Impossible Stories

by Zoran Zivkovic

  And then she moved the little catch and the lid jumped up.

  II

  There were no hands. There was no face. Just a bright circle that contained some kind of image. The image was not quite steady but trembled as though alive. Confused, she brought the watch a little closer to get a better look, but when she wanted to stop, it kept on coming closer all by itself, without her influence. The casing started to get bigger, like a round fissure in reality that quickly expanded before her, its brilliance crowding out the gloom of the basement room, until it had pushed it all the way over the edge of the world.

  She was blinded at first. Her pupils were accustomed to the poor light in the office and needed some time to adjust to the bright midday sun. But the rest of her senses immediately began to absorb the rich impressions of her new surroundings. She was struck by the unknown smells of wild vegetation, dense and abundant, prickling and stinging her nostrils as though someone had thrown a handful of pollen into her face. Her ears were filled with the undulating sound of tall, brittle blades of grass and the buzzing and humming of a multitude of insects engrossed in their ritual dances. The breeze reached her skin in uneven gusts, stroking her face and hands with the softest touch.

  She knew what she would see even before her eyesight returned, but there was still no lack of surprise. She was in the middle of a field that stretched all around in gentle folds as far as the eye could see, but what her senses of smell, hearing, and touch could not tell her was that countless butterflies covered the expanse around her like some flickering, brightly colored rug. They were flying low over the ground cover or resting on it, completely devoted to their harmless business which, as she had recently learned, could result in unforeseeable disaster.

  She froze at that thought. What if her appearance upset them? What if they suddenly started to fly, thereby disturbing something that should not be disturbed? She stopped breathing when a butterfly left a purple flower with large petals and zigzagged toward her, lazily fluttering its spotted wings. When it approached her face she instinctively closed her eyes, helplessly expecting it to fly into her at any moment. But no crash occurred. When she opened her eyes, the butterfly was gone. She first thought that it must have turned at the last instant. The other possibility was so unbelievable that she simply refused to accept it.

  But soon afterward, when a somewhat stronger gust of wind raised an excited cloud of butterflies, she nonetheless had to accept the impossible. They flew through her as though she were not there, as though she were made of some airy substance, transparent, unreal, nonexistent.

  At first she just stood there motionless, utterly confused, and watched the cloud stream through her body. She felt this rising tide like a weak sting, like light goose pimples flowing on the surface of her skin. The cloud had already thinned out when she finally emerged from her paralysis and extended her hand toward the last butterflies. She could touch them in flight. The touch was irrefutable, although one-sided: the tiny wings yielded unfeelingly to her invisible fingers in their multicolored fluttering.

  She remained undecided for a time after the last butterfly had gone. Serious, distressing questions were welling up from part of her consciousness, but she quickly smothered the tiresome voice that only spoiled the magic. What difference did it make that it was impossible when it seemed so dreamy, so intoxicating?

  She had no reason to go in any particular direction, so she simply moved straight ahead. She did so unconsciously, taking a step forward, but instead of her foot landing on the grass again as it should have done, it stayed in the air.

  She did not realize right away that she was flying. At first she thought she’d lost her balance and would fall, but she never did. She remained in midair, unsupported, bewildered because she had always been afraid of heights, although she was barely at knee level. She wished in panic to go down, and the very next moment she was resting on the ground again.

  Some time passed before she mustered the courage to move once more. She thought she must look like a child, trying to take its first awkward steps. This time there was no need to step forward. All she had to do was will it: she wanted to fly—and the same instant she was in the air again, infinitely light, incorporeal.

  She first took a horizontal birdlike position, extending her arms like wings, but quickly realized that this was not necessary. Undignified, in fact. Owing to her years, it was much more becoming for her to adopt the same position in the air as she did on the ground, so she straightened up with her arms crossed on her chest, as though perched on an invisible pedestal.

  Fear faded and gave way to fascination. The experience of unhindered flight was thrilling, giddy. First she streaked high up until she reached the fluffy substance of a small cloud, and then, barely resisting the urge to scream with excitement, she started back down, enjoying the sight of the green carpet approaching at lightning speed. She stopped right above it effortlessly, without disturbing the swarm of buzzing insects quarreling over a cluster of red and yellow flowers.

  When she soared to the bottom of the heavens again, she caught sight of something she had missed her first time up there. Her surprise was actually twofold, and she stopped suddenly in the middle of nothingness. When she saw a thin column of smoke rising on the distant horizon, it flashed through her mind that this should not be possible: she did not have her glasses with her. They had been left behind in the office, somewhere in the disorder on her desk. But it seemed that in this new form they were not necessary; she could see the spiraling signal of someone’s fire clearly enough without them.

  She hurried in that direction like an eagle that has spotted its prey, driven by impatience and foreboding. The suppressed questions started to surge to the surface once again. If she was truly where she suspected, although all this was beyond reason, of course, then she had lighted on her destination.

  The tribe was small—she counted only twelve members. Next to the fire were two old women, an old man, and four children of different ages. The other five adults—how stunted they were!—were dispersed in a broad circle around this temporary habitat. They were engaged in what people of that early age spent most of their time doing: painstakingly collecting food—different berries, roots, shriveled fruit, small rodents.

  She descended, not close to the fire, but a bit farther off. She could feel her heart thudding in her immaterial chest. The voices of the old people and children were muffled and indistinct, but that was what she wanted. She was not yet ready. When she was, she would go among them—a ghost who would know as soon as she heard their first words whether or not her former life had meaning.

  She wondered what price she would have to pay for this unique privilege. It certainly could not be the assurance that she would not return from here. Even if she had that impossible watch, what was there to go back to? Lonely drudgery in a dark basement cubbyhole? The humiliation brought by neglect and old age? The implacable doubts that would follow her maliciously to the end? No, staying here would be a reward and not a punishment. So what would it be?

  The answer came with the wind. The current of air brought to her insensate nostrils the hot smell of steam from the sooty earthen vessel in which water was boiling over the fire. The old women were cleaning some dried herbs, getting them ready for the pot, chatting idly, just as would be done in the countless centuries to follow.

  Tea, of course!

  An inaudible scream was wrenched from the addict. She felt neither hunger nor thirst, as was quite natural in this state. But the longing for a hot cup of tea that suddenly flooded her was something far beyond a physical need. The delusive impression that the familiar tonic was flowing through the inside of her mouth, the promise that her overpowering need would soon be satisfied, had the same effect as genuine agony.

  As despair filled her, she thought that she would not have accepted had she known the price she must pay. But she had not actually been given the choice. All right, then, she concluded, getting hold of herself, there’s no turning back. T
he price has been paid, even though unwillingly. All that was left was to take what was hers in return.

  And she headed toward the fire to meet the voices of the primeval language that would tell her the simple truth.

  3. The Watchmaker

  I

  The clocks struck six p.m. simultaneously, just as they should in a reputable watchmaker’s shop. The old man’s trained ears had been carefully monitoring this sound, and they could not detect any divergence: not a single one of the four clocks adorning the walls of the rather small, ground-floor premises was either early or late. This was the only harmony that linked them, however, for what followed afterward was total discordance.

  The grandfather clock, with its pendulum in a casing of worn mahogany and door of thick, etched glass, grumbled in a deep, solemn bass, like a mustachioed sergeant grenadier giving orders at a parade. The brass dwarf hit his worn hammer on the hanging bronze rod, creating a clear, sharp sound resembling the echo of distant bells. The call of the wooden cuckoo rushing out the round opening of the gaily colored alpine house had lost its original rapture long ago, becoming harsh and piercing. Finally, the chipped pair of ceramic dancers in ballroom attire nimbly started to turn on the small circular podium at the first bars of an old-fashioned waltz.

  Although they began all at once, the sounds that struck the hour did not end at the same time. First the cuckoo went silent, suddenly, like a death rattle; it seemed almost as if someone with delicate nerves or no ear for its tired singing had ungraciously wrung its neck. The waltz and the ringing lasted about the same time, competing to the final note for futile advantage. The drawn-out tones of the grandfather clock filled the shop the longest; by virtue of its very size it was natural for it to have the last word.

  When the final grumble of the grenadier’s bass had died out, the old man reached adroitly for a small pocket on the left-hand side of his vest. He took out a gold-plated pocket watch with a thick chain, raised the lid—which had TO J. FROM M. engraved on the inside in large, ornate letters—and briefly nodded, satisfied that it was truly six o’clock. This was not an expression of distrust toward the other clocks which had just informed him of the same fact quite loudly and precisely. For more than a quarter of a century he had carried out this ritual every evening before he closed the shop and went home, as a sign of respect for a special memory. And a grief.

  But he was not fated to spend that evening in the usual way: closing the door to the shop, taking the short walk along the usually empty street to the small, excessively neat attic apartment where no one waited for him, preparing a simple and for the most part tasteless meal that would probably satisfy only a bachelor or a single person, and going to bed. Sleep would rarely bring him refreshment or oblivion; it mainly gave him restless dreams that returned him to the past. He could not leave the past, not even in his dreams.

  He had just put the heavy watch back into his vest pocket and was about to pull the little short chain with its silver ring to turn off the lamp with the green shade on his workbench behind the counter when the door opened suddenly, jangling the cluster of bells hanging above. Although mild compared to the discordant choir of the wall clocks, the unexpected sound of these signal bells made him start. He rarely had customers in his shop this late.

  He looked up, but all he could make out in the gloom was the silhouette of a tall man against the dull glow of the streetlight. The man was wearing a hat, probably a derby, and rather a long cloak, and in his right hand was a cane. He stopped next to the door without going up to the counter, as though hesitating for some reason.

  The old man pushed his round, metal-framed work glasses halfway down his nose and asked, with an effort to sound obliging, “May I help you, sir?”

  The man did not reply at once. He looked around the shop as though wanting to make sure that the two of them were alone. His eyes rested a bit longer on the grandfather clock; half of the pendulum’s path was in shadow, and the circular base flickered in the other half as it reflected the muted light from outside.

  The late visitor finally put his cane under his arm and stepped resolutely toward the counter, at the same time removing something from an inside pocket. When he reached him, the old man saw that he was wearing white leather gloves; he had long, slender fingers like a pianist’s. His right fist was closed, and he placed it palm up on the felt-covered counter. Illuminated by the rim of light from the work lamp, its whiteness looked unnaturally bright compared to the green background and the darkness around them. The watchmaker suddenly had the impression that the man before him was a magician who was about to pull a sleight of hand.

  The trick, however, did not take place, for when his hand opened, it contained quite an exemplary object: a pocket watch. The old man returned his glasses to the bridge of his nose and leaned over it to take a better look. Up until then, he had been convinced that all he needed was one look at a watch in order to recognize not only the brand but also the type and even the year it was made. He had spent almost four decades working exclusively with watches. He knew them inside out, one might say. Particularly pocket watches; he was a real expert where they were concerned. He knew each little spring, gear, screw, and nut. Every little hand and face.

  But here he had a surprise in store. One look was not enough. He had certainly never seen this type before. The old man knit his brow in disbelief and leaned a bit closer. He was filled with the powerful urge to take the watch from the white palm, to finger it, open it, but manners prevented him doing so. He continued to look at it, putting his eager hands behind his back. He strove hard to find some detail he could recognize, but all his trained eye could ascertain was that the watch was exquisitely made. There was no doubt about that: it was the creation of a true master of his trade—an expert he had never heard of.

  Shaking his head briefly, he straightened up and looked at the visitor inquiringly. The man’s face was still in the darkness under the hat brim, so the watchmaker could not make it out. Suddenly he felt a mild prickling sensation at the base of his neck, the bristling of sparse white hairs. There was something unreal about the tall figure in front of him, something that filled him with agitation and unease.

  This impression did not pass when the visitor finally spoke.

  “I would like you to have a look at this watch,” he said in a hoarse, dignified voice which did not need to be raised even when giving an order. A foreigner, concluded the watchmaker. Although he made an effort to pronounce the words properly, his accent gave him away as well as a certain drawl, although not one common in travelers from the north, who were the most frequent strangers in this area. It was impossible to say where he was from.

  “Certainly, sir, certainly,” he replied. “What is your complaint, sir? I mean, what is wrong with your watch? It is obviously quite expensive, although . . . ” He opened his mouth to admit that he had never seen one like it before, but he held back at the last moment, fearing this might stop the visitor from leaving his watch with him. He certainly had to have the chance to examine it in greater detail.

  “I have no complaints,” said the stranger, interrupting him. “The watch is fine. But all the same, I think it would be a good idea for you to have a look at it.”

  “Most certainly, sir. You are quite right. A bit of precaution would certainly do no harm. On the contrary, never enough caution. You were very wise to bring your watch to be looked at. Even the best watches need regular maintenance. People do not bear that in mind, actually, they are negligent for the most part, not only toward objects, unfortunately; many misfortunes would be avoided if precautionary measures were taken . . . ”

  “There are no precautions that can thwart chance.” The man said this in an even voice, as though saying something obvious, even banal. The watchmaker squinted toward the invisible face; although the statement sounded like a general principle, there was something in the stranger’s tone that gave it the weight and credentials of personal experience.

  “Yes, indeed. Of course.
You understand things perfectly, sir. Chance, yes. Something you cannot influence regardless of how hard you try. For a watchmaker that is the effect of dust. I have yet to see a watch without dust, and countless numbers have gone through my hands in my many years of work. You can protect a watch however you want, even close it hermetically, but nothing helps. Dust will find a way inside, and one particle is enough—one single, solitary particle—to jeopardize the fine mechanism. You have no idea, sir, what a nightmare dust is for watchmakers.”

  “Yes, a particle of dust,” repeated the visitor, drawing out his words, lost in thought. “The flutter of butterfly wings . . . ”

  The old man’s eyes became suspicious. What was that supposed to mean? What “flutter” ? Maybe he wanted to say something else but expressed himself awkwardly in a foreign language—although he seemed to speak it well, at least fluently and correctly, if not without an accent. Or maybe he was some kind of crank, an eccentric? The old man was not prejudiced against foreigners and considered the stories that could be heard about their peculiarities, even abnormalities, to be exaggerated for the most part. But you never knew. There were quacks everywhere, in any case. Not even this neighbourhood had been spared.

  He had the impression that some sort of reply was expected from him, but did not know what to say. Really, “butterfly wings” . . . What could he say about them and still be nice, polite? He was saved from the awkward situation by a carriage that suddenly passed by in the street. The rapid thud of horses’ hooves caused the plated wheels to produce a sharp rattle as they rolled over the cobblestones. The visitor seemed to flinch a bit at this noise, turning toward the entrance. But the carriage passed in a flash, and the fading echo of its passage was quickly absorbed by the heavy silence of the evening.