I took them both. The pages of the notebook were purple, too, and the pen appeared heavy.
“My autograph?”
“Yes,” said the old man, as though this explained everything.
“Why on earth do you want my autograph? I’m not any kind of celebrity.”
“Not yet. But if you were to become one then your autograph, dating from the time before you became famous, would be quite valuable.”
I had thought I was more resistant to flattery. as I wrote my name expansively, however, my conscience wasn’t pricked the least bit. I gave the notebook and pen back to the old man.
“I just don’t see what could make me famous,” I said diffidently, wanting to make amends for my lack of modesty. “I’m quite an ordinary man, I don’t stand out in any way.”
“Don’t be like that. even ordinary men can become famous. Here, take for example the retired piano tuner, the barber and the fireman I just mentioned. They received an unbelievable amount of publicity. They became authentic celebrities.”
I looked at him warily. “I wouldn’t exactly enjoy becoming famous for having a piano, an elephant or a failed suicide land on my head.”
“Naturally, but we are not in a position to choose. These things happen against our will.”
“I hope nothing like that happens to me.” I smiled. “You won’t get much use out of my autograph.”
“That’s what the others said. But they were wrong.”
“What others?”
“The piano tuner, the barber, the fireman and many others. Just see how many autographs I have.”
He took the notebook and thumbed through the pages. Dozens of signatures flashed by.
“Whose autographs are those?” I asked in a soft voice.
“People who died when something fell on them. I collected their very last signatures. My collection includes many more fine stories, some even more unusual than these three.” He looked at his watch. “Unfortunately, I won’t be able to tell you any of them because your time has run out. You have about forty-five seconds.”
“Before what?” My voice had gone down almost to a whisper.
The old man stood up and put on his hat. He pointed upwards.
“Something is going to fall on you from up there.”
“What?”
“Well, I can’t tell you that. all I can say is that you will become very well known. The media will talk for days about the unbelievable accident that befell you. Your signature will be a real jewel in my collection. and now I hope you will forgive me. I must withdraw as soon as possible. It’s not advisable to stay in your vicinity. Goodbye.”
I looked at him for a moment as he hurried away and then I raised my eyes toward the heavens. The sky was filled with the blueness of a sparkling clear day, without even the trail of a passing airplane. as the seconds dragged slowly by, the impulse flashed through me to rush somewhere out of the way of the unidentified danger. I didn’t, though, because it would have been in vain. I’d given my autograph, so there was no avoiding the fame that awaited me.
4. PHOTOGRAPHS
MR. PALIVEC COLLECTED PHOTOGRAPHS OF HIMSELF. He’d been doing it since he was thirty-three. That’s when he’d bought himself a camera as a birthday present. It was one of the less pretentious cameras in a fancy photography shop, but even so he’d had to save up for it a long time. For this reason, he’d given himself very modest gifts for his previous two birthdays. When he turned thirty-one he’d had to be satisfied with a second-hand book, which he read with pleasure all the same, and one year later he’d given himself a framed watercolor which, after a bit of fixing-up, gave no indication that he’d picked it up at a sale. He spent a full three and a half months studying the camera’s instructions. He’d never been very good with mechanical things, so a great amount of effort was needed. But his innate persistence and diligence helped him master the art of photography. at least in theory. When he finally put the first roll of film in the camera, he already considered himself an experienced photographer. and then an unexpected problem cropped up.
Whose picture should he take? He couldn’t just go out into the street, point his camera at a stranger and start snapping away. There was no way of knowing what the reaction might be. He for one wouldn’t like to be accosted like that. There might even be a law that prohibited taking pictures without the subject’s approval. What about taking pictures without any people in them? He could, for example, take pictures of buildings, empty landscapes or clouds. no, that didn’t seem fitting. Photos should show real life and not still life like a watercolor.
Just when he thought he was up against a brick wall, a simple solution came to mind. He would take pictures of himself! of course! What could be more appropriate? He was undeniably alive, and it was hard to think there was a law prohibiting a person from taking his own picture. after all, if it weren’t allowed, why would the instructions have an entire section on how to take your own picture?
He went straight to work. First he chose the prettiest area in his apartment, prettied it up a bit more, and then read the instructions again just in case, even though he already knew them by heart. It took a bit of thought to find a way for the camera to be at the right elevation in the absence of a tripod. He put one chair on top of another, and then added a few books. The assembly wasn’t very stable, but if he were careful nothing would go wrong.
He spent a few moments in front of the mirror sprucing himself up, and then finally sat in front of the camera, holding the thin silver wire used to take pictures from a distance. He didn’t snap it right away, however. He suddenly realized that the pose he chose would make a big difference. True, he did not intend to show the pictures to anyone, but they would certainly outlive him. Should people get the wrong impression of him some far-off day just because he hadn’t positioned himself properly? He went back to the mirror and spent some time trying different facial expressions. In the end he chose something that might be described as dignified and cordial gravity.
As soon as he’d taken the picture a new difficulty arose. He was dying to see it without delay, but that unfortunately wasn’t possible. If he were to take the film to be developed it would be a total waste of money. The remaining thirty-five pictures would be wasted. no, all of the roll had to be used before he turned it in to have prints made. He was tempted briefly to sit in front of the camera again and quickly snap the remaining thirty-five shots. What held him back was the sober realization that he did not need so many copies of the same picture. What would they think of him at the photography shop, anyway? They would have to conclude he was an egomaniac.
He pondered at length about what to do. The decision he finally reached wasn’t perfect, but nothing better came to mind. He would continue taking pictures of himself, but at one-month intervals. every fifth of the month he would take a new picture at the exact same time that he’d taken the first one. This plan had an obvious drawback. Three years would have to pass before he finally saw the pictures. an onerous amount of patience would be required.
With regard to the possible criticism that he was egotistical, there were two recourses. although the photographs would be similar, they wouldn’t be the same as if they’d been taken all on the same day. Minor differences were inevitable. People change over time, and three years was not exactly a short period. In addition, he could do something to help make the pictures different. He didn’t always have to be in a pose of dignified and cordial gravity. He could be grave and cordially dignified or dignified and gravely cordial.
He didn’t sit twiddling his thumbs while the film in the camera steadily filled with his pictures, taken each time in the same place, wearing the same clothes. He had to make due preparations for the photographs before they arrived. They, of course, deserved the best possible album that money could buy. When he saw how much it cost, with leather covers, pages of highly refined cardboard and a gilded spine, he knew at once that his next two birthday presents would have to be quite unpretentious.
<
br /> For his thirty-fourth he bought himself a phonograph record in a suburban secondhand store. True, he didn’t have a record player, but the record had been quite inexpensive, and he was a great admirer of the symphonic orchestra’s conductor. His thirty-fifth birthday present came from an even more unassuming place: the flea market. only a glance was needed to see that the chipped statuette wasn’t made of real marble, but one doesn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
He lit up with joy when he finally received the magnificent photo album for his thirty-sixth birthday. He went to the further expense of buying a pair of thin yellow rubber gloves so he wouldn’t touch the album with his bare hands. He was quite fastidious about personal hygiene, but regardless of how thoroughly he washed his hands, they could still leave oily traces, something that most certainly had to be avoided.
Soon the need for a new acquisition appeared. He couldn’t use just any old thing to write in the album. It had to be a special pen that slid across the cardboard, leaving a thin but distinct line. He bought it for his thirty-seventh birthday, received considerably in advance.
He set about meticulously writing dates above each photograph’s place. He had nice handwriting, a bit slanted, but very legible. The album had sixty-nine pages, each one holding four photographs. He spent two full afternoons at work, concentrating solely on not making any mistakes. That would have been a genuine catastrophe.
After he’d brought the work to a successful close, he realized that the album would hold photographs all the way to his fifty-sixth birthday. That was really good. He would have no large expenditures on his hobby for all of two decades. He could save up for a new album and not have to tighten his belt very much. no longer would he have to make do with highly unassuming birthday presents.
Filled with anxiety, at long last he went to the photography shop to pick up the pictures, thirty-six months after he’d taken the first one. The night before, brow knitted with worry, he’d barely slept a wink. What if the pictures didn’t turn out? That was possible, the film was already past its expiration date, and he might have done something wrong. He was horrified at the thought that all trace of three years of his life could disappear just like that. as though he’d never lived them.
When he received the envelope full of photographs, he breathed a sigh of relief. Great restraint was needed not to look at them right there in the shop or on the way home. Before he took out the pictures he put on the rubber gloves. Pride filled him as he looked at his dignified, cordial and grave face on the oldest picture, resembling a real self-portrait and not just a photograph.
His excitement rose higher and higher as he made his way through the bunch of pictures, easily recognizing which of the three traits prevailed in his expression. He couldn’t decide what gave him greater satisfaction: how he’d turned out on the pictures or his mastery of photography. not even a small technical imperfection was able to spoil his happiness. For some reason all the pictures had a slightly purple tinge—most likely because the film had been in the camera too long. Well, all right, he consoled himself, there was no need to split hairs.
He put the photographs in the album with care, making sure that each one was in the proper place. The negative helped him in this regard since it presented them in unerring chronological order. Then he took another look at them and even used a magnifying glass. He came to the conclusion that the pictures looked even better in the album, for that was where his dignity, cordiality and gravity were fully manifested.
Looking at the photographs became a well-established ritual—every Saturday afternoon. Periodically he got the urge to open the album more often, but he resisted the temptation. one shouldn’t overdo one’s pleasures. Then they lose their charm. once a week was the right measure.
The Saturday rituals became longer and longer because a new set of thirty-six pictures arrived every three years. although already an experienced photographer, apprehension still filled Mr. Palivec every time he went to pick up the new pictures, and delight took its place as he returned home from the shop. The only shortcoming was the ever-present purple tinge, but he’d become so used to it that its absence would have disconcerted him.
Just when he turned fifty-six, the album was finally filled. although he’d saved quite enough money in the previous two decades, he didn’t have to rush out and buy another album. Three years would pass before the new pictures arrived. He would spend that time enjoying what now seemed like a finally completed work. He imagined a writer felt the same way after finishing his long work on a novel. and not just any novel, but one in which he was the one and only character.
When he opened the album with gloved hands the first Saturday after inserting the last thirty-six pictures, an unpleasant surprise awaited him. The photographs on the first page had partially faded. His face seemed to be disappearing, while the background remained sharp. He flipped through the pages feverishly and discovered that the same thing had happened to the other pictures.
He closed the album, got up from the table and started pacing about the room. He’d already passed by the mirror when something forced him to go back. What he saw in it was the same as on the photographs. only the contours of his face were discernible, while everything behind him was in sharp focus. He went all the way up to the glass, but his face was still blurry.
He went back to the table and opened the album in the middle. He was not very surprised at the further change. His chest was still on the pictures, but his head now seemed transparent. It had disappeared completely; in its place was the wall behind him. He drew yellow fingers across the photographs as though he could touch this invisibility. He didn’t have to go back to the mirror, knowing without looking that if he tried to touch his face, his gloves would plunge into the emptiness above his neck.
He stared blankly ahead for a while, trying to collect his thoughts. a sober look at his new situation was needed. It clearly had many negative aspects. not everything was black, however. now he wouldn’t have to buy a new photo album. He could spend his savings on something else.
5. DREAMS
FIRST I THOUGHT I HEARD the tinkling of the bells I wore as a child on Willow Day. But I was no longer a child. Then it sounded like the bell around the neck of the sheep leading the flock, the bellwether. But I wasn’t in a village. Finally, I concluded from the intensity of the ringing that it must be coming from the belfry of a distant church. But in my dream there was no church.The realization that I was dreaming inevitably woke me up. I couldn’t even see the nose on my face in the pitch black, but there was no longer any doubt. The ringing was from the telephone on the bedside table, cutting the soft silence of the night with its persistent, jarring sound.
I stretched out my hand and felt for the switch to the wall lamp above the bedstead, then squinted in the bright light shining down on me. Turning towards the bedside table, I first looked at the clock. Three twenty-seven. Even though the ringing reverberated without letup, I stared at the clock hands for a moment in disbelief. at long last I lifted the receiver.
“Hello,” I said hoarsely.
“Good evening.” The voice was deep and mature. I had never heard it before. “Please excuse me for calling at this hour, but we must talk without delay.”
“Who are you?”
“I am a dream collector.”
I should have disconnected the phone before I’d gone to bed. But who would ever suspect that something like this might happen? I had yet to be the victim of twisted minds with nothing better to do than disturb people in the dead of night.
“Such tomfoolery does not befit your age,” I said in annoyance and was just about to hang up when his words stopped me.
“Pygmy firefighters.”
I was suddenly wide awake. “Excuse me?”
“You were dreaming about pygmy firefighters with purple helmets who were trying to put out a fire that was devouring a huge spider, and what came out of their hoses wasn’t water but…”
“I know what came out of their ho
ses,” I said, interrupting him curtly. “But how do you know what I was dreaming?”
“What kind of dream collector would I be if I didn’t know what people dream? not only do I know, I also remember them better than the dreamers. That’s why I hastened to call before it was too late. In the morning you most likely won’t have any memory of what you dreamed.”
I was silent for several moments, gathering my thoughts. Before I said another word, I pinched my cheek with my left hand. The pain was real.
“What do you want from me?” I finally asked in a soft voice.
“Your dream.”
“My dream?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you want my dream?”
“I want to put it in my collection, of course. I collect dreams with purple details. If the pygmies hadn’t been wearing helmets that color I wouldn’t have bothered you at all.”
“What stopped you from taking it without my knowledge, without waking me up? after all, as you said, I would have forgotten it by morning.”
“That would be against the rules. You can’t put a dream in your collection without the permission of the dreamer.”
I did a bit more thinking. “Does that mean I could refuse to give you my permission?”
“Of course. But that wouldn’t be in your interest.”
“Really? Why not?”
“Because then you wouldn’t get the reward.”
“Reward?”
“That’s right. Dreams aren’t given for free. Everything has a price, dreams included.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Not all dreams have the same price, of course. Most of them are actually worthless. no one collects them. You, however, are in luck. Dreams with purple details are among the very rarest, thus they are the most expensive. You could live a life of luxury for years on what I’m going to offer you for your dream about purple firefighters.”
Twelve Collections and the Teashop Page 3
