Zoran Zivkovic - First Contact and Time Travel
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redemption had to be ultimately so painful. As she was painting, she herself
had felt the torment of the rusty nails piercing the tender tissue of her hands
and feet. She had somehow managed to endure the nailing while it was
impersonal. Now, however, the crucified person had finally to receive a face.
When she started to make short, rapid strokes on the only unpainted part of
the canvas, her eyes glazed over and her lips drew together with a slight
tremble. But her hand was sure. From the seemingly unconnected lines, the
oval emptiness started to take the shape of the writer’s face, distorted by the
primordial sin of his art.
And at that moment she understood why the pain was necessary. Without
it, he would only be an indifferent god who justified the harm he did with
good intentions. If he justified it at all. The suffering he chose brought him
redemption by making him identical to those he had transgressed against.
Without this sacrifice it would not be possible to accept the final responsibility
that goes with writing.
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When she had painted the last stroke, she slowly leaned her head backward,
and her long, auburn hair spilled down her back. As before, it was a movement
of ultimate intimacy, of surrender. She closed her eyes in anticipation. Some-
where outside echoed a protracted, joyous chirp, and the paleness of dawn was
edged in pink.
The brush sank into the hair on the crown of her head. The curly locks were
too tangled, so the combing out inflicted pain at first, although her radiance
disavowed it. The walnut-handled brush made its way slowly, with short
strokes, going back a bit whenever the tangle of wild waves offered greater
resistance. The lower it got through the agitated sea, the harder and slower was
the progress, and at the very bottom the curls were almost matted.
When her hair was finally untangled, the arc of the sun had already pierced
the porous green of the treetops. The brush was raised again and this time sank
smoothly into luxuriant waves. It made its way easily, straightening out the last
rough spots, taming the most obstinate curls. Even though the ends were no
longer matted, it stopped there a moment, unwilling to leave the locks that
now seemed to have absorbed it. But this moment of hesitation quickly passed.
When it slipped out, the curled ends rebounded as though on hidden springs.
She remained immobile, her head thrown back. The slanted morning rays
pierced her closed eyelids. The shadow of the bars on the window threw a
network over the yellow bathrobe. Many twinklings of eternity went by before
she finally spoke. And even then the words were almost inaudible, more a
movement of the lips than an utterance.
“Good-bye, Z.”
9
The Cone
I didn’t come out of the clouds until I was almost at the top of the Cone.
Although it was the middle of summer, Dark Mountain seemed buried in
autumn. Down in the valley this was just an ordinary overcast day, probably
muggy and humid, but here at an elevation of almost two thousand meters
everything was clothed in a grayness that was less transparent than mist and
somehow denser and more palpable. The sky literally touched the ground right
here. The clouds were filled with minute drops, embryos of rain, that seemed
to be moving in all directions, not just downward. If the temperature were to
drop by just a few degrees, they would turn into crystals of snow. This actually
happened now and then, though they always quickly reverted. During the
summer on Dark Mountain you could go through all four seasons in one day.
In such weather it was not advisable to take long walks since you could easily
lose your way. If they went out at all, people stayed close to the hotel, keeping
to the asphalt paths where the lighting was on, even though it was just past
noon. But I was not afraid of getting lost. I’d been coming to Dark Mountain
for years, both summer and winter, and not a day would go by without a visit
to the Cone. I was certain that I could find my way there even on a moonless
night, though I’d never tried.
The Cone was a projection on the western slope, about two and a half
kilometers from the hotel. The view from its peak was almost as fascinating as
the one from the topmost craggy crest of Dark Mountain, accessible only to
fully equipped mountain climbers. Owing to the Cone’s almost perfect shape,
“The Cone.” Written in 2000. Originally published in Serbian in 2000 as “Kupa” in Nemoguci susreti/Impossible Encounters, Polaris, Belgrade, Serbia.
© Springer International Publishing AG, part of Springer Nature 2018
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Z. Živković, First Contact and Time Travel, Science and Fiction,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-90551-8_9
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Z. Živkovic
from which it derived its name, it seemed to be artificially planted there. As
you approached, it didn’t give the impression of being steep, but it was. The
climb to the top thus required not only agility but considerable effort as well,
even though the distance to be covered was less than one hundred and fifty
meters.
These difficulties discouraged most of the hotel guests from visiting the
Cone. On fine days they would walk to its foot, but only a rare few would
decide to undertake the climb. In any case, the small, windy plateau at the top
only had room for three or four people at most. When the weather was bad,
like today’s, I could count on having the Cone all to myself.
I came out of the cloud all of a sudden. I wasn’t far from the top when it
started to lighten. The grayness around me didn’t thin or become more
transparent, it just changed shade, turning a bright white. And then I suddenly
rose above the foggy mass, squinting at the blinding radiance of the sun.
I stopped, still in cloud from the waist down, and waited for my eyes to
adjust. Above me stretched the immeasurable, bright blue firmament, and as
far as I could see below me was a motionless sea, its uniformity disturbed here
and there by the islands of mountain peaks similar to the one I had just
reached, forming a scattered archipelago in the sky. This panorama was worth
all the trouble of the climb.
“Strange to find yourself above the clouds, isn’t it?”
I started at the unexpected voice. I’d been so certain that I would be the only
one at the top of the Cone that I hadn’t even turned to look around, fixing my
eyes on the horizon instead. The man was sitting on a rocky outcrop, his back
turned to where I stood. It must have been the sound of my steps that told him
I had joined him on the plateau. He was wearing a dark green jacket that
blended in with the color of the surrounding grass and low bushes. His hair
was gray and longish, partially covering his ears.
“It isn’t usually crowded above the clouds,” I replied, making little effort to
hide my displeasure. I wasn’t pleased at having to share the Cone with
someone just then. I sat down on a patch of grass behind the stranger, feeling
beforehand to see if it was wet. Among the thick tangle I found an empty c
an
of soda pop carelessly left there. I picked it up and threw it into the depths
below. I was aware that this was just as careless, but it seemed somehow more
fitting for garbage to be found anywhere but here.
“No, it isn’t. I liked it best when I could be alone here, too.” He said this
without any reproach in his voice, which made me feel awkward. In fact, he
could consider me the intruder since he had reached the top of the Cone first.
“But I won’t bother you for long. I’ll be leaving soon.”
“You don’t have to go because of me,” I said obligingly. “There’s room for
both of us.”
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The man did not reply, so we fell silent, gazing into the distance. The
warmth I started to feel wasn’t just from the strenuous climb. It was consid-
erably warmer here in the sun than down in the clouds. I did not unbutton my
jacket, however, even though I could feel the sweat breaking out; the wind that
never seemed to die down here at the top might blow through me.
“I haven’t been on the Cone for a long time,” said the man pensively, as
though addressing someone invisible in front of him, rather than myself. “The
last time I climbed up here I was your age.”
I stared at his back in amazement. How could he know my age when he
hadn’t turned around to look at me? Probably by my voice. I hadn’t seen his
face, either, but even without the gray hair I could easily tell by his hoarse,
wheezing voice that he was well into his sixties.
“You’ve missed quite a bit,” I said with a smile.
“I know. I’m trying to make up for it now. I’m visiting places that meant
something to me in the past.”
“Did you stay at Dark Mountain very often?”
“Yes, at least twice a year. I never did learn to ski, although I loved to take
long walks.”
“Me, too. I’m not the least bit bothered by not being able to ski. Walking is
just as pleasant, and you need a lot less equipment.”
The gray head nodded in front of me. “At first I went for walks in different
directions. But after I discovered the Cone, I gave up all the other places. I
started coming here every day, almost like a ritual. Over time it became a real
obsession. The only thing that could stop me was a snowstorm.”
Strange, I thought. It’s as if the old man was describing my own experience.
I never imagined I’d ever find such a kindred spirit. Most people think I’m an
oddball because of my pilgrimages to the Cone. There was, however, one
important difference.
“But it seems you got over your obsession. If I understood correctly, you
stopped visiting the Cone. What prevented you from coming?”
The man did not reply at once. When he finally spoke again, his voice
became softer, so that I had trouble making it out against the howling of
the wind.
“I experienced something unusual here. Afterwards there was no sense in
coming here any more.”
I expected him to continue, but as the old man didn’t elaborate, I had to
curb my curiosity. For some reason he clearly did not want to talk about it, and
good manners would not let me probe. We passed another few minutes in
silence. I could feel the skin on my face start to prickle under the strong
mountain sun. I should have brought some sun screen, although I hadn’t
actually expected the top of the Cone to be above the clouds.
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“I like to return to places that mean something to me, too,” I said at length,
just to keep the conversation going. Although he had said he would be leaving
soon, the old man continued to sit there, and it seemed silly not to talk while
we shared this cramped space. “But it’s never like it was the first time. The
place might be the same, but the time is always different. That can’t be helped,
I’m afraid.”
“Except if you return to some place at the original time,” he said, his voice
still low.
“In the past?” I asked with an inadvertent cry of disbelief.
The old man raised the collar of his jacket a little to protect himself from the
strong wind that had just come up. Although quite blistering, the sun was
deceptive. It would be easy to catch cold.
“Yes, in the past.”
“Then it really would be just like the first time. Except it isn’t possible. You
can’t go back into the past.”
“Even so, if you were offered the chance to go back, which time in your life
would you choose?”
My eyes began to skim over the endless landscape that surrounded me. Far
to the east the sun had finally triumphed over the clouds and now wooded hills
could be seen though the mist. By late afternoon it would clear up here, too,
and Dark Mountain would return to summertime.
“I’ve never thought about that,” I said. “I don’t know, maybe some point in
my childhood. I would probably like to see myself as a boy.” I stopped for a
moment, staring blankly at the gray shroud beneath me. “That would certainly
be strange—to meet your own self.”
The old man turned his head a bit towards me, enough so that I could see
his thick gray beard and sunglasses, but then he faced forward again.
“Why your childhood? Do you feel you were happier then than later in life?”
“It’s hard to say,” I replied after a brief hesitation. “Perhaps more innocent.
There were happy moments later on, of course, but they lacked that early
innocence. It seems to be more and more precious as time goes by. But what
about you? Which time in your life would you go back to?”
The man shrugged his shoulders. “At my age childhood is already far away
and faded. I think I would choose something closer, something I remember
better. I was very happy when I came here to the Cone. Perhaps even innocent,
in the sense in which you talk about your childhood, although it didn’t seem
like that at the time. In any case, I left innocence behind me forever on the
Cone. I would be happy to meet myself again from that time.”
I wiped the sweat off my brow with the back of my hand. “I bet the other
one would be just as happy. Maybe even more so. It would be a very useful
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encounter for him. You could tell him first hand what awaits him in the future,
what he should stay away from, what he should avoid.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” replied the man quickly, raising his voice a little. “I
wouldn’t tell him that at all.”
“You wouldn’t tell your own self what the future holds in store?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I would ruin my own life if I did. The encounter itself would be
extremely risky. It would be best if he didn’t realize who he’d met.”
“I don’t understand.”
“If I told him what the future holds, I would be depriving him of the
foundations that make life possible. Everything would become preordained for
him, inevitable. He would lose not only hope but fear. And how can you live
without hope or fear?”
“But what if, for example, there was some great misfortune or s
uffering
awaiting him, that could easily be avoided if he was forewarned? Would you
allow that to happen?”
“Of course.”
“Wouldn’t that be cruelty towards your own self?”
“Perhaps. But there is actually no choice. You cannot prevent what has
already happened, can you?”
I didn’t know what to reply. I had the vague feeling that there was some sort
of paradox involved, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. No doubt it all hung
from the unfeasibility of the initial assumption about returning to the past.
The old man stood up and so did I. He was approximately my height,
perhaps a bit stooped owing to the weight of his years. He picked up
something he had been sitting on, and as he brushed off the bits of grass I
realized it was a book. Before he put it in his pocket, I managed to read the
large title—Impossible Encounters—but not the name of the writer.
He stayed a few moments more, staring at the sea of clouds that had now
gently started to stir and thin out. Then he turned towards me and we were
face to face for the first time.
I couldn’t really see much of his face. It was hidden by his beard and the
large sunglasses. Only his forehead was uncovered—it was even higher than
mine because the gray strands had receded quite a bit towards the crown of
his head.
“It’s time to leave,” he said. It might have been my imagination, but his
voice seemed to tremble slightly, just like mine on the rare occasions when I
am excited. He extended his hand and I took it in mine—a slim, bony hand,
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just like mine will probably be when I reach his age. “The Cone is all yours.
Enjoy it while you can. One never knows what the future will bring.”
“I’m glad we met,” I said, more softly than I intended.
“I’m glad, too. Very glad.”
He let go of my hand with some hesitation, almost unwillingly. Then he
turned and headed down the steep slope, without looking back. He walked
slowly, carefully. Like an old man. When he disappeared into the cloud, I felt a
sudden lump in my throat.
I stayed on the Cone for a long time that day. Almost until dusk. By the
middle of the afternoon everything below me had cleared up. I slowly absorbed