Impossible Stories II

by Zoran Zivkovic

  “What kind?”

  The guard didn’t continue right away. He looked around the cell, as though someone else might be there listening in, then bent forward in the armchair, drawing close to me.

  “This is for your ears only,” he said in a whisper. “I’d lose my job instantly if anyone found out I was talking like this about court officials. But I have to. In the name of truth and honor.”

  He fell silent, waiting to see what impression his words had had on me.

  I nodded. “Truth and honor above all.”

  “They lied to you. Every single one.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Yes, they did. Shamelessly. I listened to them and couldn’t believe my own ears. Men in such high positions, twisting the truth so blatantly. To the detriment of us, ordinary guards.”

  “I’m not sure I quite understand you.”

  “Did you really believe,” said the guard, his voice returning to normal, “that any of them deserves the slightest credit for the fact that this cell looks like a hotel room?”

  “That’s what they claimed. Indeed, they took issue with each other, so in the end I wasn’t exactly sure who deserves my gratitude.”

  “I’ll tell you who. Only us. The guards’ union.”

  “Really?”

  “Why, of course. It’s not at all difficult to guess why. In the best of cases those gentlemen drop by death row just once to pay a visit. If they’re moved at all by what they see here, they quickly forget it. They don’t really care about human suffering, regardless of how much they try to convince you otherwise. We’re in the best position to know. You should just hear what they say when they come out of this cell. Such two-faced insensitivity is truly rare.”

  “Who would have thought?”

  “Yes. Unlike them, however, the nature of our work puts us in constant contact with the condemned. Do you think it’s easy to watch them spend their last days in inhuman conditions?”

  “I thought guards had to be hardened to that.”

  “That’s a typical prejudice,” he said, spreading his arms as he shrugged. “The most god-awful stories are told about guards, we’re supposed to be hardhearted, brutal, even sadistic, but please believe me that isn’t at all true. Well, fair enough, I won’t say there aren’t some psychos among us, that’s inevitable, but what profession doesn’t have its share? You’ll even find them working in a nursery school. Among us guards, however, their number is inconsequential. In any case, they can’t become members of the union. We make real sure of that. We only let family men into our membership, who are compassionate, with a gentle disposition. If they like animals or enjoy gardening that’s all in their favor. In spite of these strict criteria for joining the union, the great majority of the guards are members.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Few people do, unfortunately. That’s why there are so many misconceptions about us. The best way to fight such stereotypes is through actions, not words. What do you think, where did the money come from for all this comfort surrounding you?”

  He made a sweeping gesture about the cell. I shrugged in ignorance.

  “Donations from union members.”

  “I never would have thought.”

  “Our generosity will seem even greater if you bear our modest salaries in mind. You might well say that we take the food out of our own mouths in order to make things as comfortable as possible for death row inmates. And we intend to keep on doing it. For example, plans already exist to remodel the bathroom completely. We’ll put in a big Jacuzzi. Nothing can soothe the understandable anxiety of the condemned like a whirlpool massage.”

  “Excellent. I love whirlpool massages in a Jacuzzi.”

  “Unfortunately, you won’t live to see it, but those who come here after you will truly enjoy themselves.”

  “How lucky they are. I envy them.”

  We sank into silence. The guard looked at the glass in his hand. When he finally spoke, his voice had softened again almost to a whisper.

  “There is one more thing . . . ” he started, then stopped.

  “Yes?”

  “Those stories they told you . . . ”

  “What about them?”

  “I’d like to tell you a story myself. If you don’t object, of course.”

  “On the contrary. Please go ahead.”

  “I might not be as adept as they were with words . . . ”

  “It makes no difference. What’s important is that the story is edifying and entertaining.”

  The guard’s face brightened. “Oh, I believe it is. It’s quite out of the ordinary in any case.” He raised the glass and this time took a good swig.

  “We had a colleague who suddenly decided to become a stone-carver. It shouldn’t come as a surprise. The life of a guard is not at all easy. Many men can’t put up with the hardship it brings and so they change professions. Former prison guards have ended up in all sorts of places. They can be found among circus clowns, whale hunters, wigmakers, herbalists, stuntmen, and polar explorers.

  “The members of the stone-carvers’ guild always met the last Saturday of the month at a tavern in the suburbs. There they would let themselves go, enjoying the good food and drink, singing, making music, playing cards and dominos. Fascinating stories were told to general amusement. I stayed in touch with my former colleague even after he changed jobs and he would tell me these stories from time to time. One of them made a particularly strong impression on me.

  “An old sculptor received an unusual commission. He was to carve the bust of a young boy. There were two special circumstances, however. He had to finish the job in just five days and the boy, who suffered from some mysterious disease, could only be seen once, very briefly. The sculptor refused at first to work under these conditions, but the fee he was offered made him think twice. The sum would provide him with a trouble-free retirement.

  “He visited the boy, who was lying in the darkened room of a castle. During the several minutes he was allowed to spend at the sickbed, the young boy did not open his eyes. Although visibility was poor, the sculptor was dazzled by the beauty of the pale young face. He seemed in the presence of a sleeping angel. He could barely tear his eyes away from the boy. As he was leaving the room, the gentle song of a bird came from one of the dark corners.

  “Returning to his studio, he first made several charcoal sketches while his memory was still fresh, then set to work. He took his hammer and chisel and began to carve the best piece of marble he had. He made surprisingly rapid progress and felt almost no fatigue. The hours stretched out, one after the other, and he watched with rapture as his hands slowly transformed shapeless stone into the boy’s enchanting likeness.

  “During the five days he had available he slept very little and ate even less. Strangely enough, he had no trouble coping with the tremendous effort in spite of his advanced age. An eagerness suffused him that he hadn’t felt since his youth. Everything whirled around him as the stubborn material yielded submissively. The money he was to receive ceased to be of any importance. This was no longer a commission he was fulfilling for the money. He was creating the work of his lifetime.

  “At the close of the fifth day, he raised the hammer and chisel for the last time, and then stepped back a bit from the finished bust. It was perfect. The angelic face seemed to come to life in the stone, radiating diaphanously. He stared at it fixedly for a long time, making up for the short-lived pleasure in the boy’s room. Before he finally went to bed, he covered the bust with a flannel cloth so that its beauty would not be squandered with no one to look at it.

  “Those who had placed the commission arrived at the appointed hour the next morning. As the sculptor removed the cloth, he looked not at the boy’s bust, but at his visitors’ faces, expecting to see their admiration. Instead he saw expressions of disbelief. Not understanding, he slowly turned towards his masterpiece. Then his eyes grew as big as saucers. On the pedestal was something that had no cause to be there. T
he boy’s head had been replaced with a large bird.

  “The sculptor screamed in horror. Quickly veiling the sculpture again, he hurried the visitors out of his atelier and locked himself inside. No one knows what happened there. As they stood in front of the door, strange sounds reached the bewildered visitors’ ears: the sculptor’s angry shouts and curses, the blows of metal on stone, the noises of smashing and crashing. The oddest sound of all was the birdcalls, shrill and delightful by turns.

  “This noise and commotion lasted a good two hours and then suddenly everything quieted down. The visitors exchanged worried glances, not knowing how to interpret the unexpected silence or what to do. Finally they knocked on the door of the atelier. There was no answer. They consulted with each other briefly, and then decided to break down the door.

  “When the heavy door finally yielded to their blows and they rushed into the atelier, there was no trace of the sculptor. They looked around the large room in disbelief. There was no other exit and the three large windows were shut. They even searched the only two places that were not immediately visible: in a small closet and under the bed, but just as they suspected, there was no one there either.

  “Finally, shrugging their shoulders in resignation, they turned their attention to the pedestal holding the sculptor’s veiled work. They hesitated slightly before one of them finally mustered the courage to take off the flannel cloth. What they saw under it made them draw back. Instead of the bird they’d expected was the stone head of the sculptor. There was no sign of the distress from two hours before when he’d escorted them out of the atelier. Now his face radiated serenity.”

  Finishing his story, the guard brought to his lips the glass he’d been holding as he talked, then changed his mind at the last moment and placed it on the coaster on the coffee table.

  “I mustn’t have any more. I’m on duty. It’s a lovely drink, though.”

  I took the bottle that the judge had left and handed it to him. “Keep it. I won’t be needing it.”

  He shook his head. “That’s very kind of you, but it is strictly against regulations.”

  “No one will know. Didn’t you turn off the microphone?”

  “Yes, I did, but . . . ”

  “Take it as a gift in return for the story you told me.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “Edifying and entertaining, just as I hoped.”

  A smile spread over the guard’s face. He took the bottle, looked left and right, then quickly shoved it under the jacket of his uniform. He nodded briefly and stood up.

  “I won’t take up any more of your time. It was a real pleasure talking to you. I will always have fond memories of this conversation.”

  I got up and put out my hand. “I will too.”

  We shook hands and he held onto mine a moment longer. He stopped at the door and turned around. It seemed he wanted to say something else, but instead he just shrugged his shoulders as though apologizing for something. He hastened out and the door closed behind him without a sound.

  I went to the dresser and picked up the violin. I placed it on my left shoulder, and then raised the bow. I was unable to continue playing, however, because everything around me was suddenly plunged into darkness. In the pitch black enveloping me I felt as though I were floating, that nothing supported me from underneath. Or that I had become disembodied.

  Then the light on the desk once again filled the cell with a subdued green glow. I turned around slowly. Everything looked exactly the same as before. I raised the bow, but it did not reach the strings this time either. A knock was heard at the door.

  “Come in,” I said.

  No one entered.

  Placing the bow under my arm, I got up, went to the door and opened it. Standing in front of me on the white floor was a large bird akin to a bright, blazing fire.

  “Hi,” I said.

  The bird fluttered up and landed on my right shoulder. I went out of the cell, turned around, closed the door after me, and then headed down the corridor.

  2. The Hospital Room

  Someone knocked on the door of my hospital room.

  I raised my eyes from the book I was reading as I lay in bed.

  “Come in!”

  The door opened a crack and the duty nurse stuck her head inside. Red locks fell from beneath her white cap. She looked at me through the thick lenses of her outsized glasses and smiled.

  “How are you?”

  I smiled in return. “Fine, thank you.”

  “Wonderful!”

  Her head slipped out and the door closed.

  I went back to my reading. I’d just become engrossed when another knock was heard.

  “Enter!” I said with a hint of irritation.

  This time the door opened wide and an unknown man appeared. He was well advanced in middle age, short, with thinning hair, wearing a brown hospital robe over his striped pajamas. In his left hand were three goose quills.

  “Excuse me,” he said hesitantly. “I know it’s late already, but perhaps you will receive me anyway. I believe you would be very interested in what I have to tell you.”

  As I vacillated, he hastened to add, “I’m from room 217 down the hall,” as though it were some kind of recommendation.

  “Come in,” I said at last. I marked the place where I’d stopped reading with a ribbon and put the book on the bedside table next to the only lighted lamp in the room. Its oval shade made a small, bright cone around the head of my bed.

  The visitor entered, closed the door behind him and stayed where he was. I indicated two armchairs to the left of the bed.

  “Please take a seat.”

  “Thank you.” When he settled in the chair he seemed to blend into the shadow of that part of the room. He placed the goose quills on the coffee table between the armchairs. “Please let me introduce myself. I am a retired circus ticket-collector.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “You might not be aware, but circus ticket-collectors are the victims of grievous prejudice. All kinds of things are said to belittle our work, in particular that it is run-of-the-mill. Supposedly anyone could do it. But I assure you that isn’t so. Can you imagine the qualities circus ticket-collectors have to have if they want to be successful?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “They must be very clever and constantly on their guard. I’m sure you have no idea what manner of tricks are used to try to see a show for free?”

  “I don’t,” I conceded.

  “A book could be written about it. The choice of tactics depends on the season. In winter they mostly use long coats so they can sneak in children underneath them. It’s truly amazing how many of them can fit into specially made inside pockets. The record is held by a tall tram driver who hid no fewer than eleven kids under his raincoat. The only thing that gave him away was when one of them sneezed after they’d passed through the gate. A real shame, one might say.”

  “A shame indeed.”

  “The preferred method in autumn is using an umbrella. If it’s kept open while entering the circus that usually means there is someone in the upper part. We’ve found not only children there but adults as well, although they weren’t very big. But a closed umbrella is suspicious too, even when it’s inside a cover. You wouldn’t think that someone could fit inside, but never underestimate the human body. We in the circus are in the best position to know everything it can do. We’ve found some of our best artists by hiring those we’ve discovered in umbrellas instead of turning them over to the police. Sometimes a cloud has a silver lining.”

  “Sometimes, yes.”

  “You might think there’s no way to enter the circus without a ticket during the summer when no one has long coats or umbrellas. That’s not so, unfortunately. For years we had an awful time every summer with an amateur magician. We did everything under the sun to outwit him, to no avail. He smuggled at least three people into every show. Once he even brought in seven. Imagine that! Just like he’d slapped us seve
n times.”

  “Quite unpleasant.”

  “But the worst thing was that we never discovered how he pulled off the trick. All he would wear was a t-shirt, shorts and clogs. He wasn’t even wearing socks. Even so, we searched him thoroughly every time. Down to his bare skin. And we never found anything. At the end of the show, however, he would inform us triumphantly of how many spectators had slipped in with him. He even introduced them to us. You can imagine how we felt.”

  “I can.”

  “Our hands were tied. We couldn’t press charges because we had no proof. There was also no basis on which to ban him from the circus. The irate owner spared no expense to beat him at his game. He put an infrared detector at the entrance, bought dogs trained to find avalanche victims, installed TV cameras everywhere, but nothing worked. The amateur magician continued to mock us with utter disdain. Finally, the owner swallowed his pride and made the same offer he had to the artists from the umbrellas: to work with us. But the offer was scornfully rejected, in spite of the quite handsome fee.”

  “Strange.”

  The ticket-collector sighed.

  “Perverse, if you ask me. In the end we had to accept our fate. We could do nothing to stop him. Our sole consolation was the fact that he only bothered us in the summer. If he’d come in the other seasons the owner would have shut down the circus. And who could blame him for that?”

  “No one.”

  “No one, of course. Compared to that, what happened to us in the spring was pure child’s play, although it too was unusual. Did you know that spring is the best time for hypnotizing?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Little is known about it. There is still no full explanation as to why this is so. According to some, it has to do with the increased amount of pollen in the air. Others consider strong geomagnetic activity the root of the cause. There are other hypotheses as well. In any event, as soon as the spring months arrived we had almost daily attempts to hypnotize the ticket-collector. You could never guess how fast it can be done.”