Zeno Group Story 1

1. Zeno Group
Cartaphilus
Dedicated to the Argentine sage – June 14th, 2011
It has always been my predilection to stay at youth hostels, even when my age is
beginning to betray me and my savings could easily afford me more comfortable
accommodations. You see, I am a firm believer in habits, since to ignore the
effectiveness of repetitive common tasks has the undesirable consequence of
obstructing the mind’s proper and higher pursuits. So I always wake up at the same
time, just before the sun is set to rise (and that is, of course, why I will never visit the
poles). I dress, bathe, and eat breakfast in the same order every single day. Right
before I leave home, exactly one hour after I wake, I set my wristwatch to the local
time. I mention these facts because, as you may have already surmised, I travel. By
this I mean that I hold no fixed domicile and, like a vagabond, my home is only set by
where I spend the night. I can be in Istanbul one evening and have lunch in
Amsterdam the next day.
Today is June 14th and is good to be back to the city where I was born, so I am told.
One’s birthplace hardly dictates one’s character or possible ways of being, but it is a
marker from which one can refer to when in doubt. See, I can have these thoughts
during breakfast because I never have to entertain what to eat in the morning. It is
always the same, dry toast and black coffee. And hot!
I set my watch to the grandfather clock standing opposite to the receptionist’s desk
in the rather cramped lobby of the hostel. A group of backpackers, probably
American, emerge from the mess hall talking voraciously about the coming day’s
explorations. I loudly chuckle at their earnest sense of adventure, not because I fail
to appreciate it, but because I have had too many, too often. As I finish
synchronizing my watch I briefly smile at the recognition that this simple daily task
offers me a chance to ensure that all is well in the world. The events of this day are
in tune with the proper measure of time. I urge you, however, not to ask further into
this question, since it has led many to madness since, after all, proper synchronicity
of events would entail that I find another clock to match the grandfather clock and
so on…a friend of mine would say it is turtles all the way down.
I walk from Avenida Belgrano where the hostel stands in an odd modernist building
toward Plaza Miserere where some decrepit monks stand intoning ancient chants
that sound more like a horrific tale than a hallelujah to the gods. I am only pleased
to leave them behind as I continue toward my destination. Speaking of destinations,
I presume you are now wondering about the purpose or aim of this morning’s trip.
Let me begin by telling you, my listener, that I have never, as far as I can remember,
taken a trip or walk without a clear purpose in mind. This is not to say, however,
that the initial aim sometimes changes unexpectedly as when I was set to find a rare

2. Zeno Group
medicinal flower in Zanzibar, finding in its stead, an undiscovered breed of red
colobus. Or the time, in my youthful years, using the first map I ever collected,
searching for the true location of El Dorado in the Urubamba river valley, I found
instead an uncatalogued cultivated potato in a small terrace overlooking lake Piuray.
Finding the unexpected always makes for the better tale.
Zigzagging toward my destination, moving not by randomness but efficiency, I sit to
rest for a moment on a bench in calle Galileo mesmerized by kids on swings moving
like perfect pendulums. Early on I found that I have the knack of easily
comprehending and therefore memorizing maps. I never get lost, even if I purposely
try, and have tried many times, sometimes, I admit, to show off to friends, or hoping
to attract the attention or admiration of some possible lover, the latter, sadly,
creating the opposite effect. I have concluded that a lover of maps, creates a natural
repulsion in most people as if invoking an indescribable angst. I have wondered
often why this is. An old sage from Elea told me that this is because people do not
want to find a perfect map or be around one that seeks them, since it would entail
the repetition ad infinitum of reality itself. Perhaps because of the facility and the
reactions that it has in people, I have become a collector of maps.
I roam the world seeking rare cartography. When I find one I acquire it for a fair
price, or whichever other ways, but preferably through legal means. Some maps, the
ones that look beautiful but lack worth otherwise, I sell at healthy profits, others, the
truly beautiful ones, I keep for my private collection. Some I used to help me find
yet other maps in ancient places or places of great treasure. It is not the treasure
that these maps bring me, however, that motivates me. It is the fact that the map
represents the possibility, whether real or misguided, of finding them. At times, as I
mentioned earlier, maps do not lead to the intended representation. It is then that I
have drawn most pleasure. Whether intended or by sheer luck, a flawed map has
the most possibilities. Similarly, I also appreciate maps because I recognize them as
the cause of all is good and all that is ill. I presume it would take me some time to
explain this thought, but let me just suggest, for now, that a map is necessarily an
improper rendering of that which it represents. There can’t be a perfect map. It is
an impossible task.
After thirty minutes from departure I arrive at my destination. The Biblioteca
Nacional stands, like an animal over its prey, sinking its brutalist roots deep into the
ground. I find the building grotesque, its symmetries demented. For a moment I
consider turning back from this architectural monstrosity. My hesitation fades as I
remember the purpose of my visit. A letter from an acquaintance, a bookseller,
rather a book collector whom I met in this very city years ago, is what motivated this
particular trip. I remember the letter well, for it was odd. It was odd because I had
never corresponded with the bookseller beforehand. My only interaction with him
was purchasing from him a copy of al-Idrisi’s book, written and drawn for the
Norman king of Sicily, at a very good price, in fact, since I sold it a year later at one
thousand times the price I paid him. I knew when I purchased it that it was an
extremely rare and important book, also being pretty sure that the bookseller did

3. Zeno Group
not know its true worth, for it was one of very few extant copies of the 12th century
Tabula Rogeriana. It was also odd because in the letter he stated that by the time I
read it, he would be dead, so I should not bother to reply or inquiry further. I can
think of only one way a man can ensure his death. [I did inquire further and found
that he died the very day he sent the missive.]
In the letter he stated that, as an avid collector of maps, I should know that there is a
neglected section in the most remote corner of the basement of the Biblioteca
Nacional. There I would find hundreds of uncatalogued ancient maps. He
mentioned that among them there was a special one, a unique and priceless
cartograph, and here is where I made up my mind to go on this journey, a map of
maps. The letter expressed it to be not just a catalog of all known maps, but rather a
map that mapped all maps, therefore, a metamap of reality. Obviously I thought and
still think of this as an impossibility. But I am curious by nature and nothing rings
truer to a collector than the word ‘uncatalogued.’
I am prepared to spend a few days exploring the darkest corners of the basement of
this fantastic library, but I am also prepared to enjoy the repeated disappointments
that I am, no doubt, about to experience. I am no masochist, but rather have learned
that memorable moments come after repeated trials and tribulations. So far, the
event of acquiring the best map I have ever possessed was not a memorable
occasion for when I found it I thought I had just purchased a beautiful but modern
forgery and did not know that I had just had obtained one of only two pristine
copies, on faded rice paper, of the Impossible Black Tulip of Cartography.
Entering the imposing front doors of the library I remember that the bookseller’s
letter gave vague indications as to the whereabouts of the trove. “On the east side, a
door leads to the basement. Go down a winding narrow staircase to the bottom.”
That’s all it said. I wondered, at the time, why his directions were not more detailed,
I worried, again, whether this was a ruse or whether the old bookseller had lost his
wits. After passing by the reference desk and the stone-faced librarian behind it, I
walk casually toward the back of the main floor. Right behind a bookshelf of
reference materials that, by the looks of it, seldom get used, I find a bolted metal
door. This is the only door I have found on the east side of the building and it is
concealed from view, so I feel confident I could get to work. The bolt is old-
fashioned and placed on the door from the outside after the door had been set. Easy
pickings. Taking out my utility knife set, I proceed to remove the rusty screws not
without some effort and gently remove the rusted lock. Using a credit card to loosen
the handle lock, I pry the door open, enter the stairwell and shut the door behind
me.
I am in total darkness. I press the on button on my flashlight and a yellowish beam
interrupts the dark. In front of me, a black metal staircase curls down into a
seeming void. The air is stale and moist, making breathing difficult. Slowly, I go
down.

4. Zeno Group
In semidarkness I descend counting the steps. There are no doors or any landings
whatsoever. I conjure the idea that this was designed as a fire escape that did not,
after construction, meet code. These musing make me lose count. Could this be an
infinite well with infinite steps? I calm myself with the idea that mathematicians
solved the riddle of the infinite by showing that an infinite number of steps can, in
some cases, converge somewhere. But these steps are all the same size and this is
not a mathematical staircase. So, I retain my doubts.
Before I can muster any more impossible thoughts, I reach the bottom. There are
two metal rusty doors. The one facing east has a large sign “SALIDA DE EMERGENC
A” written in red, and is barred with two crisscrossed metal poles. The “I” must
have fallen out. The other door, facing north, is locked but not barred. This is it. I
clear the debris around it and attempt to pick it. This is made more difficult by the
fact that I only have one free hand. After a few minutes I succeed. I turn the handle,
but cannot open the door except by a few centimeters. I peek through with my
flashlight and notice some wooden shelves blocking the door. I quickly look around
the debris for some object to help me pry it open. Below the staircase I find a bent
metal rod. With it I gently push the bookshelves away from the door. There is some
give, so I remain hopeful. After several arduous minutes, I am able to shove the
shelves far enough that I can squeak through, not without some scrapes to help me
remember this moment. I have been sweating profusely and my shirt is sticking to
my back.
I turn off my flashlight as a precaution and find myself again in total darkness. After
a moment of both rest and attentive listening, I quickly illuminate my wristwatch. It
has been two hours since I entered the library. I really wish I had brought a towel
and some water. Between the sweat, the grime, and the scratches I imagine that I
would look maniacal to anyone who would spot me. I find this image somehow
amusing.
Once confident I am alone, I turn on the flashlight. I am in a small room with broken
shelves, a desk missing one of its legs, and a few wooden chairs in fair condition. A
decent layer of dust covers the floors and the furniture. There is a doorway straight
ahead but no door. Beyond there are rows and aisles that span further than my
beam can reveal. I am sweating again, this time from excitement. This large room
has tall ceilings and feels rather cool, in contrast with the suffocating stairwell, but
the air still feels stale and insufficiently oxygenated.
Some rows lie empty, while some have deteriorating manuscripts. So far, there are
mostly reference materials that, before digitization, served a clear purpose. There
are no signs of cartographs yet. At first, maybe because of my excitement, I did not
notice that the rows of shelves are not organized in any visible way and, more
disturbingly, are not aligned parallel to each other. Rather it appears as if the
massive shelves were arranged randomly, unaligned at the edges even, creating a
labyrinthine experience. The dust on the floor is almost a centimeter deep and is
completely undisturbed.

5. Zeno Group
I have been walking through the aisles for almost an hour without any sign of maps.
The darkness and the unnatural arrangement of the shelves make this place
disorienting. I admit to myself that I am not certain whether I could find the
entryway. Pausing to rest and consider this, I lean and rest my hand on a nearby
shelf. Immediately, several rolled-up parchments fall down to the floor. They are
light, but they startle me. After an annoyed grunt, I fix the beam onto them and
almost drop the flashlight. Maps! Looking up I can see several dozens if not
hundreds of loosely rolled parchments and papers all over the shelves in front of
me.
…
I have been going through the cartographs in a daze of anticipated pleasure for the
last few hours. Most of the maps are worthless to a collector, but I found some
gems: a Roman map of Blanca Subur with the location of the harbor perfectly
rendered, an annotated copy of the Almagest from an 11th century commentator of
Aristotle, Alberto Contino’s map of Florida from early 16th century, and a few other
collectibles worth selling.
I have only examined a small percentage of this magnificent trove. I estimate that it
will take me at least a week to go through all of them with enough care not to miss a
significant find. I decide to check out a couple of more shelves and then be done for
the day. I have not drunk since breakfast and feel extremely dehydrated. The next
shelf I examine is filled with worthless local maps and decide, for my last look, to
pick another at random. I walk a few minutes deep into the aisle and pick the
topmost shelf to my right. I step on the ledge to reach the top and feel through with
my right arm. Besides dust, I find a floor-by-floor blueprint of this very building,
and an early 20th century cosmological map in very poor condition. Nothing else is
here. I step up one more time to double check. At the very corner of the shelf,
toward the back, my hand touches what appears to be a clothbound book. I slowly
retrieve it until I can grasp it. It is unusually heavy. With two hands I bring it down
and dust it off gently. There is nothing on the cover, but on the spine it reads “Holy
Writ” and further down “Bombay”…
(In progress…comments, edits, suggestions are welcome)
JF
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