Impossible Stories

by Zoran Zivkovic

  “It was a simple matter. We made reading compulsory for everyone. This enabled us to combine the beautiful with the useful. First of all, our inmates could get rid of the main shortcoming that brought them here. If they had read more, they would have had less time and motive for misdeeds. Reading for them is truly healing. That is why we consider it therapy, not punishment, even though it might be a little late. But it is never really too late for something like that. And what do we call the place where everyone loves to read?”

  “A library?”

  The man spread his arms. “Of course. And a library is the last place to be accused of violating human rights, wouldn’t you say? At the same time, this step removed the extremely embarrassing tarnish we had acquired. Furthermore, we turned out to be considerably more humane than your jails. They have libraries, of course, but what’s the point, since they are almost never used? It’s as though they don’t even exist. Take your own case once again. Did you ever go into a library in one of the many jails you were in?”

  “I didn’t even know they had them,” I replied truthfully.

  “What did I tell you? But don’t worry, you’ll soon have a chance to make up for what you’ve missed. And much more than that, in effect. Before you is literally a whole eternity of reading.”

  I stared at the man for several moments without speaking. “So that’s my punishment? Reading?”

  “Therapy.”

  “Therapy, yes. There won’t be anything else?” I tried to suppress the sound of relief in my voice, but without success.

  “Nothing else, of course. You will sit in your cell and read. That’s all. You won’t have any other obligation. I must, however, draw your attention to the fact that eternity is a very long time. You might get bored with reading at some point. That happens to many of our inmates and then they become very clever. My, what tricks they resort to, giving the impression that they’re reading, even though they aren’t. But we have ways to see through all those crafty ploys. In such cases we must, unfortunately, use forceful means to get them to return to reading. With the most resistant and stubborn they are sometimes rather painful, I’m afraid.”

  “What about human rights? Humanity?”

  “We don’t lay a hand on them. This is exclusively for their own good. We can’t let them harm themselves out of spiritual indolence, can we?”

  “I suppose not,” I replied, not quite convinced.

  “Those are the main things you should know. You will grow accustomed to conditions here. It will probably be a little difficult at first, until you get used to it, but you will finally realize that reading offers incomparable satisfaction. Everyone becomes aware of this during eternity, some sooner and some later. I hope in the meantime that you behave in a mature and sober manner and do not compel us to resort to force. That will make it nice and easy for everyone.”

  Since my unquestioning agreement was clearly understood, I nodded. For the first time, the corners of the man’s mouth turned up a little, forming the shadow of a smile.

  “Fine. Now let’s see which therapy would suit you best. What kind of reading material would you prefer?”

  It was a difficult question, so I took my time answering it. “Maybe detective stories,” I said finally, in a half-questioning tone.

  “Ah, certainly not!” replied the man, frowning again. “That would be like giving a sick man poison instead of medicine. No, you need something quite the opposite. Something mild, gentle, enriching. Pastoral works, for example. Yes, that is the right choice for your soul. Idylls. We often prescribe them. They have a truly wondrous effect.”

  He saw an expression on my face that might have been disgust. When he spoke again his voice had returned to its initial sharpness.

  “If you think this unjust, you can take consolation in the fact that I would give anything to be in your shoes. Enjoying idylls. At least for a while. But I can’t, unfortunately. They won’t let me. Instead, I am forced to read exclusively the abominations and baseness that simply gush out of here. Like water from a broken dam.” He tapped the monitor again, this time on top. “And eternity for me is no shorter than it is for you. That’s not fair. Whenever you hit crisis-point, just think how much I envy you, and you’ll feel better.”

  He stopped talking. The incongruous height and dreary color of the room suddenly seemed to collapse in on him, twisting his face into a mask of contempt and despair. He looked at me a moment longer, his eyes turning blank. Before he reached for his glasses and put them on again, he turned his head towards the door behind me. He didn’t say a word, but it squeaked right away. The guard’s firm hand found my shoulder. I got up off the chair under the light bulb and headed outside. On the way, I took another look at the man behind the desk. He had almost completely sunk behind the monitor, engrossed in a new dossier. A moment later the door hid him from my view, and I set off down the hall with the guard towards my cell, where an eternity of reading awaited me as well.

  22. Smallest Library

  I didn’t realize I had one book too many until I got home. I should have had three in the plastic bag, but I took out four volumes. The old man had put the books into an old, crumpled bag, stained with something black on the outside. I had made no remark about the bag, not wanting to offend him. How could I tell him that it made no difference to me if the books he gave me got wet in the rain? Everything would have been different, of course, had I brought an umbrella, but it hadn’t looked like rain when I’d left home.

  The old man perfectly matched the bag he had given me. Greatly advanced in age, he had a wrinkled face and gray beard in which the rare streaks of dark hair resembled bits of leftover food. His clothes were no different from his face. His long, threadbare and dirty coat, which almost touched the ground, was patched here and there and, although the weather did not call for it, buttoned all the way to the top. It was early spring, but unusually warm and filled with sudden showers. Had I met this man anywhere else, I might easily think he was a beggar.

  The old man’s unsavory appearance, however, did not stand out among the used book sellers who displayed their wares all year long, even during the cold winter months, every Saturday at the same place, under the Great Bridge. They would bring folding tables, plastic crates for mineral water, or even large cardboard boxes that they would cover with newspapers, thus creating a makeshift stand. If it weren’t for the books on these stands, the spot would resemble a flea market.

  But looks can deceive. These were by no means simple peddlers with only the most basic information about their goods. Although one would never guess it from their unkempt, almost tramp-like appearance and the location of their stalls, a few words with them would quickly reveal that they were excellent book connoisseurs. Should you express an interest in one of the books on display, the seller would provide you with a mass of information about the author, publisher, reviews, reader reception, possible previous or later editions. Sometimes you might even hear a detailed history of a specific copy that was more exciting than all the rest.

  The information was as trustworthy as if you had opened a literary encyclopaedia. Nothing was hidden or embellished, as might be expected of those who are only interested in selling their goods. Sometimes you would have the strange impression that what you were being told was intended to dissuade you from actually buying the book.

  For more than a year I had been walking under the Great Bridge every Saturday, above all for these conversations with the booksellers. In the end I would buy one book or another, not because I wanted to have it so much as to compensate these people whose words provided the impetus for what I myself had been trying to write.

  Over time, I became better acquainted with some of the booksellers I habitually saw there, and so enjoyed their additional esteem as a regular customer. Whenever I appeared, they would pull books out from under the counter that they’d kept for me, and the conversations we struck up would not be interrupted, I believe, even at the cost of losing another customer who might b
e ready to spend quite a bit of money. Several times I was tempted to propose that we continue our discussions elsewhere, but I held back. For some reason, I had the feeling that it would not be the same. Indeed, it was as if they could not exist anywhere else but here.

  I had never met the old man before. Since all the places under the bridge were occupied, he had set up shop at the very end, where there was no longer any protection from above, as though he had been excommunicated by the others. He could only stay there until the first drops of rain forced him to seek cover. This would not have been difficult since he was the only one with a mobile stand. It was a cart that had once, long ago, been used to sell ice cream: a wooden box with two large wheels and two long handles for pushing it. I hadn’t seen one since childhood. The bright paint that had once decorated this affair was completely faded or peeled, but I could still make out the shape of an ice cream cone with three large scoops painted on the front.

  The other sellers would let me look at the books without offering their comments. They would only strike up a conversation with me when I asked a question or had selected a book. That was the generally accepted custom. The old man either did not know this or did not care. He addressed me as soon as I walked up to his stand.

  “I have what you’re looking for,” he said in the hoarse voice typical of chain smokers.

  “How do you know I’m even looking for something?” I replied a little abrasively, glancing over the old books that covered the top of the cart. The two conical metal lids that had covered the two openings for ice cream had been replaced by an unfinished bare board. A pile of old books, seemingly dumped out of a bag, lay on top of the board.

  “It’s not hard to tell. It shows on your face.”

  “Shows on my face?” I repeated, bewildered, examining the old man. That very instant I realized what I had missed when I first glanced at his face. His head was turned towards me but not his eyes. The eyes stared to the side, unfocussed, blurred. The man was blind.

  “Yes,” he said. “If you know how to look.”

  “So that’s it,” I said, nodding. The awkward feeling that came over me only intensified when I realized the senselessness of this movement.

  The old man was suddenly seized by a fit of coughing, hollow and hoarse, like the echo of distant thunder. It seemed to come from the very depths of his lungs. He put one bony hand over his mouth, the other on his chest, and bowed his head. He stayed in that position for a while.

  “You are a writer, aren’t you?” he said in a whisper, after catching his breath.

  “Does that show on my face, too?” I asked, also in a low voice.

  He didn’t reply at once, wheezing for a bit. “No, but there’s a smell about you. Writers have a smell. The harder the time they’re having, the stronger the smell. You didn’t know that?”

  Inadvertently I sniffed the air around me. The prevailing smell came from the river: humid, sour, with traces of rotting debris brought by the spring floods. “No, I didn’t,” I had to admit.

  “It makes no difference. What’s important is that there is a remedy. We’ll find it right away.” He started to examine the pile in front of him with his fingers. He took book after book, felt it lightly, and then put it back with the others or set it aside, as though able to see with his hands. Finally, when he had made his choice, he held out three books. “Here, this is what you need. They will help you.”

  I hesitated briefly, then accepted the offered volumes. They were bedraggled-looking. One had no cover at all, its front and back pages dog-eared. Another had been destroyed by someone’s merciless scribbling. And the binding of the third was so broken it was in tatters. In addition, dust had accumulated in all three books. I had no reason to buy them, especially since I already had them in much better condition.

  Nonetheless, I decided to take them. They would be of no use to me, but how could I refuse a blind old man? However, it wasn’t just compassion. His cleverness deserved some reward. The bit about writers having a smell was pretty good. I might be able to use it somewhere. Although, of course, he had not recognized me by any smell.

  As I was rushing home, I realized that there was only one way he could have known my profession. Several stands before his cart I had spoken briefly with one of the sellers of whom I was a regular customer. He asked how my new book was coming, and I had given a vague answer. The man could see that I didn’t feel like talking about it and had changed the subject. We hadn’t been that close to the old man and we were surrounded by a noisy crowd, so that under normal circumstances he would not have heard us. But people who have lost their sight have extremely sharp hearing.

  “How much do I owe you?” I asked, reaching for my wallet.

  The old man coughed again. This time the hacking lasted a bit longer. “You owe me a lot,” he said at last. “But not for the books. They are free.”

  I looked in bewilderment at his empty eyes. “Why would you give them away?”

  “Because that is the only way for you to get them. I don’t sell books.”

  I expected him to say something else, but he clearly felt that this answer was sufficient.

  “You have put me in an awkward position,” I said after a short pause. “I don’t know how to repay you.”

  “Forget it. Give me the books so I can put them in a bag for you. It will rain soon and they might get wet, and that would be a real shame.”

  I looked towards the bit of sky not blocked by the bridge. Clouds had started to gather, but there were still patches of clear sky, so it didn’t look like it was about to rain. I didn’t say anything, however, since the old man appeared quite sure of himself. Maybe blind people can forecast the weather in addition to hearing quite well.

  I put the three books into his outstretched hand and he bent down behind the cart, opening the door down there. He felt around inside and finally took out a crumpled, stained bag with the three books inside it. At least that’s what I thought at the time. It was only upon returning home that I discovered that he had added a fourth. He must have done it then. There had been no other opportunity.

  “Thank you very much,” I said, taking the bag gingerly with two fingers. I was glad the man couldn’t see my expression. “Goodbye. I hope we’ll see each other again soon.” As soon as I’d said it, I realized how inappropriate this greeting was, but it was too late to retract it.

  “Farewell,” replied the old man, politely overlooking my blunder.

  On the way home, I thought it might be best if I got rid of the unwanted gift en route. But the sky dissuaded me from my intention. When I climbed up onto the Great Bridge, I saw that the old man had been right. Storm clouds were rushing in from the west, dragging a dense curtain of rain with them. I had to hurry if I didn’t want to get caught in a downpour. I had no time now to look for a trashcan in which to dump the bag. Just as I stepped inside my front door, rain began to fall.

  I could have put the bag in the garbage can in the kitchen, but I didn’t. What I had been prepared to do outside without hesitation suddenly seemed inappropriate indoors. Sacrilegious, in fact. One doesn’t throw books away, after all. Not even such worthless copies. I would put them out of sight somewhere. That would be the same as if I had thrown them away, but my conscience would be clear.

  The fourth book that appeared when I emptied the bag stood out from the others. First of all, it was in excellent condition, although also an old edition. I turned it over in my hands, staring with bewildered curiosity. It took some time for me to realize there wasn’t even a speck of dust on my fingers.

  Nothing had been written on the chestnut-colored canvas cover, but that was not unusual. The book had probably had a paper cover that had been lost in the meantime. In the middle of the front cover was a shallow imprint, the stylized depiction of a pointed quill, an inkpot and an image resembling a sheet of parchment. The pages were edged in a shade of brown that matched the cover.

  I opened the book. After a chestnut-colored blank flyleaf, the
words The Smallest Library were written at the top of the first page in tiny, slanted letters. This didn’t exactly fit the appearance and format of the volume. Someone had been too modest when naming the edition. Something more imposing would have been preferable.

  I turned the page and the first surprise awaited me. The second page where information about the book should have been given was blank, while the third page contained only one word, which I assumed must have been the title of the work. But the author’s name was missing. Filled with doubt, I looked for several moments at the inordinate whiteness before me. This was unusual to say the least.

  Then I realized where I might find the copyright information. Some publishers put that page in the back. Although this would not explain the author’s missing name, it was still worthwhile to check. I leafed through the book quickly, noting as I did so that it was a novel whose chapters had only numbers and not titles. When I reached the end, I discovered there was no information there, either. After the last printed page there was just one white one, then the chestnut-colored back flyleaf, and finally the cover.

  I had therefore received from the old man an anonymous edition by an anonymous writer. I had yet to hear of such a combination, but it clearly did not follow that this was impossible. Although I am not uninformed about the world of books, my knowledge is by no means comprehensive. There was one place, however, where all information about absolutely all officially published works should be found: the National Library. I closed the book, laid it on my desk, and switched on the computer.

  The National Library web site made it possible to execute rapid searches, even though it had an enormous stock of books. I typed the only information I had into the space marked “title.” I was convinced that this would solve the mystery because any other outcome would be quite unimaginable. That would mean this was an unregistered edition, shedding new light on the whole matter. The old man’s appearance may not have been exemplary, but I doubted he was ready to get involved in any nefarious dealings with books. In any case, the other booksellers under the Great Bridge, proud of their honesty, would not allow him to do that.