Impossible Stories

by Zoran Zivkovic

  For a while nothing moved again on the almost totally black screen. Coming from now invisible sources, the music rose ominously. Then bright spots started to speckle the deep shadows. Several moments passed before Mrs Martha realized what was happening. Torches were being lit one by one, gradually illuminating the spacious interior. What these smoking, flickering lights revealed seemed impossible. The torches were floating in mid air, without any support; no one was holding them. There was no sign of the musicians, although the music still thundered.

  Once all the torches were alight, they took up positions evenly distributed round the large building, forming a long rectangle along the walls. Mrs Martha gripped the edge of the desk in front of her, as if afraid of losing her footing. She stared fixedly at the screen. She was perfectly aware of what was to come, but the powerlessness she had felt in her dream tied her hands in her waking state as well. Although she tried feverishly to think of a way of preventing the inevitable, nothing came to mind.

  The torches stood motionless next to the shelves for a moment; then, as if at some inaudible command, commenced their demented feast. Like the flaming paintbrushes of a crazed, many-handed painter, they started to dip and sway over the papyrus background. The huge fresco was covered with flickering, flaming colours. Mrs Martha bit almost through her lower lip, as though sharp pain could release her from this unwanted dream. But this time no awakening could save her.

  She watched in despair as the fiery orgy gobbled up the scrolls one after the other, reducing their invaluable contents to nothingness. Accompanied by the deranged music, the fire quickly gained momentum and finally occupied the screen completely. The image of the raging fire was so convincing that Mrs Martha thought she could feel its heat on her face. The burning smell that seemed to fill her nostrils was even more intense. And then she saw with horror that this was not just an illusion: somewhere from the back of the monitor rose a ribbon of grey smoke.

  She almost jumped off her chair, knocking it over behind her. Her hands flew to her mouth, but not fast enough to suppress the cry that escaped. The smoke in front of her became thicker, then turned reddish, and finally mixed with the flames that started to stream upwards. Mrs Martha should have known how to cope with such a situation, she had been trained and knew what she must do, but she was completely paralyzed. She stared dully at the fire as it engulfed the whole monitor. By some miracle, the picture was still there, so the two fires now seemed to merge into one, while music still poured out of the speakers.

  When water suddenly gushed from above, Mrs Martha did not even try to get out of the way. Smoke had activated the sprinkler system and water started to shower from innumerable little holes in the ceiling. She stood under this dense, piercing shower, her eyes still riveted to the screen, by now empty. The speakers were also silent. The room’s power supply had automatically shut down the moment the sprinklers started to work. Like every modern library, this one was properly guarded against the greatest threat to books since time immemorial.

  Mrs Martha spent the next two and a half hours wrapped in a blanket in the ladies’ room, waiting for her clothes to be dried and ironed. When she returned to her office everything had been wiped up and put in order. She did not have to explain anything. No one even asked her what had happened, since it was quite obvious. Monitors had caught fire before. It was just an unpleasant incident without too much damage. In any case, everything was insured. A new monitor was already waiting on her desk, but she did not turn her computer back on that day.

  Late in the afternoon, when she got into the car and kissed Constantine, she was briefly tempted to tell him what had happened, but held back. She would only get mixed up trying to explain something that she herself did not understand. In addition, he was even less in a mood to talk on the way home from work than in the morning. The drained expression on his face clearly said as much. Finally, the radio was already turned on. Without exchanging a single word, they joined the dense flow of traffic.

  13. The Cat

  Mr Oliver did not start visiting second-hand shops until after the death of his wife. Mrs Katerina had often visited such places, particularly during her latter years, and would occasionally bring something home, usually an ornament of some kind. He had never accompanied her, although she had often invited him to come along. He had a certain aversion to old things, especially ones that had previously belonged to other people. This was not shared by Mrs Katerina. She bought whatever she found pretty and not too expensive.

  She had bought Oscar in much the same spirit. She had seen him at a pet shop, priced cheap as he was not pure bred. The snow-white kitten with chestnut eyes had enchanted Mrs Katerina at first sight, though Mr Oliver had greeted Oscar’s arrival with reserve. He was certainly not a cat-lover, although he had nothing against them. He would have said he was simply indifferent to cats.

  At first he tried to have as little contact as possible with Oscar, considering the attention his wife lavished on the cat quite enough—more than enough, indeed. Sometimes he felt that she treated Oscar more like a child than a cat. She took meticulous care of all his needs, kept him neat and fastidiously clean, even gave him his own room, though he spent very little time there. In addition, she talked to the cat a lot, mainly in baby talk, which had aroused some misgivings in Mr Oliver, though of course he never remarked upon it.

  Over time Mr Oliver and the cat evolved a truce. If they were unable to establish a closer relationship, at least they learned to put up with each other. Mr Oliver became used to the tomcat’s presence in the house and was no longer bothered by his smell, his hair everywhere when he moulted, his habit of sharpening his claws on the upholstery, the compulsion to tear frantically about the house that seized him without warning and for no apparent reason at least once a day, and the agitation that came over him should a queen pay a call anywhere nearby.

  For his part, Oscar stopped eyeing or sniffing suspiciously at Mr Oliver, as if at a shady stranger, and was happy to avoid any physical contact with him. Mrs Katerina tried briefly to bring them closer together, then gave up, seeing the futility of her efforts. She was nonetheless very careful to divide her affection evenly between them so that neither felt deprived.

  The relationship between Mr Oliver and Oscar changed when Mrs Katerina first took to her bed, and shortly thereafter went into hospital. Mr Oliver had to take over the care of the tomcat. At first he had trouble coping and Oscar found it difficult to accept the change. But gradually Mr Oliver acquired skill in the basic things—preparing food and cleaning up after the cat—and Oscar became less distrustful.

  Even so, when Mr Oliver brushed the cat, although he clearly enjoyed it, he did not purr in response, as he had with Mrs Katerina. This perturbed Mr Oliver a little. Trouble also arose when once a month he leashed the cat and took him for a walk in the park, to find the grass that helped his digestion. Mr Oliver always felt uneasy doing that, sure that many amazed and even reproachful eyes were on him.

  But all this was bearable. The only thing Mr Oliver could not bring himself to do was talk to Oscar. Although he made several attempts, he felt foolish every time, as if he had been caught talking to himself, and fell silent after only a few words. It was even worse when he tried to babytalk the cat. It seemed hopelessly artificial and affected, as if Mr Oliver were adopting a persona entirely unsuited to his age.

  As if affected by the same diffidence, Oscar meowed less and less. That had been his way of informing Mrs Katerina of his wishes, but he preferred to convey his needs to Mr Oliver by scratching, often suffering when this was not noticed in time. The two of them were clearly condemned to mutual silence; their intimacy had reached a point beyond which neither could proceed.

  When Mrs Katerina died, the question of what would become of Oscar was never even raised. It was, of course, out of the question for Mr Oliver to turn the cat out, even had he wished to do so. Unaccustomed to fending for himself, the cat would not survive very long in the street. Had he wanted to get rid o
f him, Mr Oliver would have preferred to consign the cat to a society for the protection of animals, or possibly return him to the store from which he had been bought. But Mr Oliver did not want this by any means. Without Oscar, he would be left completely alone in the large, empty apartment, and that thought filled him with horror. Perhaps he and the cat did not get along perfectly well, but now they needed each other. In any case, Katerina would never forgive him if he let Oscar go.

  Mr Oliver’s guilty conscience pressured him into visiting second-hand shops. Now it was too late, he realized he should not have refused Katerina’s invitations to join her. Had he gone, they would have shared many more pleasant moments together. How strange that one only began to value such things when they were beyond reach. He thought briefly of taking Oscar with him, at least occasionally—it seemed somehow fitting. Yet he refrained; animals were probably not allowed in such places, not even on a leash.

  At first he shied away from actually entering junkshops. In his inexperience he imagined they must be like other stores, in which eager salespeople immediately accosted you. If that were to happen, he would find himself in an awkward situation, because he wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Luckily, however, there was no such pressure. If he were addressed at all it would only be with a polite greeting, after which he would be left to poke around the vast jumble of small and large objects which crammed every available corner for as long as he liked.

  His aversion towards old, second-hand things slowly started to fade. Picking at leisure through crowded shelves and glass showcases, he came to see the items on display through the eyes of his late wife: he saw the beauty in them. The age of an object had no effect on it, and his recent experience with death reminded him painfully that any ownership could endure but a short time.

  Indeed, how could anyone own beauty? Who actually owned all those decorative little things that Mrs Katerina had brought home from junkshops over all those years? He did, presumably—but certainly not for long. If they had had children, he might take another view of the situation, but without heirs he had no way of knowing what would happen to these objects after his death. It made no difference, nor should it. Soon afterwards, when he started to buy things he found pretty, he regarded none of them as his possessions. They would be with him only temporarily. All he had been given was a brief time in which to enjoy them.

  He discovered beauty in the widest range of objects: the chipped ceramic figurine of a ballerina, a cracked badge of honor, an incomplete set of tunic buttons, a worn-out brass pipe-stand, a pocket watch with half the big hand missing, a snuffbox whose lid did not close properly, a rusted key which must once have opened an elaborate lock, a small set of lead soldiers with most of the paint chipped off, a wall barometer from which the mercury had leaked, a pile of sundry old coins, cutlery that might have been gilded at one time, a dented thimble inscribed with a Latin motto in cursive script, a bottle of lavender water, now dried out despite its ground-glass stopper, an empty monocle frame, a tea strainer with its handle bent slightly askew, an album partially filled with old, yellowed photographs of people no one would now recognize.

  After bringing these things home, he would not immediately put them on the narrow black shelf with its many compartments, made to order for this special purpose. First, according to his wife’s habit, he would give Oscar a chance to sniff them thoroughly in order to become acquainted with them; then he would spend long, patient hours at the kitchen table repairing, fixing, gluing, straightening, fastening, sewing, polishing and painting. In time he collected a wide assortment of tiny tools for such purposes and acquired skills he had never before possessed. When each item finally reached the shelf, it was in the best shape it could possibly be. Only once, during an especially tedious undertaking, did he wonder in amazement that the things Katerina had brought from second-hand shops had never needed any refurbishing.

  Mr Oliver came across the music box by accident. He tripped over it, literally, when approaching a glass showcase in the corner of a junkshop in a suburb he had never previously visited. It was on the floor, partially covered by the long velvet drapes that framed the display window. He bent down and picked it up, fearful that he might have damaged it inadvertently with his foot. As the sudden, dull sound disturbed the silence, the shopkeeper, who had been engrossed in his accounts, stared inquisitively over his small, round glasses at his only customer.

  In other circumstances, Mr Oliver would certainly not have bought the music box. It was too bulky to fit on the shelf in the living room. Worse, he concluded that he did not care for it when he took a closer look. He did not mind that it was quite worn and most likely didn’t work; probably he could remedy such defects. But he didn’t see the spark of beauty that was crucial to him.

  He doubted he had caused any additional damage to the music box when he tripped over it, but the dealer kept looking at him suspiciously, so he had no way out. Disinclined and unprepared to haggle, he simply went up to the counter and asked the price. When he was told, the price clearly included the dealer’s experienced appraisal of a customer who was in a bind, but he did not attempt to bargain—he never bargained. He paid the amount without a word and waited for the music box to be wrapped.

  A small problem arose in this regard. The shopkeeper, whose expression had relaxed into a smile once the money was in the cash register, had trouble finding anything large enough to hold the music box. He finally disappeared behind the curtain that covered the entrance to the back of the store and brought out a large cardboard box originally intended for boots. He then saw his esteemed customer out with the bow and broad smile proper to the occasion.

  When he got home, Mr Oliver was still uncertain about what to do with the music box. He could put it away somewhere and forget it, but that made no sense. If he hadn’t wanted it, the best thing would have been to chuck it into the first trashcan he came across after he left the junkshop. He was certainly not the type to cling tenaciously to old things when they were certain never to be used again. Since he had already brought it home, why not try to fix it up a little? Maybe it would grow on him with time.

  He went into the kitchen where he did his repairs, took the music box out of its wrapping and placed it on the table. As Oscar always did when something new was brought home, he came at once to sniff it, jumping first onto the chair and thence to the table. Mrs Katerina would not have allowed this, but Mr Oliver had relaxed almost all her restrictions. Even when he wanted to prohibit Oscar from doing something, he usually hesitated because he didn’t know how to go about it.

  Mr Oliver expected Oscar to go up to the musical device, but for some reason the cardboard box attracted him instead. He sniffed it carefully all over, then climbed inside, pulling himself under the half-open lid. When the tip of his tail disappeared the lid went down with him, so he was completely enclosed. This did not disturb Mr Oliver. Oscar often found his way into various inaccessible places and always got out easily, without anyone’s help. All he had to do here was rise a little and lift the lid with his head.

  There was a bit of scratching and commotion inside and then everything went silent. Oscar was obviously hiding, something cats do when they think they’re in a safe environment. He would come out when he got bored. Mr Oliver returned to the music box. He looked it over carefully, then took a flannel rag and started to clean it. To judge by the thick layer of dust, no one had used it in a long time.

  After cleaning the outside, Mr Oliver grasped the white porcelain handle that wound the device. Quite a bit of effort was needed to turn it. From inside the box came the squeaking of gears and springs that had not been oiled recently. He had to turn the handle very slowly, so that nothing inside would get stuck or break. It took him quite a while, but he was in no hurry. Undoubtedly it would take considerable effort to make the music box work, and the question was whether he was equal to such a job. It was one thing to fix up simple objects on the outside, quite another to repair a complex device like this. After all, he
was not a mechanical engineer.

  He had just decided that nothing would happen when to his surprise the mechanism started to emit sounds. The music was stiff, scratchy and broken, but he could make out the basic melody. It sounded gay and enthusiastic, with a lively rhythm—a polka, perhaps. Mr Oliver thought he had heard it somewhere before, but since he had no ear for and little understanding of music, he could not recognize it. But all this suddenly lost importance when the lid of the boot box at the other end of the table started to rise.

  The head that appeared was not Oscar’s. It seemed somehow smaller, more like that of a queen than a tomcat; in addition there was not a single white hair on it. Gray, brown and black colours competed discordantly for supremacy, and jade-green eyes stood out against this mainly dark background. The cat examined her surroundings inquisitively for several moments, showing no interest whatsoever in the fixed stare of Mr Oliver, either accepting his presence as part of the furniture or not noticing him at all.

  Then she slipped out from under the lid and onto the table. The cat looked about the kitchen briefly, stretched after being cramped in the box, and jumped first onto the chair and thence to the floor. Mr Oliver watched her without moving as she headed towards the dining room. He had the impression that she brushed against his leg as she passed him, but he hadn’t felt any touch, probably because of the confused state he was in. The cat moved lithely, like Oscar, although somehow in a softer and more feminine manner. With brisk steps she soon reached the door which stood ajar and disappeared into the next room.

  Mr Oliver hesitated several seconds before starting after her. He was beset by the desire to peer into the boot box to see what had happened to Oscar. He didn’t do so; not only because it was not the most important thing at the moment but also because he shuddered at what he might see if he lifted the lid. Instead, he headed towards the dining room, pursued by lively sounds from the music box. He did not open the door all the way when he reached it, although he already had his hand on the doorknob. He stopped in front if it: from the other side came something that positively should not have been there—the murmur of voices.