Impossible Stories II

by Zoran Zivkovic

  Four people came out. They headed one after the other towards the opposite side of the room. As they passed, each one gave me a silent, fleeting smile. I joined them, at the end of the line. We each took a basket from the cabinet. The young man took the peaches, the elderly lady took the apricots, the girl took the strawberries, the elderly man took the plums, and I took the apples.

  The procession then turned in the opposite direction, back towards the bathroom. Before I, as the last one, joined them, I looked briefly around the room. Nothing was left to keep me there anymore. I slowly closed the door behind me.

  4. The Elevator

  Someone knocked on the elevator door.

  “Come in,” I said, sitting at a small table covered with a brown tablecloth. The place before me was set for dinner. In the middle of the table was a slender vase resembling the neck of a giraffe, dotted with yellow and red flowers, and facing me was another chair, its back to the door.

  The elevator door opened in the middle. The two halves slid aside, revealing a liftboy holding a tray. He was a lad of rather short stature with a trim moustache, wearing a brown uniform, and a round cap on his head. The neon lighting in the elevator did not make even a dent in the darkness behind him.

  “Here is your appetizer,” said the liftboy with a bow.

  “Thank you,” I replied.

  He entered the elevator, approached me from the right side, lowered the tray and set on the table an oval plate containing slices of prosciutto and cheese with olives scattered around them. Then he took a bottle of mineral water from the tray, poured a small amount into the tall glass and took half a step back, waiting.

  I raised the glass, took a sip of the water and nodded my head. With a smile, the liftboy filled my glass, then placed the bottle on the table.

  “Enjoy your meal,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  The young man bowed again. No sooner had he left the elevator, than the two parts of the door conjoined behind him.

  I took the brown napkin from the table and tucked it into my shirt collar. First I tried the olives. They were fresh and not too salty. Then the cheese, which was spiced with herbs that brought out its flavor. Just as I was bringing a bite of prosciutto to my mouth, there was another knock on the door.

  I lowered the fork to the table and wiped my mouth with the napkin.

  “Come in,” I said.

  The two halves of the door separated and there stood a young man in a striped prison uniform carrying a bow and violin. A brightly colored bird was perched on his left shoulder.

  “Hello,” he said cordially.

  “Hello,” I replied in the same tone.

  “Please excuse me for interrupting your meal.”

  “Think nothing of it. Please come in.” I stood up and gestured with my hand to enter.

  “You are very kind. I won’t be long. Just to the first floor.”

  He stepped inside and the elevator door closed behind him.

  “Please sit down,” I said, indicating the empty chair.

  “Thank you.”

  He sat down, placed the violin in his lap, then caressed the bird. It didn’t move, as though it were stuffed. Only its eyes darted about vivaciously.

  “I would ask you to join me,” I said, “but the table, regrettably, is only set for one.”

  “Please don’t give it a second thought. Even if there were another table setting, I would have to decline your offer.” He turned his head briefly to the left. “I couldn’t eat anything of animal origin in front of her.”

  The fork with its bite of prosciutto stopped once again on its way to my mouth. This time I lowered it with a feeling of discomfort, then quickly reached for another olive.

  “Surely you’ve heard what they call the first floor?”

  I shook my head. “No, I haven’t.”

  “The killer floor.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, but I assure you the epithet is quite malicious and undeserved.”

  “Why do they call it that?”

  “Because killers live there.”

  “Oh, that’s why,” I said after a brief pause.

  “Technically, though, you can’t object to the name. Everyone on the first floor has committed at least one murder. But is that the most important trait that characterizes the wonderful people who live there?”

  “I wouldn’t know . . . ”

  “Of course it isn’t. It would be, let’s say, just like a vegetarian derisively calling someone who loves fine literature a carnivore. All right, most of them are, and thus strictly speaking they deserve the vegetarian’s scorn, but should one vice be allowed to blight the many virtues they might possess? And one of them is immediately apparent—their refinement. Have you ever run across an admirer of fine literature who wasn’t refined?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “There, you see. That’s how it is with the residents of the first floor. They are indeed killers, but that shouldn’t cast a shadow on their many good attributes. It would be quite unfair to neglect those. Don’t you think so?”

  “I do,” I said, having to agree.

  “Moreover, the crimes they committed aren’t the usual sort you find in grim chronicles, inspired by dishonorable motives or base instincts. There are many extenuating circumstances; these might not exonerate them in the strictly legal sense, but one should take a broader view. The best way to reach your own conclusions about this would be to allow me to tell you one of the stories from our floor. I hope that this won’t interfere with your meal?”

  I looked at the full oval plate in front of me, then removed the napkin from my collar and placed it on the table.

  “Not in the least.”

  “Let’s take, for example, the case of the man from apartment number one. He’s an extremely polished gentleman with exemplary manners, always well-dressed as befits the former literature professor that he is. In addition, he’s slight of build and already well along in years, giving the impression that he couldn’t harm a fly even if he wanted to. But looks can deceive. That man has no fewer than forty-four murders on his conscience.”

  “Forty-four?”

  “Yes. And committed in only eleven days. Based on these two facts alone, wouldn’t it be said that he must be a monstrous serial killer?”

  I hesitated briefly. “Yes, it would.”

  “But that’s not at all the case. Wait until you hear the whole story, then I’m sure you’ll change your mind. First of all, the killer’s gentle nature is best shown by the way he took his victims’ lives. There wasn’t a hint of the sadistic pleasure so characteristic of serial killers. Not a single drop of blood was spilled. Instead of cold steel or firearms, he used a poison whose effects were undetectable. The victims didn’t feel the slightest pain or malaise. They just became drowsy and fell asleep. Unfortunately, they didn’t wake up, but even so they should be envied. When you think of all the horrible ways there are to die, ending your life like that seems the best way to go, don’t you agree?”

  “I suppose so. But why did he kill them, anyway, and why so many?”

  “Ah, yes, the motive. That’s what redeems him most of all, if you look at things with an unbiased eye. By killing so many people he was actually punishing a terrible vice that has taken more and more of us in its grip in modern times. You certainly are aware of what it is.”

  I thought for a moment. “I’m afraid not.”

  The look he gave me was a mixture of reproof and disappointment. “The vice of not reading, of course.”

  “Of course,” I agreed, this time without hesitation.

  “While the gentleman from apartment number one was still teaching literature, he was confronted by the increasingly dramatic and lamentable fact that people were reading appallingly little. He did his level best to convince his students, if no one else, that if they didn’t read enough they’d be left without the admirable qualities that fine literature instills in us—charity, magnanimity, compassion, kin
dness. Nothing, however, did any good. No one heeded his warning, not even those majoring in literature, who were supposedly making it their profession. Terrible, isn’t it?”

  “Terrible.”

  “He hoped that retirement would bring some relief, but this wasn’t to be. He was in the grip of obsession, haunted by the feeling that his whole life’s work had been in vain and that the world was plummeting madly to its ruin. His conscience wouldn’t let him sit there twiddling his thumbs as he watched this freefall. He had to do something. He studied the state of affairs very carefully and concluded that only drastic measures would have any result. And so he devised a test.”

  “A test?”

  “Yes. A very simple test. He made a list of forty-four great works of world literature. He felt that anyone who cared the least about himself had to have read at least these capital works, if nothing else. Those who hadn’t read them didn’t deserve to live. No harm would be done by removing such people. They would even serve some purpose. They’d be a warning to others about what awaited them if they didn’t come to their senses and start reading.”

  “But that’s being too strict. I mean, what about those who hadn’t read just a few of the forty-four works, or maybe just one of them? Should they be punished too? For that matter, the professor’s choice of books might be challenged. Someone else might have compiled a somewhat different list.”

  “You’re right. The professor also realized that the criteria he’d set were too stringent. As an honorable man he abhorred the thought of wronging an innocent person. So he decided to lower the criteria. First he halved the number of works that had to be read to stay alive, but then he felt that this was still too much, and so he continued to reduce the number until in the end the only criterion was to have read one single work! Now, you tell me—was that asking too much?”

  I shook my head. “No, it wasn’t.”

  “Of course it wasn’t. And to make matters easier for those who took the test, no proof was required that they’d actually read that one work from the list of forty-four. It was enough to say that they’d read it. The professor made no attempt to verify their claims. As an honorable man he took people at their word. Isn’t that admirable?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Unfortunately, although he’d been very accommodating, a great disappointment lay in store for him. Indeed, he’d expected there to be people among those he tested who hadn’t read a single work on the list, but for them all to be like that went beyond his darkest fears. And that is exactly what happened. All the people he encountered were total literary ignoramuses. Can you believe that?”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “This was not what upset him the most, however. In spite of everything, he might have spared the lives of these lost souls out of compassion, but they had one trait in common that finally turned him into a cold-blooded serial killer: they didn’t feel the slightest remorse for not reading, and all of them without exception were proud of it, as though it were a virtue. Just imagine!”

  “Horrible.”

  “You said it. Blinded by this horror, he started killing those he’d tested, one after the other. Four a day. Luckily, he kept his wits about him enough to do it painlessly, almost like euthanasia, although at times he was tempted to get rough. Some of the particularly arrogant nonreaders practically begged to be removed in the nastiest way possible. But if he’d succumbed to this temptation, he would have been no different from his victims and that, you will agree, would have served no purpose whatsoever.”

  I nodded my head in agreement.

  “It is quite likely that his crimes would never have been discovered if he hadn’t turned himself in.”

  “He turned himself in?”

  “Yes. When the number of victims was the same as the number of books on his list, something snapped inside the professor. Perhaps he realized that he’d set out to do a job that had no end. Perhaps he came to doubt his intention to save the world. And perhaps the weight on his conscience became too heavy, because after all he was not a born killer. It’s hard to say. He is reluctant to talk about it. In any case, after the forty-fourth murder he went straight to the police.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. What happened was inevitable. It didn’t bother him that justice was deaf and blind to the noble reasons behind what he’d done. He became reconciled to the fact that there was no place for him in this hopelessly rotten human society. He did not appeal the sentence. All that was left was to atone for his sins somehow, to make amends so he could look himself in the eye. When he came here to the first floor, he finally got the chance. I don’t suppose you’d ever guess what he chose for his penitence.”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “Cutting out letters.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He’s cutting out the letters of the forty-four books on his list.”

  “All the letters?”

  “All of them—from the first to the last. He bought two copies of each work for this purpose.”

  “Why, that’s an enormous job.”

  “Yes, it is. And very tricky. Have you ever cut letters out of a book?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “I don’t suggest you try it unless there’s an urgent need. A great deal of patience is required. The letters are very tiny so you have to take extreme care to cut them right along the edge. And it destroys your eyesight in no time at all. The professor had proudly reached retirement without wearing glasses and now he has very thick lenses.”

  “It will take him a very long time to cut out all the letters.”

  “It will. But what kind of penitence would it be if it were of short duration? There’s plenty of time here, so he will eventually finish the job.”

  “And then what? What will he do with all those letters?”

  “No one knows. He bought forty-four large jars, stuck labels on them with the titles of the books, and the cut out letters go inside. Each work has its own jar.”

  “Literature like winter preserves.”

  “Yes, figuratively speaking. Since the professor refuses to tell us, various rumors are circulating about what will happen when he finally fills all the jars. Some feel that nothing will happen. His penitence will be over and his conscience will be clear again. Others, however, think things aren’t that simple. Perhaps cutting out the letters is only preparation.”

  “For what?”

  “He might, for example, take the letters out of a jar and try to put back together the work that he’d previously cut into its smallest component parts.”

  “But why would he do that?”

  “Because he thinks that cutting alone is not enough. Don’t forget he’s a serial killer, not an ordinary killer, regardless of how justified he was. If you were in his shoes, would you be satisfied with a halfway penitence?”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “Other possibilities are also mentioned. One of them is that he wants to use the letters from one great work of world literature to put together another great work.”

  “But that’s impossible.”

  “It might be, but then again it might not. You can’t tell in advance. As far as I know, no one’s tried it yet. Have you heard of any attempt?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Then the best thing is to wait and see what the professor achieves, if that’s what he really intends to do. But maybe it’s not. Some claim the whole thing was inspired by alchemy.”

  “What did alchemy inspire?”

  “Apparently he’s going to add various chemicals and other magic ingredients to the jars with the letters.”

  “And what will he get?”

  “Most likely not the usual things that alchemists seek. There’s not much use here for gold obtained by transforming other metals, or for the philosopher’s stone.”

  “So what would it be?”

  “Maybe a universal literary solvent. Or a novelistic truth serum. Or maybe poison letter gas. If you
ask me, though, I think that’s all a lot of claptrap to make fun of the professor, although he certainly doesn’t deserve it. You might find it a bit unseemly, but there are a lot of jokers among killers. Sometimes they go a bit too far.”

  “Well, I never.”

  “It’s nothing unusual, if you think about it. If it weren’t for a bit of humor here and there, who could make it through the long sojourn on the first floor? If you were to pay us a visit, you’d see for yourself how important it is. But I’m afraid that won’t be possible unless you’re a killer too. Anyone else is forbidden inside. Did you kill anyone by any chance?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Not a single person? It’s not at all necessary to have killed a lot of people. One murder is enough.” I shook my head. “Even involuntary manslaughter.”

  I shook my head again.

  “Too bad. I’m sure you’d like it where we are.”

  The door to the elevator opened unexpectedly onto an impenetrable darkness.

  “Ah, we have arrived,” said the visitor. He took the violin and bow from his lap and stood up. “Unfortunately I didn’t have a chance to tell you some of the other stories from our floor, but such is life. Once again, please excuse me for disturbing your meal.”

  “You didn’t in the slightest,” I replied, glancing at the oval plate that was missing just one piece of cheese and two olives. I stood up and held out my hand. We shook hands firmly, smiling. As soon as he left the elevator, the door started to close. Just before the two halves joined, the bird on the man’s shoulder turned my way. For a moment it seemed that her beak twisted a little, as though she too were smiling.

  I sat down on my chair, picked up the napkin and tucked it into my collar once again. The forkful of prosciutto, however, was not destined to end up in my mouth. It was already very close, but another knock prevented me from finishing the movement. I put it on the plate for a third time with a sigh.

  “Come in!”

  This time the liftboy was carrying a large porcelain tureen with handles that looked like ears. It had an oval lid that was not quite airtight because of the ladle sticking out of the tureen. Steam from whatever was inside seeped out of a thin opening along the edge of the lid.