Impossible Stories

by Zoran Zivkovic

  “Yes,” said the watchmaker when the stranger turned his unseen face toward him once again, “you are completely right. There is no way to fight against chance.”

  “Oh, that’s not what I said. I only said that you cannot thwart it, prevent it. But that does not mean that you cannot fight against it.”

  The old man involuntarily swallowed the lump in his throat. “Please forgive me, sir, but I’m afraid that I don’t understand you very well,” he replied timidly.

  Before he answered, the visitor finally put the pocket watch on the felt-covered counter, as though for some reason he had concluded just at that instant that he could safely let the watchmaker take his valuable timepiece. When the white glove withdrew from the lamplight, the old man had the impression that a bright trace remained behind it for a few moments. With his free hand, the foreigner skillfully took the cane from under his arm, turned slowly on his heel and pointed at the clocks on the four walls with it.

  “It is all a matter of time, you see,” he said at last, after making a full circle and returning to face the watchmaker again. His voice took on that flat quality once more that spoke of reliable knowledge, his own experience.

  The old man simply nodded, without a word, as though this statement explained everything. One had to be careful with eccentrics; it was not advisable to contradict them.

  “What makes chance so powerful? The fact that you can’t foresee it. If you knew exactly which particle of dust would ruin the watch mechanism, you could remove it in time. But you can’t know that until the malfunction occurs, of course.”

  “Of course,” repeated the watchmaker like an echo, with another nod.

  “Cause and effect,” continued the visitor. “The particle only becomes a cause when the effect takes place—the malfunction. Never beforehand. That is why alleged clairvoyance and similar illusionary sleights of hand have no meaning. The future cannot be foretold because then one would be able to change it. And if you changed it, then it would no longer be the predicted future. You cannot prophesy: this particle is the cause of the future malfunction—and then remove it, because then there would be no malfunction, and your prophecy would have no value, either. No, the consequences must happen in any case. And they do take place. You yourself said that you have never seen a watch without dust inside. And you undertook detailed precautionary measures, everything that was within your power, to prevent it.”

  “Oh, I did, I did, most assuredly. You can be certain of that, sir. I hope I am not being immodest when I say that this watch repair shop has an excellent reputation for industriousness. You will see this for yourself, sir, I hope. We leave nothing to chance here . . . ”

  The old man stopped, biting his tongue; it was only after he had said this last sentence that he realized the expression he used might sound inappropriate, given the topic under discussion. But since the visitor did not react, he quickly continued.

  “But, if you will forgive me my poor perception, sir, I cannot see how it is possible to fight against chance—your very words, sir—if the effects, the consequences, must take place?”

  The foreigner did not answer at once. Led by some obscure impulse, he threw his cane a short distance into the air, then as it fell caught it adeptly near the upper end with his thumb and forefinger and started to swing the lower part as if it were a pendulum. It was only then that the old man noted in the gentle, milky gleam that the top of the cane was the stylized figure of an hourglass. Most likely made of ivory, he concluded. The man was without doubt quite wealthy. Perhaps only people like that could allow themselves the luxury of being eccentric.

  “It’s all a matter of time, as I said,” he announced again at length, continuing to swing his wooden pendulum. “You truly cannot influence the cause before the effect, but there is another possibility—perhaps you can do so after the effect takes place.”

  The old man squinted again over the metal rim of his glasses. Watchmakers are like doctors, he thought, self-pityingly and comfortingly: they do not enjoy the privilege of choosing their clients. How would it look if a doctor refused to treat a patient simply because he had strange convictions? Should he now refuse to serve this obviously wealthy quack with a very unusual watch just because of his peculiar ideas? That would be quite against professional ethics, not to mention courtesy. And after all, there was the fee to think of.

  “Oh,” replied the old man briefly, trying not to sound too surprised.

  “Yes,” continued the visitor, “although extremely unusual, the idea is actually simple. Going into the past. Going upstream on the river of time, to put it picturesquely. If you returned to the past, you would be able to remove the cause and thereby the effect as well.”

  “Of course,” agreed the watchmaker without hesitation. “Quite simple, as you said, sir . . . Going back into the past and removing the cause . . . Nothing easier, so to speak. No cause, no effect. You explained that quite well, sir, quite concisely . . . ”

  The stranger did not reply for several moments, and the old man had the unpleasant impression that the unseen eyes were gazing at him in suspicion from under the hat brim. Did I say something I shouldn’t have? he wondered. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. A man doesn’t know how to talk to such people.

  “It is not quite as simple as you might think.” The visitor’s voice seemed to carry a touch of reproach. “Here’s an example: imagine that you go back to the past and accidentally cause the death of one of your parents—before you were conceived. That would mean that you were never born and could therefore never go into the past and prevent your own conception. And if you were nonetheless born and then you went back to the past . . . and so on. Reductio ad absurdum. A paradox.”

  The old man stared fixedly at the dark figure before him, suddenly feeling sweat break on the palms of his hands. What was he talking about—causing the death of one of my parents? How could he think of something like that? Was that the sort of thing a gentleman talked to a stranger about, even if he was an eccentric? But what if this person before him was not some rich eccentric, but a madman who had escaped from a foreign asylum for the mentally ill, who would rob and maybe even kill someone? Does he intend to attack me? What should I do? How were you supposed to act toward a dangerous lunatic, anyway? Humor him, flatter him? I must not let him know that I realize he is crazy. But they say that madmen can be very bright . . . If only the ceiling light was on—damn the penny-pinching of the elderly!

  “No, there is no solution to the paradox, at least not if you hold to the normal view of time—as a unique river. What has happened cannot be changed at all. The flow of time is like granite in which events are permanently chiseled. Both causes and effects. It is not a palimpsest that you can erase and write on again as many times as you want.”

  Another short pause ensued, and then the foreigner suddenly stopped the monotonous swinging of his cane. He held it in the hanging position for a moment, as though uncertain what to do with it next, and then with a sharp movement put it under his arm again. All that remained sticking out at the front was the figure of the hourglass—a milky spot before a dark background.

  “But what if there were not just one time flow, one inscription in granite? If there were several flows—countless, actually? Imagine time not as a single river but as an enormous tree with countless branches, countless forks. Forks appear on those places where you change the past. One branch is the original flow in which a cause produced an effect; that is final—it must remain unchanged, chiseled—but from the other branch both the cause and the effect are removed.”

  The visitor stopped, as though wanting to check the impression his words had made. The old man was still staring at him fixedly, his mouth half open. In the sudden silence, the muted ticking of the wall clocks rose by several octaves.

  “And you exist on both forks, in both versions, if we can put it that way. You have a sort of double—more than that, actually—whose course of life differs from yours in some respect. In an esse
ntial respect, perhaps. He could be spared the effects of an unpleasant, tragic accident, for example.”

  The visitor fell silent and the old man started to fidget, feeling that he should say something in reply. However, for several long moments he couldn’t think of anything.

  “Truly quite clever,” he said at last, making an effort to keep his voice from trembling. “What an unusual notion! You have figured out something quite brilliant, sir. A tree and then a fork, and a double! Very picturesque, striking, no doubt about it. Something like that certainly would never have crossed my mind.”

  “Strange. And one would say that you have had both an opportunity and a motive to think about that.”

  “What are you thinking of, sir? I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.”

  The visitor took the cane in his right hand again and described a rather large arc in front of him.

  “Isn’t this an opportunity? Look around yourself. You have spent your entire life in the midst of clocks. You are surrounded by chronometers. You are in the very center of time, I might say, in a very privileged position. I cannot believe that in all these past years you have never wondered about the nature of time, how it works, about the peculiarities linked to it. Who else if not you?”

  “I am afraid you highly overestimate me, sir. I am just an ordinary watchmaker. Industrious, that is true, yes, and probably good, too, at least that is what they say, but nothing more than an artisan. For me, sir, and please don’t hold it against me, time flows as it flows, and if a clock does not measure it as it should, I repair it. I can do that. And that is all. Clocks are here to measure time properly, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, that’s true, but what about the motive?”

  “Motive, sir?”

  The stranger did not continue right away. The watchmaker could almost feel the piercing look of the eyes in the shadow.

  “Nothing in your life has ever made you want to go back to the past and change something there? Remove some unforeseen cause that led to adverse effects? Cancel the consequences of some mischance that befell you or someone particularly close to you, someone dear? Has there ever been a man who has never had such a desire?”

  Who is this? wondered the watchmaker in fear, feeling suddenly squeezed, as if in a trap. Behind him was a wall, and before him lurched a threatening figure, a voice from the darkness asking inadmissible, impossible questions. His hand unconsciously touched the watch in his vest pocket. This was not some eccentric or madman. Oh, no. Something else was going on here, something unreal, like a dream. Maybe I’m dreaming, he thought with hope. He did not wake up, however, as always happens when this question is asked in a dream.

  “What would be the use even if I did want to, sir? It can’t be done. I mean, all right, maybe time isn’t, as you described, sir, a river, I don’t contest that, but that . . . tree . . . with the forks in the branches . . . and the rest. The double . . . But how can a person ever get the chance to change anything? Go back to the past?”

  There was no reply from the shadow. The seconds lapsed, long, silent, full of expectation. And then, instead of the stranger, the wall quartet suddenly resounded, breaking off the tense silence and prompting the old man for the first time in his life to jump at the harmonious announcement of the full hour; the very next moment it was transformed into a discordant confusion of grumbling, chirping, chiming, and waltz music.

  The visitor remained motionless until the last echo of the grenadier’s bass died out and then with a rapid movement placed the top of his cane next to the pocket watch that lay on the illuminated felt counter.

  “You will look at it, won’t you?”

  A deep sigh of relief escaped from the old man, as though a heavy load had been taken off his chest. His eager hands finally caught hold of the precious object; they started to turn it over and feel it, examining it as carefully as eyes could.

  “Certainly, certainly. Rest assured, sir. Right away. It’s not too late. If you would be so kind as to come by in the morning. As soon as I open. It will be ready. At your service, sir. At your service.”

  The foreigner abruptly turned on his heel, missing the watchmaker’s humble bow. The sound of the cloak’s stiff fabric merged with the ringing of the bells and the closing of the door. The tall shadow passed quickly in front of the store window and disappeared down the street.

  The old man slowly sat down on the chair next to his workbench and put the pocket watch upon the rubber surface. He gazed at it for a few moments, turning it over curiously, and then reached to open the lid.

  But he did not complete the movement, for he suddenly realized that in the excitement of the moment before, he had forgotten something: he had not given the customer a receipt for the watch. Inexcusable, he thought. That had never happened to him before. All right, he had been disoriented by the visitor’s unusual appearance, by that strange story, but even so! An unpardonable oversight for a watchmaker who cares about his reputation. What would the foreigner think of him?

  He grabbed the receipt book and a pen from the counter and rushed toward the door with stiff movements. Suddenly disturbed, the bells above the door protested sharply. Outside it was cool and windy, a November evening at the foot of a mountain which already carried a great cap of snow. Shivering for a moment, the watchmaker looked for the visitor down the row of streetlights. But no one was there. Perplexed, he turned and looked in the other direction. Just as empty.

  He stayed in front of the shop a little longer, turning back and forth in disbelief, and then returned inside. Where had he gone? Had a carriage been waiting for him nearby? But no, he hadn’t heard anything. Standing at the door a moment, the old man finally shrugged his shoulders. He would apologize to the foreigner for this oversight when he came in the morning. In any case, it would make no difference then. The most important thing was for him to take care of the watch.

  He returned to his workbench, interlaced his fingers and cracked his knuckles like a pianist before a performance, and then drew up the squeaky stool. Before he pressed the clasp to open the lid, he briefly rubbed his fingertips with his thumbs.

  His eyes first went to the inner side of the lid. It was an inadvertent, almost automatic act: that was what he always did with the other pocket watch that he kept with him always. There was an engraved inscription there as well that for some reason seemed familiar to him. TO J. FROM Z. was on the gold-plated concave circle, and several long moments had to pass before the old man realized what it was. The shape of the letters, of course! The same large, ornate letters as . . . But how was it possible?

  And then there was no more time for ordinary amazement; on top of the wreath woven of twelve elongated Roman numerals the two black hands had started their crazy dance.

  II

  They seemed to have a will of their own, moving by themselves—but in the wrong direction. They started to turn backward, as though measuring the past, first slowly, so he could follow them, then faster and faster. The watchmaker instinctively withdrew his hands from the activated watch, but his eyes stayed riveted to its face.

  He stared at the big hand as it accelerated and then finally disappeared, transforming into an excited circle; it looked like some sort of film had been placed over the face. The spinning of the small hand was perceptible somewhat longer, and then it, too, melted into an indistinct veil.

  This tremendous spinning made the watch tremble on the rubber surface. It suddenly occurred to the old man that he could stop the magic if he closed the cover, but he did not have the courage to touch it. Holding tightly to the edge of the workbench, he felt that the accelerating vibrations of the watch were being transferred to his body: he, too, was shaking as though he had a fever.

  And then the trembling stopped, for the watch had detached from the tabletop and started to float slightly above it. Although it was illuminated by the strong lamplight, no shadow lay beneath it, just as though it were transparent. A high, shrill whistle started to sound, almost at the upper threshold of a
udibility; there was something unsettling in that sound, and the old man wanted to put his hands over his ears but was unable to do so.

  As though bewitched, he simply stared at the floating object before him that continued to rise slowly until it reached the height of the old man’s eyes. It rested there a few moments, hesitating as though thinking what to do, and then started to spin around its vertical axis. Just as with the hands on the face, the spinning became faster and faster until there soon formed the illusion of a small ball before the watchmaker’s bewildered, slack-jawed face.

  As though cut with countless facets, the ball first brightly reflected the light from the lamp on the workbench and then began to radiate its own light as the shrill noise became louder and louder. To the old man’s relief, the unbearable sound soon rose above the frequency audible to human ears, leaving behind a muffled, almost palpable silence.

  In just a few moments, the dull grayness turned into a reddish glow, then into yellow heat, and finally there was a rapid sequence of shades of white, rushing to the inevitable climax, the act of release. The old man greeted this orgasm of light with wide open eyes, unable to lower his eyelids; in any case, what could thin, wrinkled skin do against the uncontained fierceness of a summer sun less than a foot from his head?

  Although he was completely blinded by the explosive flash, he did not feel any pain or even discomfort. The only thing he felt was the strange sensation of being in the middle of an endless emptiness, impenetrable and silent; he made his way through it effortlessly since there was no base or support to hold him back. His body seemed to have lost all weight and along with it all sense of direction: up might be down, or somewhere to the side—he was not able to distinguish anything.

  Is this death? he wondered. If it is, then it is very mild, even pleasant. Like a dream. This was not how he had imagined it. Actually, he had not imagined it at all. Who imagines what death looks like, anyway? He had the vague feeling that he should be afraid for some reason, but instead of fear or at least discomfiture, he was filled with childish curiosity. Where was he? Would he remain incorporeal like this forever? Did time exist here? Why couldn’t he see or hear anything?