get ... Suddenly, he knew what Wysiwyg was.

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