Impossible Stories

by Zoran Zivkovic

  The beggar had spent the night on the square and was sleeping under some stairs, when he was awakened at daybreak by banging from somewhere above. He looked around drowsily, then realized that the noise was coming from the open window in the garret of the violin-maker’s house. It seemed as if someone was trying to break something in there, but he could see nothing from below. Then everything quieted down and a brief silence reigned. Just as the two baker’s boys arrived in the square from a side street, each carrying baskets full of freshly baked bread and rolls, the terrified maestro appeared at the window. He held tightly onto the frame, trying to resist whomever was pushing him from behind. It was a silent struggle, which was why the young men were completely unaware of it. They crossed the square, unsuspecting among the pigeons, chatting in low voices.

  The unrelenting pressure on the maestro’s back grew stronger and stronger until his resistance yielded. As if hurled by a huge hand, he flew out of the window and plunged helplessly towards the pavement, still without uttering a sound. Behind him, however, the window was not empty as it would have been had he jumped of his own free will. A terrifying figure appeared for just an instant, curdling the blood in the observer’s veins as he lay hidden under the stairs. It disappeared at once, but that fleeting look was enough for the beggar to recognize it beyond all doubt. He remained hidden for quite some time, not daring to move. It was only after the police inspector had completed his investigation and the dead man’s body was removed that the beggar mustered the courage to come out.

  It should surprise no one, the lame beggar concluded didactically, that Mr Tomasi finally fell victim to the Tempter. Anyone who pledges his soul to the Devil for the sake of some vain and evanescent acclaim must be assured that the Devil will get his due—sooner or later. The master violin-maker had no reason to complain; he had gloried for many years in his reputation as the unsurpassed creator of magnificent violins, although it was clear to everyone that such talent could not be natural.

  That was when Mr Umbertini was first tempted to contribute a comment of his own. Unlike the other stories, this one was at least partially credible. The story-teller himself had probably been the eye-witness on the square that morning, rather than this nameless friend who had so conveniently disappeared. Most likely he was reluctant to admit as much for fear of being questioned by the police, but he had given too many convincing details for one who was merely recounting another’s experience. The supplementary elements which he had invented were understandable in the circumstances; without them his story would not have been exciting enough for the listeners in the tavern. On the other hand, although he could not have known, they were not completely unfounded. Nonetheless, the ex-assistant decided once again not to say anything, principally because of his unwillingness to enter into the inevitable discussion about this aspect of the maestro’s accident, for the secret at its heart greatly surpassed his own understanding.

  He might never have spoken of it at all, had his hand not been forced by an extraordinary chain of events. The vagabonds and good-for-nothings who kept him company in the tavern started to lose interest in the violin-maker’s suicide as it became clear they would get nothing out of his former assistant. They also found the man himself less and less interesting, since he passed most of his time sunk in gloomy silence, concentrating on the bottle. They gradually started to drop away, leaving him alone finally at the table. At last only the large, bearded innkeeper sometimes exchanged a word or two with him.

  One rainy day in late autumn, Mr Umbertini arrived at the tavern early, while there were still no other guests. He sat at a small table with two chairs in the corner, close to the hearth, and the innkeeper, without asking and giving just a brief nod, brought him three bottles of red wine and a glass. He peered briefly at his customer’s thin, unshaven face, inflamed eyes and red nose, but said nothing. The innkeeper couldn’t care less about the appearance of those who frequented his establishment as long as they had money to pay for what they ordered. It was not his job to warn immoderate drunks that every new glass only shortened what little life they had left. He picked up the coins that Mr Umbertini put on the table without a word and slipped them into the deep pocket under his stained apron, then went behind the bar.

  Mr Umbertini was already halfway through the second bottle when new guests started to appear in the tavern. They were certainly not those he was accustomed to seeing there. First a little boy came in. He could not have been more than six or seven years old, but he went up to the largest table, sat at the head of it, took out a piece of paper and pen from somewhere, bowed his head and started to write something in a tiny script. From time to time he took out a handkerchief and held it briefly to his nose. After him came a middle-aged woman holding a bunch of rolled-up scrolls under her arm. She sat next to the boy, unrolled a scroll and became engrossed in reading. The refined-looking, older man who soon joined them brought a snow-white cat with him. He stroked it gently in his lap, whispering in its ear. The older woman who next arrived stood at the entrance, looking in bewilderment first at the innkeeper and then at the master violin-maker’s assistant as though she had seen ghosts. She sat down stiffly on one of the three unoccupied chairs and put her muff on the table in front of her without removing her hands. The man who came in after her was a painter. As soon as he joined the others he opened a large sketching block, took a stick of charcoal and began sketching in brisk, rough strokes. Finally, the last to arrive was a rather casually dressed man with dishevelled gray hair. He rummaged through his pockets for a few moments, finally found a piece of chalk and without the least hesitation began to write on the uncovered wooden table, erasing something here and there with the leather-patched elbow of his jacket.

  The sight of six such strangers at the big table was extremely unusual in this establishment. During all the months that Mr Umbertini had spent in the tavern he had never seen anyone even slightly resembling them. But what seemed to him almost as unbelievable was the fact that the innkeeper paid them absolutely no attention. He, who took great pains that no guest ever be left even momentarily without a glass or plate on the table in front of him, who kept an eye on empty glasses in order to fill them at once, and never recoiled from showing the door to anyone who contemplated sitting inside for free, had not even approached these dignified guests, although they clearly promised a good tab. Instead, he went up to the assistant’s table, waved at the other chair with the dirty rag he constantly wore over his arm, and sat down.

  He came straight to the point. He maintained that he knew why Mr Tomasi had killed himself—a most unexpected statement as he had never taken part in the conversations on the subject. He had seemed totally uninterested, just idly listening to the stories told by others. The master violin-maker, the innkeeper now asserted, had wanted to make a perfect violin. He had invested years of effort and everything indicated that he was on the right track. Unfortunately, no human hands, not even the most gifted, are able to reach perfection. Although appearing perfect in every way, the violin was nonetheless not divine, as he had hoped. When he realized this after testing it that morning, the violin-maker understood that there was only one way out of this defeat, and he took it.

  This time Mr Umbertini could hold back no longer. Had the innkeeper’s story simply been wrong, he certainly would not have reacted, gliding over it as he had the others. But he had found one essential aspect of this story deeply offensive, and he alone could now stand up to defend the maestro’s besmirched honour. That was a debt he owed his teacher, and it took precedence over the pledge the assistant had made to himself never to reveal what had happened in the garret.

  The innkeeper had been right, although Mr Umbertini could not even imagine how that simple and greedy seller of bad wine could have found out something which the maestro had kept secret even from his faithful pupil. For eighteen years, with endless devotion and patience, he had indeed been working on a perfect violin. It was only towards the end that the assistant finally understood what la
y hidden behind the violin-maker’s periodic retreats to the highest room in the house. He would stay locked inside for hours, although he had taken no instrument with him to test, and no one dared disturb him.

  The innkeeper, however, was wrong when he said, with an edge of malice in his voice, that the master violin-maker had been unsuccessful in his efforts. Sneaking up to the garret on that fateful morning when the unique violin was given its final test, Mr Umbertini heard the sound of divine harmony for the first and only time in his life. Even though the closed door dampened the music, the magic of that experience had been so powerful that he had felt compelled to stay close to the maestro’s house instead of going somewhere else, where he might hope to enjoy a more useful and fulfilling life—despite his awareness that he would never again be given an opportunity to hear it.

  Mr Umbertini knew the question the innkeeper would ask next, just as he knew that he had no answer. If the maestro had truly created a perfect violin, what had happened to it? Or to its remains, if the crashing that the beggar on the square had heard meant that the maestro had broken it? (Although why would he do such a thing to his masterpiece?) When the inspector had forced the door, nothing was found inside: neither a whole instrument nor its wreckage. So the garret must have possessed a secret entrance, concluded the cunning innkeeper, which the assistant had used before the inspector’s arrival in order to remove all traces.

  This was a logical assumption that offered an explanation for both possibilities: that the violin had been perfect and that it hadn’t been. Its only defect was that it was incorrect. There was no secret entrance to the highest room in the building. When he finally entered the garret with the inspector, the assistant encountered his second wonder of that morning. Although the instrument had to be there, and in one piece, it was not. And the fact that it should have been in one piece constituted the first wonder.

  As Mr Umbertini stood in front of the door, still dazzled by the music that had just ended, he suddenly heard something inside that terrified him. He was quite familiar with that sound. The crashing could mean only one thing: the master violin-maker was destroying his life’s work! But why? Not knowing what else to do, the assistant quickly dropped to his knees and tried to peer in through the keyhole. Had there been no key in the lock, he could have seen more, but even this way he was able to catch at least partial sight of the maestro’s crazed figure as he swung the violin, holding it by the neck. He hit it against whatever he came across: the table, chair back, bed-frame, walls.

  Even though the full force of his unbridled rage went into it, the instrument was not so much as scratched. The violin steadfastly resisted all his attempts to shatter it, remaining untouched, as though he were merely swinging it through the air. When he threw it to the floor and started to jump on it, again without causing any damage, he finally collapsed, sat on the edge of the bed, thrust his head in his hands and stayed there unmoving for a while. And then he got up slowly, went to the large window, grabbed the frame, remained in that position a few moments, then let go of his hands and simply leaned forward. The dumbfounded assistant took his eye off the keyhole and slid to the floor next to the door. It was not until the inspector banged the knocker on the front door of the house that he was startled out of his paralysis.

  The innkeeper shook his head. Of all the stories he had heard, he said, this one seemed the most far-fetched. Thank heavens Mr Umbertini had not told it to the police, because that would surely have focused suspicion on himself. He personally still thought that the only true explanation lay in the secret entrance. As far as the noise was concerned, it didn’t have to come from breaking the violin, rather its maker might have banged the furniture around him in frustration over his failure, as people do when they are infuriated.

  In any case, the innkeeper concluded, after the master violin-maker jumped through the window, Mr Umbertini had gone into the garret and stowed the instrument somewhere. He had waited for the situation to calm down, then sold it under the counter. The violin might not have been perfect according to Mr Tomasi’s criteria, but the seller certainly would have received a pretty sum for it that would enable him to lead a comfortable life. For example, he could amuse himself at the tavern day after day without having to work. But Mr Umbertini had no need to worry. The innkeeper certainly would not turn him in. What benefit would that bring him? He would only be losing a regular customer who had never asked for credit.

  Seeing there was nothing more to say, he returned to the bar. He started to wipe glasses idly, continuing to neglect the six visitors at the other table. They sat there briefly, involved in their preoccupations, and then, as though at an invisible signal, stood up and left the tavern together, offended no doubt at being so rudely ignored. Mr Umbertini watched them leave, and then, as though remembering something, quickly got up and headed after them, leaving almost a bottle and a half of wine, paid for but not drunk. He was never seen in there again.

  For a while stories were concocted in the tavern regarding his disappearance. It was heard on great authority that thieves had slaughtered him and thrown him into the river, that he had left for the New World to seek his fortune, that he had opened his own workshop in another town, and that he had come down with leprosy and was now living out the miserable remainder of his days in an asylum on some island. Only the sober innkeeper, who was not to be cheated, knew that they were all fabrications and that, as usual, the simplest explanation was the soundest: the late master violin-maker’s assistant had fled, fearing that someone might denounce him to the police once he had spent all of his dishonestly acquired money.

  PART FOUR

  THE LIBRARY

  18. Virtual Library

  Email isn’t perfect. Although Internet providers probably do their best to protect us from receiving unwanted messages, there seems to be no remedy against it. Whenever I open up the in-box on my screen, I almost always find at least one from an unknown sender. Usually there are several; the record was thirteen junk mail messages, sent over just a few hours, in between two sessions at the computer.

  When that happened I really got irritated and changed my e-address, despite considerable inconvenience. I gave out my new address only to a small number of people, but to no avail. The pesky emails soon began arriving once again. I complained to my provider, who admitted in a roundabout way that they could do nothing to help. They advised me just to delete everything that didn’t interest me, particularly since dangerous computer viruses often spread through junk mail.

  The recommendation was unnecessary as I had already been deleting my junk mail, even though I was unaware of the viruses. At first, I’d read these messages in bewilderment, but once I realized what was going on, I deleted every e-message of unknown origin without delay. I didn’t even give them a cursory reading, despite the fact that the senders took all kinds of pains to attract my attention. Bombastic, flickering headings with fancy, ostentatious illustrations advertised a variety of exceptional offers not to be missed at any cost.

  One proposal, for example, would make me rich overnight if I invested money through a glamorous-sounding agency from some Pacific Rim country I had never heard of. Or, after a two-week correspondence course, I could become a preacher in any Christian church I wanted, authorized to carry out baptismal, wedding, and funeral rites. I also had the opportunity, regardless of my age, to turn back the clock twenty-five years using some new macrobiotic remedy. I was offered the unique opportunity, for a modest commission of forty-nine percent, finally to get hold of the money that had been awarded me by the court, if I had any such claims. I could also satisfy my assumed passion for gambling at any hour of the day or night, playing in some virtual casino guaranteed to be honest. Lastly, to top it all off, I was offered at a mere pittance, under the counter, two and a half million verified, active e-addresses to which I could send whatever I wanted as many times as I wanted.

  Perhaps the email that started it all would have ended up in the recycle bin along with the others, i
f it had not been so brief that I inadvertently read it. Against a black background, devoid of decoration, the first line announced: VIRTUAL LIBRARY in large, yellow letters, while under it the slogan “We have everything!”—written in considerably smaller blue letters—did not exactly assume the aggressive tone typical of this type of message.

  Of all the exaggeration I had come across on the Internet, this one took the biscuit. Really, “everything!” Such a claim would be absurd even for web sites from the largest world libraries. Whoever had come up with this scheme certainly had no notion just how many books have been published in the last five thousand years. No one has ever managed to put such a library together in one place, even discounting all those works that have disappeared into oblivion.

  And then there was that word “virtual.” Used in its truest sense, “virtual” should mean a library composed of electronic books. The Internet has several sites containing such e-editions and I visit them from time to time. But they offer slim pickings. Only several hundred titles are available, just a drop in the ocean compared to “everything” in the literal sense. Who would even dare to hope that this vast multitude could ever be transferred into computer form? And who would ever find it worth the effort?

  Although I was convinced this must be a hoax, my curiosity stopped me from proceeding as usual. If it had involved anything other than books, I would have ignored the message without a second thought. But for a writer this was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. Instead of deleting the message, I positioned the cursor on the text. The arrow turned into a hand with a raised index finger and I found myself at the Virtual Library site.