Impossible Stories

by Zoran Zivkovic

  He would have stood there a long time staring at this sparkling display, whose meaning he had not even tried to penetrate, had it not been for the sound of quiet voices he suddenly heard behind him. He started in complete surprise. During his first moment of confusion, all he felt was the instinctive need to hide somewhere, but there was no time for that. When he turned around, just a few steps from him were two tall figures—a man and a woman—dressed in long white robes, heading his way, talking in hushed tones.

  They had to see him; it was unavoidable since he was standing right there in front of them, paralyzed and bewildered. But they went straight past him, paying no attention to his conspicuous presence, as though he were completely invisible. He stood there for a long time, immobile, trying to get used to this impossibility, as his temples pounded fiercely.

  The figures in white went up to one of the windows that was considerably larger than the others and was unlighted and started to touch some of the bumps that protruded under it. The window suddenly lit up, but it did not have the stream of numbers as on the others. It showed something that the prisoner could finally make sense of. The star field seemed far denser, brighter, and sharper, but basically did not differ from what he had seen through his small telescope.

  But how could the picture in the window and the telescope be the same? What kind of window was that? The answer soon followed, but his readiness to believe took considerably more time. The two people continued to touch the bumps, and the scene slowly started to change. The change itself was clear to him, but he could not figure out how it was done. He would have achieved the same effect if he were slowly to raise his telescope: some stars would disappear under the lower edge, while others would appear above. But here the window did not move at all.

  Then he heard something buzzing behind him. It was quite feeble, like the sound of a distant bee. He probably would not have turned around if he hadn’t been compelled by the pins and needles at the back of his head—the tension of premonition. Something was going on behind his back, something big was moving.

  The heavy, upright cylinder in the lower part of the slit in the dome slowly rose toward the highest point, although he could not see how it moved. It seemed to be doing so by itself, without the help of ropes and a winch.

  He caught on to what was happening before the cylinder stopped at an angle of about seventy degrees. So, the Tempter had not overestimated him too much. In any case, it was only a matter of proportions here. Even though it was gigantic, the telescope had kept its original shape. What he could not understand was that the eyepiece had been moved. Instead of being in the only place it could be, at the bottom of the cylinder, it was on the wall like a big window that everyone could look at.

  The picture on it stabilized just for a moment, and then a new change started. The stars began to flow over all the edges as though the telescope were rushing through the air at an unbelievable speed, although it was resting immobile. It penetrated more and more into the dark expanse, reaching for unattainable infinity.

  The impression was intoxicating, delightful. And then, as if this were not enough, music echoed. The woman in white went for a moment to a smaller window and touched something. At the same moment, the crystal sounds of heavenly harmony reverberated from all sides. He could not see any musicians or instruments, he could not understand a thing, but he did not care. He was experiencing what one undergoes perhaps once in a lifetime: exaltation.

  The two climaxes merged into one. One point in the middle of the picture started to get bigger, to expand. At first it was a star like the countless ones around it, then it was a circle, then a ring, and then finally it burst into a lacy flower that filled the entire window. The moment it opened its rosy, vaporous petals, the music streamed upward, greeting with an upsurge of joy the appearance of the yellow nucleus—the hidden eye of the Creator himself.

  He was not filled with frustration when everything around him suddenly froze and became silent. He knew this would happen, that the watch cover had to open once again. The moment of the about-face was perfect. The epiphany had just taken place. Dared he hope for anything greater?

  Return trips always seem shorter than departures. There were no more surprises and wonders to slow down time. Even though he felt awe as he watched the reverse sequence of what he had seen before—the disappearance of the dome, the return of the barred windows, the formation of doors and beds, the flickering of days and nights—his thoughts were elsewhere.

  His confused thoughts that gradually formed a crucial question.

  The end of the voyage came abruptly once again, just as when he had arrived in the future. At first, while his eyes were still blinded by the flashes, he could not make out anyone on the other side of the cell. Icy fingers of horror tightened around his chest. What if he wasn’t there anymore? If he had only been playing with him? That would be just like the Tempter. Then he never would know . . .

  “So?” came a gentle voice from the darkness.

  He tried to muffle his sigh of relief, but such effort was futile in the murky silence of the night. “You said the observatory would be named after me, didn’t you?” There was no time to beat around the bush; he had to get straight to the point.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Because of the discovery I made or because I was burned at the stake for not renouncing it?”

  “For both one and the other, although considerably more for the act of sacrifice. You know, in the age you just visited, your discovery has only historical value. It has not been refuted, but it is secondary, insignificant, almost forgotten. As you have seen, things have advanced much farther. But your burning will not be forgotten.”

  From somewhere in the heart of the monastery came the sound of heavy footsteps. It was not just two guards. A larger group was walking through the corridors.

  “Does that mean I have no choice?” asked the prisoner quickly. “If the observatory is named after me because I was burned at the stake, then it necessarily follows that there is no way I can avoid that fate. But I can still do it. I still have free will. They’re coming. What if I say yes when they ask me to renounce my discovery? That would spare me from the stake but would change the future, wouldn’t it? And the future cannot be changed; I saw it with my own eyes.”

  The steps ceased for a moment, and then in the distance echoed the harsh sound of a barred partition door being opened.

  “That’s right. You can’t change what you saw. And you saw only that which is irrefutable, that which you cannot influence in any way. What you did not see, however, is whether the observatory is named after you.”

  The prisoner opened his mouth to say something, but no words emerged. His sight had returned in the meantime, so that now in the obscure light of dawn pouring in from the high window he could make out the contours of his visitor. His head was somehow elongated, as though he had something tall on top of it.

  “No, I did not deceive you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he continued. “The observatory really will be named after you if you are burned at the stake. But if you are not, it will be named after someone else. One of your students, for example, who will be braver than you. There is no predetermination. Your free will determines what will happen. You will choose between a horrible death in flames and the penitent life of a royal astronomer under the wing of the Church, whose comfort will be disturbed only by the scorn of a handful of students and perhaps a guilty conscience: between satisfying your own conceit and the wise insight that it actually makes no difference after whom the observatory is named. I do not envy you. It is not an easy choice.”

  The rumbling steps stopped in front of the cell door, and a key was thrust into the large lock.

  “You know what I will decide,” said the prisoner hurriedly in a soft voice. It was more a statement than a question.

  “I know,” answered the gentle voice.

  The rusty hinges screeched sharply, an
d into the small cell came first a large turnkey with a torch raised high and after him two Inquisition interrogators in the purple robes of the high priesthood. The soldier who entered last was also holding a torch. There was no more room inside, so the three remaining soldiers had to wait in the corridor.

  In the smoky light the prisoner squinted hard at the figure on the bed across from him. The strange object on his head was some sort of cylindrical hat with a wide brim, and its slanted shadow completely hid the man’s face.

  He had not expected his visitor to stay there. Would he let the others see him? But no one paid any attention to him, as though he were not there, as though he were invisible. In other circumstances this would have confused the prisoner completely, but in the light of his recent experience he accepted it as quite natural.

  “Lazar,” said the first priest, addressing him in an official tone, “this is the last time you will be asked: do you renounce your heresy and penitently accept the teachings of our Holy Mother the Church?”

  The prisoner did not take his eyes off the figure in black, but he had turned into a statue. He sat with head bowed, silent, just like an old man who had fallen asleep, with his white hands leaning on the top of his cane. He seemed indifferent, as if all this had nothing to do with him, as though he were not the least bit interested. The silence grew heavy with tension, with expectation.

  And then at last, the royal astronomer turned slowly toward the inquisitors and gave his monosyllabic answer.

  2. The Paleolinguist

  I

  The knock echoed loudly in the hollow silence, making her start.

  She had not heard the steps approaching the door to her office. She must have dozed off again. Her head bowed, chin upon her chest, her round, wire-rimmed reading glasses had slipped to the tip of her nose. The book remained open in front of her on the desk in the lamplight, but she was still drowsy and could not remember its title right away. These catnaps were becoming more and more frequent, causing her to feel very ill at ease. Not because someone might find her in that unseemly position. She was not afraid of that; almost no one visited her anymore, not even her students, let alone her colleagues. She was an embarrassment to herself.

  The knock came again. Brief and somehow reserved, hesitant. Certainly not as loud as it had seemed the first time. She looked around in confusion, wondering what time of day it was. The only window in her office looked onto the skylight, but this name was quite inappropriate since the narrow shaft that went through the middle of the building from the roof to the basement was filled only with gloom even on the sunniest days.

  There was a simpler way to find out the time, but it would take her at least a few minutes to discover her wristwatch in the disordered multitude of large and small items that covered her desk. And she could not let the visitor wait that long, whomever he or she might be. Visitors were rare and therefore precious.

  “Come in,” she said. And then, since she thought she had said it too softly, she repeated in a louder voice: “Come in.”

  She did not recognize the person who appeared at the door. The neon lighting in the hallway illuminated him from behind, but even if the light had shone from in front of him, she would not have been able to discover very much without her other glasses that were also buried somewhere on the desk. The only thing she could conclude with certainty about the hazy outline was that he was a tall man in a dark cloak.

  She pondered for a moment but could think of no one she knew who fit that description. That, however, still did not mean anything. She had learned with increasing certainty during the passing years that memory was a very unreliable support, particularly where the recent past was concerned. The more distant past was considerably sharper, which was rather apropos in view of her profession. But it made no difference: everything would become clear when the visitor started to speak. She had a hard time remembering faces, but she never forgot a voice, ever. This was probably the only department in which senility had kindly spared her from its humiliating veil.

  “It’s not easy to find you. You’re completely hidden here in the basement.” She had not heard this voice before. It sounded deep and drawn out, almost melodic. It would be impossible not to remember it, even without her aptitude.

  “Oh, it makes no difference. When no one is looking for you, then it’s all the same where you are. But are you certain that you’re in the right place?”

  “This is the office for paleolinguistics, isn’t it?” It was more a statement than a question.

  “Yes. Or rather what’s left of it. In happier times we even had a brass plate that said so, but ever since we moved here, no one has taken the trouble to put it up. Maybe they’re waiting for me to do it.”

  Continuing to stand in the doorway, the visitor contemplated the gloom of the rather small room. Three walls were covered with metal shelves, and the books and journals on them were more stacked, even thrown, than placed in an orderly fashion. A narrow vitrine rising to the low ceiling with its hot water pipes was on part of the fourth wall next to the window. It was full of tiny broken statues, pieces of pottery, and the remains of simple stone implements. These objects were also displayed without any order, often one on top of another as though the vitrine were a storage cabinet. Under the window next to the desk on a backless wooden chair covered with newspapers was a hot plate with a black kettle. Several used tea bags were lying on the newspaper like tropical fish that had died of asphyxiation.

  “This is exactly as I imagined it,” said the man at last.

  “You imagined this?” she asked, bewildered.

  “Yes, your office. Where you work.”

  She squinted, trying to focus her eyes better. “Is that supposed to be a compliment or a reproach?”

  “A compliment, of course. What else could it be? I am an admirer of yours.”

  At first she did not know how to respond. She slowly took off her reading glasses and put them on the desk. When she finally spoke, her voice was critical. “If this is some sort of joke, then I must say it is rather out of place.”

  “Why do you think it’s a joke?”

  “I do not have admirers. I have never had any.”

  “But your work certainly deserves them.”

  She got up out of her armchair, numb from sitting so long, and started to rummage through the things on her desk in search of her other glasses. She hunted for several moments and when she couldn’t find them, waved her hand in a gesture of angry dismissal, turned her blurry eyes toward the door and said in a voice that was more nervous than she intended, “Oh, come in, for heaven’s sake. We can’t talk while you’re in the hallway.”

  He entered, closed the door behind him and then stopped, uncertain where he should sit. There was another armchair in front of the desk, but it held a load of tattered folders with a fairly large stone figure on the top; with the help of a considerable amount of imagination, it resembled a bulging female torso.

  “Put that somewhere, on the floor, it makes no difference,” she said, noticing that he did not know what to do.

  He did it with utmost caution, as though holding some sort of relic in his hands. When he sat down, the springs on the armchair squeaked in protest.

  Now he was closer to her and partially illuminated by the light from her table lamp, so that even without her other glasses she could make out certain details she had not noticed before. In his lap he laid his derby, his cane with its decorated top, and a pair of white gloves. She had never given much thought to how she dressed and did not pay attention to what other people wore, but she found this quite amazing. It was as though he had come out of a play set in olden times, she thought, smiling to herself.

  The man just sat there without a word and looked at her. She soon began to fidget under his inquisitive stare. Unconsciously she started to fix her disheveled strands of gray hair as she thought over what to say to the stranger. Why had she asked him to come in? Admirer! As if she were so credulous or vain.

  “So,
you are interested in paleolinguistics?”

  “Yes, very much so.”

  “Why?”

  He did not answer right away. He started to draw his fingers slowly along the smooth edge of the derby in his hand. “An unusual question from someone who has devoted her entire life to that field,” he said at last.

  “Not at all unusual,” she replied. “The very fact that I’ve squandered my whole life in paleolinguistics gives me the clear-cut right to ask you that.”

  “Do you think you have squandered your life?”

  She stared at his blurry face, outside the lamplight. She could not guess his age. His voice was not a reliable indicator. Judging by it alone, the man could have been in his twenties or even his forties. For his sake, she hoped it was the former; it would be much easier for him to lose his illusions. If only she had been lucky enough to have some sense knocked into her at that age.

  “Take a good look around you again. You are in a tiny basement room that was the janitor’s storage before and will return to that function when I retire in several months. Since I am not able to take these things with me, the books and other artifacts will all be thrown away. Useless. And even if I took them, it would not make much difference. Everything would end up on the garbage heap after my death. There, that is the best measure of the success of a life devoted to paleolinguistics. So please listen to my advice: get interested in something else. Anything. Forget primeval language and the far-off past. Who is interested in that in the modern world? Don’t ruin your future for no reason.”

  “The past and the future, yes,” replied the visitor, lost in thought. He paused for a moment, and she thought a smile flickered on his face. But she could not be sure. “I think there are other measures that can be used to evaluate what you have achieved.” He said it with determination, like a man who knows what he is talking about.

  She looked at him inquisitively. “What, for example?”