Impossible Stories

by Zoran Zivkovic

  She was still sitting in the tall chair in front of the easel, staring at the canvas before her. She had put a terry cloth bathrobe the color of a ripe lemon over her nightgown, which made her look even smaller because it was too big: the hem reached almost to the floor, hiding the rungs and her bare feet, and the sleeves hid her hands completely. The cuffs were stained with paint and seemed to merge with the palette and the brush held by her invisible fingers.

  The enormous face of the pocket watch covered the entire canvas, almost reaching the edge at four points. The corner sections outside this surface were mere dark voids that would certainly have been left out if the frame had been circular. Although the thickness of the large watch could have been neglected as well, since it was not part of the area encompassed by the circle, it was still indicated: a barely noticeable reflection of light from some unseen source conjured the gentle curve on the edge.

  Compared to the surrounding dark tones, the bright central whiteness almost burned the eyes with its cold glow, sharply emphasizing each detail on it. The twelve numerals were long and thin but not regular. They looked unstable, as though a restless flow of water were passing over them, making them bend and twist. The rippling was more distinct in some places, bending parts of the numbers into senseless shapes or pushing them all the way over the edge of the face.

  The four hands were of the same length. The pointed ends reached the perimeter, widening toward the center just like narrow, elongated fern leaves, with a small slit in the middle. The leaves ended in thin stems that met in one point, as though sprouting from the same bud. The opposite hands formed two segments at right angles to each other. The vertical pair linked the numbers twelve and six, the horizontal nine and three.

  A semitransparent body was resting on these crossed hands, following their shape. Its arms were stretched over the horizontal hands, tightly attached to them. On the palms of each white glove bloomed a large red stain although there were no nails. The fingers were clenched like claws but did not reach the red blossom.

  Red spots spread also on the dark leather shoes, but they looked less conspicuous there. The pain inflicted by the unseen nails was manifested in the unnatural angle of the legs, whose pierced feet were trying in vain to lighten the load of a body without support.

  The long cloak was covered at the bottom by a layer of dried mud, depicting clashing brown smudges on the black background. The edges of the cloak were worn and shabby, the hem unsewn in places. The lining was a fiery color and was torn in one place as though it had gotten caught on a thorn bush.

  In front of the torso was a dark cane with the top downwards. It floated vertically without any support, casting a slight shadow over the surrounding whiteness. The ivory hourglass at its end was cracked in the middle. It seemed as though all the golden sand had poured out of this crack, leaving just an empty shell that could no longer measure anything.

  The tall hat was covered by a film of fine dust, subduing the black silky shine. The shape of the derby was ruined by several uneven dents. The wide brim no longer concealed the face because the light came from below, yet it still could not be seen. The emptiness of virgin canvas gaped in the place where it should have been.

  She knew she had to finish the painting, that the time of the last story was running out. The missing face was there before her eyes, perfectly clear in its repentant agony, but the fingers in the sleeve refused to lift the brush.

  She had imagined the scene quite differently. She had wanted to paint him doing what he always did during his earlier visits. He would appear soundlessly at the bathroom door, but she would sense his arrival even though she was sitting at the easel with her back turned. He would take the hairbrush with the broad handle of lacquered walnut from the shelf under the mirror in the bathroom. It had stiff sharp bristles, which was what her tangled hair required.

  He would brush her hair patiently and at length, just as long as it took to tell a story. When he reached the end, her hair would be loose and smooth, and the disorderly curls would be turned into a graceful row of waves. After the very first brushing, she no longer allowed anyone else to brush her hair and did not do it herself, either. She would wash it regularly but would leave it uncombed between stories. The nurses did not try too hard to dissuade her, seeing in her stubborn insistence just one of the caprices of their special patients.

  It would be a nice painting, perhaps the prettiest of all four. But this still could not be a love story. Or not just that. It came at the end, after the others, linking them into a whole, so that it had to talk about redemption much more than about love. She had realized that necessity but could not understand why redemption had to be ultimately so painful. As she was painting, she herself had felt the torment of the rusty nails piercing the tender tissue of her hands and feet. She had somehow managed to endure the nailing while it was impersonal. Now, however, the crucified person had finally to receive a face.

  When she started to make short, rapid strokes on the only unpainted part of the canvas, her eyes glazed over and her lips drew together with a slight tremble. But her hand was sure. From the seemingly unconnected lines, the oval emptiness started to take the shape of the writer’s face, distorted by the primordial sin of his art.

  And at that moment she understood why the pain was necessary. Without it, he would only be an indifferent god who justified the harm he did with good intentions. If he justified it at all. The suffering he chose brought him redemption by making him identical to those he had transgressed against. Without this sacrifice it would not be possible to accept the final responsibility that goes with writing.

  When she had painted the last stroke, she slowly leaned her head backward, and her long, auburn hair spilled down her back. As before, it was a movement of ultimate intimacy, of surrender. She closed her eyes in anticipation. Somewhere outside echoed a protracted, joyous chirp, and the paleness of dawn was edged in pink.

  The brush sank into the hair on the crown of her head. The curly locks were too tangled, so the combing out inflicted pain at first, although her radiance disavowed it. The walnut-handled brush made its way slowly, with short strokes, going back a bit whenever the tangle of wild waves offered greater resistance. The lower it got through the agitated sea, the harder and slower was the progress, and at the very bottom the curls were almost matted.

  When her hair was finally untangled, the arc of the sun had already pierced the porous green of the treetops. The brush was raised again and this time sank smoothly into luxuriant waves. It made its way easily, straightening out the last rough spots, taming the most obstinate curls. Even though the ends were no longer matted, it stopped there a moment, unwilling to leave the locks that now seemed to have absorbed it. But this moment of hesitation quickly passed. When it slipped out, the curled ends rebounded as though on hidden springs.

  She remained immobile, her head thrown back. The slanted morning rays pierced her closed eyelids. The shadow of the bars on the window threw a network over the yellow bathrobe. Many twinklings of eternity went by before she finally spoke. And even then the words were almost inaudible, more a movement of the lips than an utterance.

  “Good-bye, Z.”

  PART TWO

  IMPOSSIBLE

  ENCOUNTERS

  5. The Window

  I died in my sleep.

  There wasn’t anything special about my death. I hardly even noticed it. I dreamed I was walking down a long hallway closely lined with doors on both sides. The end of the corridor was invisible in the distance, and I was alone. On the wall next to each door hung a framed portrait, slightly larger than life, and lit from above by a lamp.

  I looked at the paintings as I passed by them. What else could I do? Only the portraits disturbed the endless monotony of the corridor. There seemed to be male and female portraits in approximately equal numbers, but randomly distributed. The people were mostly of advanced age, and some were very old indeed, but here and there was a younger face, or even a child, though these w
ere quite rare. The images were formal studio-portraits, and the people were all elaborately, even ceremonially dressed. They looked conscious of their own importance, and that of the occasion. Most of them were smiling, but some faces were simply not suited to smiling. They looked grimly serious.

  I was not overly surprised when I finally saw my own portrait next to one of the doors. I hadn’t actually expected it, but it didn’t seem out of place. After all, if so many others had their portraits hanging there, why shouldn’t I? Where else can one hope for a privileged position if not in one’s own dream? The only thing that momentarily confused me was that I could not remember when the portrait had been painted. I must have posed for it, I supposed. But maybe that hadn’t been necessary. It’s hard to say. I don’t pretend to understand much about portrait-painting.

  Regardless of its origin, I liked the portrait. It did me full justice—more, it showed me in exceptionally good form. Although I was depicted at my current age, the painter had skillfully diminished some of the more unpleasant aspects of aging: he had slightly smoothed the wrinkles on my forehead and around my eyes, tightened my double chin, removed the yellowness and blotches from my cheeks, darkened some of the gray streaks in my hair. This was not to make me look younger. The years were still on the painting, but I bore them with greater elan. And most important of all, there was no sign of the debilitating disease that had taken such a heavy toll on my looks. No effort on the part of a photographer could ever have produced the same effect, however great his skill.

  I stood in front of my portrait for a long time, gazing in satisfaction. But all things have their measure, even vanity. I couldn’t stand there forever. Someone might pass by sooner or later and find me in this unbecoming position, which would certainly be embarrassing. But where could I go? Continue down the corridor? That did not seem promising; it appeared to extend endlessly before me, with no destination to make for.

  Should I go back? That possibility hadn’t crossed my mind before. I turned around and immediately understood I could not count on going back. Just a few steps behind me the hallway disappeared, turning into deep darkness, as though all the lamps above the paintings had turned off as soon as I passed them. Maybe the lights would go on again if I headed in that direction, but I had no desire to find out.

  I turned to face forward again—and suffered a new surprise. The same thing had happened to the corridor in front of me. It had turned into a dark tunnel that began at the edge of the small, conical beam of light illuminating my portrait from above. This sole remaining source of light covered the painting, the door beside it and myself in front of it—a tiny island of existence bounded by an opaque, black sea of nothingness.

  I had lost the right to choose; there was only one path before me. The moment I touched the doorknob, I was overcome by the feeling that something important was about to happen, but I had no immediate inkling what it could be. It was only after I opened the door and entered the room that I realized I had died. It happened in the middle of raising and lowering my foot as I crossed the threshold. I was still alive when I started the step outside, and already dead when I finished it inside. I barely felt the transition itself. Something streamed through me, a wave resembling a light trembling or momentary shiver. It lasted a split second, then passed, leaving behind no other trace than the certainty of death.

  I was not afraid. Fear of death has meaning before one dies, and not afterward. The only thing I felt was confusion. I naturally knew nothing about this state. How could I, after all? I had not even tried to picture it in my mind. That had always seemed a pointless exercise to me, and as the disease got the upper hand, such thoughts had come to fill me with revulsion—to be avoided as much as possible.

  First of all, I wondered if I was still asleep. It is said that the deceased rest in eternal peace, but that is probably a metaphor, not meant be taken literally. In any case, the sight before me did not resemble in the least any that I had seen in my dreams. There was nothing unreal or strange. On the contrary. The room I entered was some sort of study, elegantly furnished to be sure, but otherwise not the least bit unusual. There was no one inside. Feeling a bit uncomfortable, I started to inspect it, without stepping away from the door, which I had closed behind me.

  To my right stood a large, black, wooden desk. A lamp with an arching neck and green shade illuminated numerous objects, arranged in orderly fashion upon it: a wide, leather-bound desk-pad; a decorative brass inkwell with a heavy maple-wood blotter; a rosewood cube, drilled with holes to make a pen and pencil holder; a shallow lacquer paper tray; an ivory-handled magnifying glass; a double silver candlestick (without any candles); three identical little boxes covered in dark velour whose purpose I could not make out; a white flowerpot containing a flowerless plant with long, thin leaves; an engraved pipe stand with three pipes of different shapes.

  Across from the desk, on the left-hand side, were two large brown leather armchairs with a small round coffee table between them. On the table was a lamp with a tasseled yellow shade, a book and an oval tray containing a lidded jug of water and two glasses placed upside down on round paper coasters. Behind the armchairs rose a bookshelf that covered the entire wall. The books in it were of uniform height and thickness, and their spines were bound in a limited range of somber tones. A vertical ladder rose along the edge of the bookshelf, its ends firmly anchored to guide-rails on the floor and ceiling.

  The middle of the wall facing the door was covered by a large painting in a simple rectangular frame, positioned longside up, and brightly illuminated from below. It depicted an area of clear blue sky seen through a double window. The deep blue was portrayed so convincingly that for a moment I even took it for a real window.

  The window was closed, but there was a certain tension in the otherwise tranquil scene that indicated it might open at any moment—through a draft, perhaps, or by someone going up to open it, someone who was still not visible, but whose presence was hinted at by a shadow that flickered just inside the frame. The only thing that disturbed the harmony of the straight lines and uniform shades was a colorful butterfly that had already tired of its efforts to fly outside, clearly unable to understand the existence of a completely invisible, but still impenetrable obstacle such as glass.

  To the right of the picture, in the semidarkness, stood a grandfather clock in a tall mahogany case. The glass door was decorated with geometric designs in the corners, and a disproportionately small key protruded from the keyhole. At first I thought I saw only one hand pointing straight up, but when I took a better look I discerned the small hand hidden under the big one. I stared at them for some time, but when they failed to change position I lowered my eyes suspiciously; only then did I notice that the pendulum was resting in the middle, motionless.

  To the left of the painting, hard by the bookshelf, was another door. It was the same color as the wall around it and could only be distinguished by its edges, which appeared somewhat darker. It had an unusual characteristic that I did not notice at first glance. There was a lock, but no doorknob. If the door could be opened, then it was only possible from the other side.

  Just as I was looking at it, that happened, quite soundlessly. Part of the wall seemed simply to arch forward, and a figure appeared in the emptiness left behind. I stared at it fixedly. Had I not been dead, I am sure that my heart would have jumped, and pins and needles would have run up and down my spine.

  The man who appeared in front of me seemed unassuming, almost like a clerk: in late middle age, not very tall, balding, with a thick, narrow mustache that covered only the line under his nose, small, round, wire-rimmed glasses, and a dark suit of classic cut that did not quite succeed in hiding his extra pounds. The smile that appeared on his round, ruddy face seemed guileless and unaffected.

  He hastened brightly to greet me, his hand stretched out. I had no recourse but to accept it.

  “Welcome! Welcome!”

  I didn’t know what to say in return, so I smiled too, although
mine was somewhat forced. We stood there like that for some time, gripping each other’s hands, eyeing each other curiously, like friends meeting after a long separation.

  He was the first to break the silence. “Please, make yourself comfortable.” He indicated one of the armchairs in front of the bookshelf, waited for me to sit down, and then sat down in the other, hitching up his trouser legs a bit. He was still smiling.

  “I was expecting you earlier. You stayed a bit longer than planned.”

  His voice seemed to contain a touch of reproach, but that might have been my imagination. He looked at me in silence for several moments, perhaps expecting me to say something. As I remained silent, he waved his hand at last, dismissively.

  “Well, it’s all the same. Some are late, some are early. There are very few who arrive on time. They all come, however, sooner or later. How do you feel?”

  I cleared my throat before answering uncertainly. “Fine, I think.”

  He nodded his head in satisfaction. “Nothing is bothering you, there is no discomfort?”

  I paused briefly. “No, everything’s all right.”

  The man’s smile broadened. “I’m glad to hear that. You’re just a bit confused, yes?”

  “Yes,” I admitted after a moment’s hesitation, “a little.”

  “You mustn’t reproach yourself for that. You’re no exception in this regard. They’re all confused when they arrive. It’s quite normal. Would you like a glass of water?” He indicated the jug on the table between us.

  “No, thank you,” I replied. I had the ghostly impression that my throat was dry, but somehow it didn’t seem appropriate to drink water in this new position. Maybe later, when I was used to it.

  “People are really quite full of questions,” continued the man. “They are dying of curiosity. I’m sure that you are, too.”