ready. At your service, sir. At your service.”
The foreigner abruptly turned on his heel, missing the watchmaker’s
humble bow. The sound of the cloak’s stiff fabric merged with the ringing
of the bells and the closing of the door. The tall shadow passed quickly in front
of the store window and disappeared down the street.
The old man slowly sat down on the chair next to his workbench and put
the pocket watch upon the rubber surface. He gazed at it for a few moments,
turning it over curiously, and then reached to open the lid.
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But he did not complete the movement, for he suddenly realized that in the
excitement of the moment before, he had forgotten something: he had not
given the customer a receipt for the watch. Inexcusable, he thought. That had
never happened to him before. All right, he had been disoriented by the
visitor’s unusual appearance, by that strange story, but even so! An
unpardonable oversight for a watchmaker who cares about his reputation.
What would the foreigner think of him?
He grabbed the receipt book and a pen from the counter and rushed toward
the door with stiff movements. Suddenly disturbed, the bells above the door
protested sharply. Outside it was cool and windy, a November evening at the
foot of a mountain which already carried a great cap of snow. Shivering for a
moment, the watchmaker looked for the visitor down the row of streetlights.
But no one was there. Perplexed, he turned and looked in the other direction.
Just as empty.
He stayed in front of the shop a little longer, turning back and forth in
disbelief, and then returned inside. Where had he gone? Had a carriage been
waiting for him nearby? But no, he hadn’t heard anything. Standing at the
door a moment, the old man finally shrugged his shoulders. He would
apologize to the foreigner for this oversight when he came in the morning.
In any case, it would make no difference then. The most important thing was
for him to take care of the watch.
He returned to his workbench, interlaced his fingers and cracked his
knuckles like a pianist before a performance, and then drew up the squeaky
stool. Before he pressed the clasp to open the lid, he briefly rubbed his
fingertips with his thumbs.
His eyes first went to the inner side of the lid. It was an inadvertent, almost
automatic act: that was what he always did with the other pocket watch that he
kept with him always. There was an engraved inscription there as well that for
some reason seemed familiar to him. TO J. FROM Z. was on the gold-plated
concave circle, and several long moments had to pass before the old man
realized what it was. The shape of the letters, of course! The same large, ornate
letters as... But how was it possible?
And then there was no more time for ordinary amazement; on top of the
wreath woven of twelve elongated Roman numerals the two black hands had
started their crazy dance.
II
They seemed to have a will of their own, moving by themselves—but in the
wrong direction. They started to turn backward, as though measuring the past,
first slowly, so he could follow them, then faster and faster. The watchmaker
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instinctively withdrew his hands from the activated watch, but his eyes stayed
riveted to its face.
He stared at the big hand as it accelerated and then finally disappeared,
transforming into an excited circle; it looked like some sort of film had been
placed over the face. The spinning of the small hand was perceptible somewhat
longer, and then it, too, melted into an indistinct veil.
This tremendous spinning made the watch tremble on the rubber surface. It
suddenly occurred to the old man that he could stop the magic if he closed the
cover, but he did not have the courage to touch it. Holding tightly to the edge
of the workbench, he felt that the accelerating vibrations of the watch were
being transferred to his body: he, too, was shaking as though he had a fever.
And then the trembling stopped, for the watch had detached from the
tabletop and started to float slightly above it. Although it was illuminated by
the strong lamplight, no shadow lay beneath it, just as though it were
transparent. A high, shrill whistle started to sound, almost at the upper
threshold of audibility; there was something unsettling in that sound, and
the old man wanted to put his hands over his ears but was unable to do so.
As though bewitched, he simply stared at the floating object before him that
continued to rise slowly until it reached the height of the old man’s eyes. It
rested there a few moments, hesitating as though thinking what to do, and
then started to spin around its vertical axis. Just as with the hands on the face,
the spinning became faster and faster until there soon formed the illusion of a
small ball before the watchmaker’s bewildered, slack-jawed face.
As though cut with countless facets, the ball first brightly reflected the light
from the lamp on the workbench and then began to radiate its own light as the
shrill noise became louder and louder. To the old man’s relief, the unbearable
sound soon rose above the frequency audible to human ears, leaving behind a
muffled, almost palpable silence.
In just a few moments, the dull grayness turned into a reddish glow, then
into yellow heat, and finally there was a rapid sequence of shades of white,
rushing to the inevitable climax, the act of release. The old man greeted this
orgasm of light with wide open eyes, unable to lower his eyelids; in any case,
what could thin, wrinkled skin do against the uncontained fierceness of a
summer sun less than a foot from his head?
Although he was completely blinded by the explosive flash, he did not feel
any pain or even discomfort. The only thing he felt was the strange sensation of
being in the middle of an endless emptiness, impenetrable and silent; he made
his way through it effortlessly since there was no base or support to hold him
back. His body seemed to have lost all weight and along with it all sense of
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direction: up might be down, or somewhere to the side—he was not able to
distinguish anything.
Is this death? he wondered. If it is, then it is very mild, even pleasant. Like a
dream. This was not how he had imagined it. Actually, he had not imagined it
at all. Who imagines what death looks like, anyway? He had the vague feeling
that he should be afraid for some reason, but instead of fear or at least
discomfiture, he was filled with childish curiosity. Where was he? Would he
remain incorporeal like this forever? Did time exist here? Why couldn’t he see
or hear anything?
As if in answer to this last question, sounds started to come from a great
distance. He did not recognize them at first; they were too muffled. At first
they resembled the scraping sound of gravel being rolled by waves on the shore
and then the drumming of rain on the leaves in a forest on a wet spring
evening. Then something in their rhythm seemed not only recognizable but
ductory chord and then completely dissonant...
There were seven strokes from the moment he started instinctively to count
the hour sounding in four disparate registers. How many had he missed until
he understood what it was? Three—or maybe more? There was only one way
to find out, although he did not understand why it was important to ascertain
this fact. He reached for his vest pocket, forgetting completely that he had
become incorporeal. But the pocket was there, real and tangible, as were his
vest and hand—everything was there except the watch that Mary had given
him, that day... The watch had gone!
How was that possible? Why, a little while ago... He looked at his vest in
panic, only realizing when he saw it that his sight had returned. He was no
longer blinded or surrounded by impenetrable emptiness. He stared at his
body for a few moments, filled with disbelief, and then slowly raised his eyes
and looked around himself.
He did not notice what was wrong right away. Everything seemed to be
normal: things were in their proper places—the workbench which he was still
grasping convulsively with one hand, the counter covered with green felt, the
old-fashioned clothes tree in the corner with his winter coat hanging from it,
two armchairs with reddish upholstery and the round coffee table between
them with its thin, curved legs, the large grandfather clock with its pendulum,
the mirror on the opposite wall with the black wrought iron frame...
Only after he had taken all of it in did he realize where the problem lay: he
should not be able to see it all. The only light in the shop was from the small
lamp with the green shade in front of him, and the lamplight barely reached
the counter. Now, however, he could see everything as clear as daylight...
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Day!
Daylight flooded through the large shop window with WATCHMAKER
written in an arch of dark-blue letters. It was bright and clear, light that in this region was seen only in late spring and during the short summer, certainly not
in mid-November. But it was not early winter outside; when a little girl
skipped past the shop soon afterward, the watchmaker was perplexed to see
that she was wearing a checkered dress with short, ruffled sleeves.
He got up from his workbench, finally lifting his numb hand from its edge,
and took slow, hesitating steps from the counter toward the entrance. When
he was in the middle of the shop, out of the corner of his eye he noticed
something moving to his right and turned slowly in that direction, encoun-
tering his own reflection in the long mirror.
He squinted and stared at his image, refusing to believe what he saw. It was
he, without a doubt, but different, changed—rejuvenated. The person
returning his look from the glass was not an old man, stooped, his forehead
full of wrinkles, gray-haired and balding. He was a young man, barely thirty,
standing straight, with smooth skin and thick, dark hair.
He started to touch his face gingerly, afraid that even the lightest pressure
might deform it into its former deteriorated grimace like a wax mask. His
fingers slid over his mouth, chin, cheeks, striving to feel the trickery, but there
was no deception: his youthfulness was real—as real as everything else around
him seemed to be.
He continued to look at the long-forgotten person in the mirror, while the
confusion in him slowly withdrew before the mounting excitement, when
suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, he had a sensation that he had experienced
only a few times before, but never as strongly. The feeling of déjà vu was
all-encompassing, overwhelming: he had stood on this same spot before,
looking at himself in the mirror, and the bright summer day had been exactly
the same.
Something caught in his throat when he realized what had to happen next.
He had no doubt that it would actually happen as he quickly turned around to
face the entrance. The bells above it started to fly loudly in all directions that
same instant. Only she entered like that: like a whirlwind of blond curls, with
her long, rustling dress, her smile so enchanting in its radiant cheerfulness...
Mary!
He knew that she would not turn to look at his wide open eyes, would not
notice the paralysis that had come over him, that she would not hear the
thunderous drumming of his heart that so filled his ears he felt as though
the whole shop were echoing. He knew that she would rush to one of the
armchairs and unload the armful of colorful boxes she was carrying.
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Z. Živkovic
Her words reverberated in his head a moment before she uttered them, like
a reversed echo that precedes the original sound.
“It’s so terribly hot. It’s even worse downtown. And crowded. You have no
idea. It’s as if the whole town were outdoors. You should have come with
me. You sit inside too much. It’s not good for you. You could have closed the
shop today. There are a lot of people here, too. You should see how many
carriages there are in the square. Goodness, I’m all sweaty. And I’m terribly
thirsty.”
She started to rummage impatiently through her rather large handbag made
of flowery waterproof fabric; it was always full and now seemed truly inflated.
A full minute went by before she finally found what she was looking for. The
small box was wrapped in shiny green paper, and the turquoise ribbon had
curled ends.
He did not have to open it to find out what was inside. Nevertheless, he did
it as inquisitively as he had earlier because he was impelled by the inexorable
pressure of déjà vu. Once he had lifted the cover of the pocket watch and
looked at the engraved inscription, he smiled broadly and said the sentence he
knew went at that place.
“It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
He did not have the courage to be more eloquent in his thanks this time,
even though he wanted to with all his heart. The object he held in his hand
meant more to him than a present from his fiancée: it was an infinitely precious
keepsake from which he had never parted in the many years which followed.
Even so, the fear prevailed that if he used any other words he would cause an
irreparable disturbance and would lose this feeling of déjà vu that was
guiding him.
Mary returned his smile and then went up to him, raised herself on tiptoes,
and kissed him. It was a light, brief touch of the lips, on the very edge of
decorum, considering the time and place, but it made him tremble nonethe-
less. She suddenly turned toward the door, feeling awkward, to see if anyone
was about to enter, and then began to pick up the boxes from the armchair.
They were full of the beautiful things she had chosen to look stunning at the
upcoming ceremony.
“I’m going to take all of this and get changed. I’m all sweaty and sticky. It’s
so hot. You should put on something lighter, too. You’ll boil. Let’s go have
lunch at the Golden Jug. What do you say? It’s the coolest there right now, in
the garden under the linden trees. All this shopping has made me hungry.”
She smiled at him again, a special mixture of affection and apology, and
then rustled in her whirlwind manner toward the door—to meet the inevita-
ble. The sequence of events stood before him, completely clear, illuminated by
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the powerful beacon of déjà vu: the wild music of the horse bells briefly
muffling the thudding that was rapidly approaching; her hurried departure
onto the pavement in front of the shop as the empty carriage jumped wildly on
the cobblestones; incautiously crossing the street at the very moment the
confused horses without a driver, left too long in the sun and frightened by
who knew what, could no longer be stopped; the horrible shock at realizing
that there was no way of escape; someone’s scream from the other side of the
street that seemed to last an eternity; and then the multicolored boxes flying in
all directions, opening up and spilling their insides: an elegant lemon-colored
dress with an abundance of lace, a yellow hat with a large brim and a wide
ribbon tied in a bow, shoes with large, shiny buckles, a pile of silk undergar-
ments that certainly should not have been displayed like this—the senseless
nakedness of death.
“Mary!”
He had to overcome the violent river to utter this word, to scrape off the
previous deposit on the palimpsest with his nails, to seize hammer and chisel to
write a new inscription on the virgin surface of the granite. The magic of déjà
vu shattered at that moment—there was no room for this call; his role had
been to remain silent, to follow her out merely with his eyes. Stepping out of
the play in which he was unwillingly acting, he was suddenly alone, exposed to
the winds of time without a guide to light his way, but also without the
ominous inexorability of the predetermined.
She stopped at the door and turned. “Yes, Joseph?”
He didn’t know what to say. He certainly could not start explaining,
particularly since he himself barely understood. So he simply went up to her
and hugged her, together with her armful of boxes. It was a hard, awkward
squeeze, calculated above all to keep her there, not to let her leave. He knew
that this could arouse her suspicions, since such public displays of intimacy
were not at all characteristic of him, but he chose the lesser of the two
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