“Wide awake, the veterinarian read on impatiently. He expected the woman with the bird to appear once again, but there was no further mention of her for the rest of the novel. Once again he finished reading the manuscript at daybreak. Now he wasted no time telephoning. Equipped with an axe, he went straight to his friend’s apartment. The neighbors were wakened by the din coming from her front door and called the police.
“When they arrived, the police patrol found the door broken down and the frantic veterinarian sitting on the living room floor, his head buried in his hands. He did not resist when they took him away, even though the deadly axe lay next to him. The statement he gave to the inspectors at the station was so muddled and unbelievable that instead of putting him in jail they took him straight to the mental hospital.
“The doctor whose care he was under finally agreed to grant his plea and bring the manuscript that he’d talked about incessantly and was supposedly the cause of all his troubles. Although the doctor combed the apartment thoroughly, he found no manuscript.
“When the doctor returned to his patient empty-handed, the man’s first reaction was to explode in anger, so they had to put him in a straitjacket, and then he fell into a deep depression. All attempts to get him out of this state were unsuccessful. He faded steadily and then finally, on the morning of his ninety-sixth day in the clinic, he was found dead. The report on the veterinarian’s death made no mention, as though it was unimportant, of the colorful feather found inexplicably on his pillow, or of the unusual serenity adorning the deceased’s face.
“The police sealed the apartment of the veterinarian’s girlfriend, expecting her to appear, but she never did.” The prosecutor picked up the empty glass, then looked at me. “Sorry, there’s isn’t any left,” I lied again, opening my arms with a shrug. He eyed me suspiciously. I thought he was going to object, but instead all he did was ask, “What do you think of the story?”
“Edifying and entertaining.”
This time his suspicious look lasted somewhat longer, but once again he refrained from comment. “It’s better than the lawyer’s, isn’t it?”
He paused a moment, waiting for me to reply, but since I didn’t take sides, he continued. “It must be. Chaps like that are infamous for letting their imaginations run wild. If you haven’t had any experience with them, the blarney they rely on can carry you away. We, however, stick strictly to the facts. Prosecutors’ stories might be somewhat drier, with less embellishments, but as a result you can rely on their authenticity.”
“To be sure,” I agreed.
His third suspicious look didn’t pass without remark. “Unfortunately, I see that my visit has done nothing to change your attitude towards us, the prosecutors. Frankly, my hopes weren’t very high. Only on rare occasions do we part with the condemned on at least good, if not friendly terms. It seems this is inevitable.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “So it seems.”
The prosecutor rose from the armchair carefully, making it rock again. “It can’t be helped. I did everything in my power. My conscience is clear at least in that respect.”
He extended his hand in a rather awkward movement. I hesitated a bit before I accepted it. Our handshake was weak and fleeting.
He stopped at the door and turned around. “Think about the story I told you. It’s more edifying than entertaining.”
I nodded. “I will.”
He knocked, the door opened and his slight figure quickly slipped out, as though slinking away. Just as the guard appeared in the lighted rectangle left by the prosecutor, a droning voice was heard in the corridor.
“Out of the way! Let me through!”
Having no time for words, the guard stepped aside obediently, and a short, stocky man rushed inside, his black robe fluttering around him.
“Good evening!” said the judge gaily, opening his arms. I hastened to his embrace.
“How are you?” he asked cordially, once we had moved apart, our hands resting lightly on each other’s shoulders. Before I could reply, the judge continued, “What a stupid question. Who could be fine after a visit from that guy? You’d feel more cheerful if the undertaker had come to take your measurements.” He laughed merrily at his witticism.
I waved my hand dismissively and indicated the armchair in good repair. “Please sit down.”
He ignored my recommendation and headed for the couch. He ran his fingers over it, as though checking the springs, then settled down at one end, raised his feet, and straightened the hem of his robe.
“There!” he said. “Comfort above all things. I didn’t work so hard for all these years in vain.”
“You, too?” I asked, sitting in the armchair.
“What do you mean—‘you too’? Why, who else?”
“The lawyer and the prosecutor . . . ”
“The lawyer and the prosecutor?” he thundered. He stared at me in disbelief, as though I’d uttered some inconceivable stupidity, then started to laugh. It was an uproarious laugh that I remembered well from the trial. The entire courtroom echoed from his peals of laughter. He would shake all over, holding onto his robust stomach. I knew from experience that this could last for minutes.
I waited patiently for his attack of hilarity to pass. When he finally got hold of himself, tears started to roll down his round, ruddy cheeks. He searched around inside his robe and took out a large, white handkerchief with an embroidered monogram. First he wiped his eyes, then blew his nose.
“I have to write this one down. You’ve really made my day.” He put his handkerchief away and took a large notebook with a pen attached to it out of another inside pocket.
“What did you say? The lawyer and the prosecutor?” He stopped writing because he was overcome by another seizure of laughter. It was shorter than the first one.
“That’s what they claim,” I said, trying to defend myself after he’d put away his notebook.
He waved his hands dismissively, then said through his giggles, “Please stop. That’s enough. I’ll die of laughter. Besides, my doctor has forbidden it. Because of my blood pressure. He says a capillary might burst, and then there will be hell to pay.”
He cracked his knuckles, and then laughed at that too.
I brought my index fingers to my lips and nodded.
“The lawyer and the prosecutor?” he repeated once again, but this time managed to get hold of himself. He nodded in return and put his index finger on his lips too. “All right, if laughter is forbidden, other pleasures aren’t. What will we use to toast with?”
“I’m afraid all I have is orange juice,” I replied, but even as I said it I realized I’d made another mistake. I couldn’t take back my words, however.
“Orange juice?” said the judge, not hiding his amazement. A moment later the cell resounded with his merry laughter once again.
After using his handkerchief to remove the traces of laughter from his face, the judge waggled his finger at me threateningly. “You’re really determined to do me in!”
“Forgive me,” I said contritely. “I’ll be careful what I say.”
“Orange juice, indeed! Not even blockheads like the lawyer and prosecutor would drink that!”
He gazed at me fixedly, expecting me to substantiate this. Even though I failed to do so, the expression on my face seemed to be explicit enough.
Now his laughter was accompanied by clapping hands and banging on the back of the couch. The judge even raised both feet briefly and kicked them in the air. When he got hold of himself, he reached for his notebook once again.
“I have to write this one down too. Orange juice, was it? Divine.”
“Just one glass each,” I said, trying to soften the effect. “The prosecutor actually drank barely half a glass.”
This was also a mistake. “Barely half?” repeated the judge, losing his breath once again. I concluded that the best thing would be to keep my mouth shut.
He took out another handkerchief, gray in color, with the same large monog
ram. He was clearly well prepared for the calamities that struck him.
“All right, give me the glasses,” he said after returning the handkerchief to his robe.
I looked at him in bewilderment.
“You don’t think I came unprepared, do you?” He patted the bottom part of his robe. “Glasses, if you please!”
Even though I had no idea what was on his mind, I headed obediently for the refrigerator and picked up the two glasses that were left. When I returned to the couch, the judge was holding a bottle filled with something strong.
I handed him a glass. “I really shouldn’t,” I said.
He frowned at me as he took the glass. “Why?”
“It’s against regulations.”
“Regulations?” repeated the judge, his face immediately flushing. As he shook with laughter again, I seriously worried that the doctor’s warning about bursting capillaries might come true.
“Please don’t make me laugh,” he said after using his handkerchief once more. “Have you forgotten who you’re dealing with? Judges make the regulations here, don’t they? As far as I can recall, I’m still a judge. Your glass!”
I had no recourse. I held out the glass and he filled it almost to the brim with the reddish liquid in the bottle. He poured himself the same amount, then raised his glass. We clinked a bit too strongly, spilling some of the drink on his robe, bringing a chuckle from the judge.
“Don’t hold back,” he said, seeing me hesitate. “You’ll be in need of a strong drink, considering the story I’m about to tell you. It’ll be easier for you to take.”
“You too,” almost slipped out. Luckily, I bit my lip at the last moment. I sat down in the armchair in good repair and took a cautious sip. My care was well taken. The drink was fiery. This didn’t stop the judge from swallowing half his glass in one gulp.
“I heard the story from a stuntman I sentenced to life in prison because he killed forty-three animals in a zoo. Not at random but with cold-blooded calculation: he attacked only the poor females. His victims included a beautiful white elephant, three penguins, a very rare species of koala, and a pregnant two-humped camel. Can you imagine—killing a pregnant two-humped camel! That criminal would have got even worse if it hadn’t been for the extenuating circumstance that he’d committed the crime in a state of shattered nerves owing to unrequited love.
“I used to visit him in his cell until he was done in by a poisonous snake that slithered unnoticed into the prison yard and bit only him, among all the prisoners, as he lay unsuspecting on the grass. Who says that culprits don’t get the justice they deserve? Even though they didn’t catch the snake, I’m sure it was a female.
“During one of my visits he told me a bizarre story from one of his jobs. He’d been working on a film directed by a young and talented man. It had been a real pleasure to work with him, even though great demands were made of the stuntmen. The director knew exactly what he wanted, he was effective and dealt with his associates skillfully. The shooting ran smoothly. Problems arose, however, when they watched the rushes.
“An interloper appeared in some of the key scenes. No one could explain how a bird had gotten into the footage that no one had seen at the shoot. Its large size and brightly colored, glistening feathers made it impossible to ignore, as did its rapturous song. Although disturbing, this mystery was less important for the director than the matter of what to do about the interloper.
“The bird, of course, couldn’t be left in the film because there was no reason for it to be there. It was like a foreign body. The simplest, but by no means most inexpensive, way to remove it was to re-shoot the scenes that it had spoiled. The director somehow managed to persuade the producers to increase the film’s budget so this could be done, but when the new rushes arrived from the laboratory, the hefty sum was proven to be wasted. By some mysterious means, the bird had remained in the footage.
“The director flew into a rage. The once even-tempered, good-natured man became hysterical and hot-headed. He fired almost one-third of the crew, including the excellent cameraman, but this didn’t solve the problem. He then tried to wangle more money out of the producers to get rid of the fiendish bird by computer processing, but they refused. It would be more expensive than re-shooting the scenes and the outcome was uncertain. The word had already gotten out that the film was cursed. It was wiser to abandon the project than continue throwing money into a bottomless pit.
“This decision was a heavy blow for the director. He tried everything he could to prevent work on the film from stopping, but the producers were inexorable. They didn’t turn their backs on him, though. In spite of the failure, they offered him another film to direct. He refused. His desire to get the better of the pesky bird had already become an obsession.
“He gave almost all his savings to buy the film footage that could not be used anymore. Then he took out a loan to rent a computer imaging studio where he fanatically endeavored to get rid of the interloper. He worked alone, convinced that everyone had plotted against him. One night the studio caught fire. It burned to the ground.
“They combed through the ashes, but found no trace of the director. By some miracle, all that was spared from the fire was the piece of film that the poor man was working on. The police looked at it, but could see nothing unusual in the sight of a young cineaste running after a bird, as costumed stuntmen did their reckless jumps all around them. People in the film world, after all, are well known for their strange behavior.”
The judge seemed barely able to wait for the story to finish so he could do the same thing to his drink. The second half of the glass disappeared like the first, in one gulp.
“So?” he asked after wiping his mouth with a finger, still holding the glass.
“Edifying and entertaining,” popped out, even though I was aware of the reaction it would cause.
He laughed uproariously, trembling all over with his guffaws. If his glass hadn’t been empty he would certainly have spilled it. Liquid almost poured out of the bottle he was holding in his other hand, even though it was barely half full. Since his hands were occupied, he couldn’t wipe the tears that streamed down his newly flushed cheeks. At last, still giggling, he put his feet on the floor and got up from the couch.
“Edifying and entertaining, eh?” It looked like he would burst out laughing again, but he restrained himself, putting a finger to his lips. “You’re quite the scalawag. That’s why I like to visit the cells on death row. It’s never as cheerful anywhere else as it is here. If the doctor hadn’t prohibited me from excessive laughter, I would stay here longer. But it wouldn’t really do for a judge to meet his maker in this place.”
He turned this way and that, not knowing what to do with the bottle and glass. I thought he’d put them down on the coffee table, but he handed them to me instead. I took them both in one hand because I was still holding a full glass in the other.
“Keep it,” he said, nodding at the bottle. “I can see you’re not much of a drinker, but you never know when you might need it.“
I thought about protesting, but kept silent, not wanting to give him a reason for convulsive laughter.
“Thank you,” I replied.
“Well, then, that’s about it.” He came up and gave me a hug. The bottle and glasses rattled between us.
He stepped back, keeping his hands on my biceps. “Take some advice from a man of experience. Always look at the bright side of things. Laughter can surmount any obstacle.”
I nodded. He patted me lightly on the cheek, then headed for the door.
He’d already raised a hand to knock on it, when he turned around. “Edifying and entertaining, you say? Excellent! I can’t remember the last time someone made me laugh so much.”
The door didn’t close behind the judge. The guard appeared in the rectangle of light. He just looked at me without saying a word.
“Another visitor?” I asked, setting the bottle and glasses on the coffee table.
“No,” repli
ed the guard, sounding ill at ease. “I was just thinking . . . If you have a little time, perhaps . . . I won’t bore you for very long . . . ”
“Come in, come in,” I said, indicating the armchair that wasn’t broken.
The guard came in, took off his cap and closed the door behind him. He sat in the armchair, his eyes downcast. I waited for him to start, but all he did was twist his cap in his lap.
“Would you like something to drink?” I said, breaking the silence. “I don’t have any more clean glasses, unfortunately, but I barely touched that one.” I indicated the full glass on the coffee table.
“Oh, that’s all right, thanks a lot. It’s an honor to drink from your glass.”
He picked it up and drank a little. This seemed to give him a bit of confidence.
“I have to tell you . . . You might not know it, although you might easily take it for granted . . . This is a prison, after all . . . Such things are to be expected . . . ”
He stopped, lowering his eyes to his cap once more. I waited a little for him to continue, but since he didn’t, I asked, “What do you mean?”
“The room is bugged. I’ve been eavesdropping,” he said in a soft, apologetic voice
“Oh, that,” I said. “I didn’t know, but as you said, I should have taken it for granted.”
“I’m only carrying out orders. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course.”
“Right now the microphones are turned off, naturally. I took care of it personally. This conversation is not being taped. No one actually knows I’m here. I hope that this visit remains our little secret.”
“Of course, of course,” I hastened to set his mind at rest.
The guard sighed audibly, then took another drink from the glass.
“You see, eavesdropping has its good sides too.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. If the microphones hadn’t been turned on during your last three visits, I wouldn’t know what you talked about with the lawyer, the prosecutor and the judge, and thus wouldn’t be able to warn you about the kind of people you’re dealing with.”
Impossible Stories II Page 7
