Twelve Collections and the Teashop

by Zoran Zivkovic

  “By all means.”

  I paused for a moment.

  “What?”

  He too waited a bit before replying.

  “If you had to choose the most beautiful day of your life, which one would it be?”

  “That’s a difficult question. I’d have to think it over.”

  “You don’t have much time for that. There must be one day you remember as being exceptional.

  A day when you were especially happy.”

  “There were days like that, of course. But why are they important now? They’re gone forever.”

  “One could come back.”

  “How?”

  “I could give you an explanation but it would take some time and the sedative will knock you out any moment. We have to be quick.”

  “In what way would it come back? I don’t understand.”

  “In such a way that you would be in that day again. You would live through it exactly the same way you did the first time. You wouldn’t know anything about your life to come. As though it never happened.”

  I thought it over briefly.

  “And at the end of that day? Is that when I would die?”

  “No. You would never die. Your death would be in my collection.”

  “Would I continue to live out the rest of my life?”

  “No, you wouldn’t. You would go back to your most beautiful

  day. You would relive it over and over, every day. Forever. so, do you agree to exchange your death for such an eternity?”

  The sedative was starting to take effect. Considerable effort was needed to keep my eyes open.

  “Why wouldn’t I agree? Anyone in my place would say yes.”

  The visitor smiled broadly.

  “Wonderful!” he said in a voice that was no longer indifferent.

  “That means we have a deal.”

  “It’s a deal,” I confirmed in a soft voice, eyes half-closed.

  The smile stayed on his face a short while longer, but when he spoke again his voice had become detached like before.

  “Not everyone accepts my offer, you know.”

  “Who would choose death when he’s offered eternity, especially one filled with a beautiful day?” I asked almost in a whisper, finally closing my eyes.

  His answer seemed to come from a distance. “eternity lasts a very long time, even when it’s ideal. I hope you’ll enjoy it nonetheless.”

  A wave of fear suddenly coursed through my fading consciousness. I vaguely suspected that something wasn’t right, but couldn’t figure out what it was. And then it didn’t matter anymore. I started to wake up, filled with unexpected joy. something very nice awaited me in the coming day.

  10. EMAILS

  MR. PAVEK COLLECTED EMAILS. He’d been doing this since he retired at age sixty-five. He hadn’t been able to do it before because he hadn’t had a computer at home. When he finally left the State Archive after four decades of dedicated service, he was given the computer he’d used for the last thirteen and a half years as a token of recognition. The satisfaction he received from this gift was not marred by the knowledge that it was to be written off as obsolete since new computers were on the way.Had they given him a new computer, it would have brought him nothing but trouble, since he was unable to cope with any but his old one. He was used to it, although that had taken some doing. He’d needed considerably more time than the other employees to master a mischievous and unpredictable machine that seemed determined never to do what he wanted it to.

  He’d gone through countless traumatic experiences during training. All his efforts were ruined by clumsiness and blunders: once he’d caused a fire and another time an ambulance was called because he’d had a nervous breakdown. But finally, after a little more than two years and two months, he could proudly say that he’d subjugated the computer at long last, at least as far as the basic archive program was concerned.

  His colleagues used many other programs that often had nothing to do with work, but it never crossed his mind to do something similar. if anyone had asked why, he would have answered that he definitely did not approve of such an abuse of working hours and state-owned equipment, but since no one ever did ask, there was no need for self-delusion. He avoided other programs because they frightened him.

  When he brought the computer home, fear came along with it. Since he now had nothing to do with the only program he was skilled at, he would have to learn new programs, i.e. go through the trauma all over again. He could, indeed, have avoided this by not using the computer at all. That’s what he did at first. He put the housing and monitor in a corner and covered them with a purple flannel cloth. This soon seemed like an unnecessary waste, so he finally reconciled himself to the inevitable.

  His first dilemma was which program to choose. Different computer games favored by his former colleagues were out of the question. He couldn’t imagine wasting time so irresponsibly, even in retirement. The best thing would be to do something useful. But what? Lots of people use a computer like a typewriter, but what would he write?

  Who knows how long he would have spent pondering what to do with his computer if he hadn’t seen an advertisement in

  the newspaper lauding the benefits of the internet, particularly if you were looking for a job. Mr. Pavek knew that the internet was quite widespread and that people enthused over it, but he’d avoided it out of the same fear that prevented him from trying new programs. now, however, he had no way out. He would have to overcome that fear.

  A pleasant surprise awaited him: it turned out that using the internet was not as difficult as he’d feared. There was no nervous breakdown and not even any lasting trauma. Twice he thought he’d backed himself into a corner, but he quickly got out of it by carefully following the clear instructions. everything was set for simple and easy use.

  Hooking up to the internet was just like opening a big window onto a vast world that included many different possibilities. It soon became apparent that Mr. Pavek wouldn’t have to look for something to occupy his time. Work came looking for him.

  The very same day he hooked up to the internet he started to receive emails. even though he didn’t know the senders and had no idea how they’d found his address, he was pleased nonetheless. Hardly anyone ever wrote to Mr. Pavek, and now whenever he looked at his virtual mailbox there were always a few letters waiting.

  His mail consisted of various offers that didn’t interest him very much. Those that made him blush were the most numerous. Indeed, how could anyone think that he, at his age, might need to lengthen certain organs or use products that brought fierce and long-lasting ecstasy? But he didn’t get mad at those who sent the offers because their intentions were undoubtedly noble. How could you blame people who were trying to fill your life with pleasure, regardless of the fact that it was impossible?

  As soon as Mr. Pavek read his first message, his archivist’s instincts went to work. He knew quite well what happened to documents that were not quickly logged as prescribed. This was the basic principle of his profession. Things get lost in an instant and disappear without a trace unless they are filed properly. And one never knows how valuable they might be. Didn’t it often happen that papers everyone considered inconsequential had turned out to be of great importance? Many people failed to realize that a proper archive was the foundation of every ordered society.

  He adjusted his archive program slightly so he could store emails. every message was first given a file number and classification. The abbreviation system he used at work came in quite handy. Instead of writing “erotic offer”, which would make him feel awkward whenever he saw it, it was enough to put “er.ofr.” This had a respectable and professional look to it.

  Once the message was logged, he had to answer it. Good manners so required. What would the people who wrote think about him if he didn’t reply? remarks might be made about Mr. Pavek—that he was excessively fastidious, rather unsociable, too much a creature of habit—but certainly not that he was impolite.


  His replies were short and official, as befitted correspondence with people he didn’t know personally. He didn’t go into a lengthy explanation as to why he wasn’t interested in what had been offered. He thanked them for the offer, allowed for the possibility that he might change his mind in the future should his circumstances alter, and ended with a formal greeting. everything in proper measure.

  Although Mr. Pavek didn’t see the connection, with every reply he sent he received more and more new offers. Barely two weeks after he’d hooked up to the internet he was overwhelmed with work. His virtual mailbox never seemed to be empty and he spent an increasing amount of time logging his emails and answering them.

  His replies sped up considerably when he remembered that he didn’t have to compose a new email every time. While still at work he’d learned one of the facilities that computers provide. He’d had no use for it before, but now it proved quite convenient. Once a text was written it could easily be copied to another place, and his answers were always more or less the same anyway. He didn’t do this mechanically, however. He would always introduce a small change, just enough to keep his conscience clear. He didn’t want it to seem that he was merely skimming through his work. Something small would set each message apart: the word order, an added or missing adjective, the location of the signature.

  His speedy replies only brought momentary relief because the influx of emails soon turned into an avalanche. While still employed, Mr. Pavek would occasionally encounter a large workload where great effort was required and he had to stay over-time. But that couldn’t be compared with what was now pouring down on him. Hundreds of new mails gushed out of his virtual mailbox whenever he opened it.

  This correspondence was no great hardship, however, because otherwise Mr. Pavek wouldn’t have known how to pass the time. He didn’t know how to be idle. He now spent almost all his waking time at the computer and had even reduced his sleep to only four and a half hours, but if that was the price he had to pay to fill his life with something, then he had no choice. The question as to whether the work had any meaning didn’t bother him, just as it hadn’t when he worked at the State Archive. Only uneducated and ignorant people needed to have the meaning of archiving explained to them; it was clear and obvious to those with any intelligence.

  Although he could be unrelenting with regard to himself, forcing himself to work beyond all customary measure, the computer required due consideration. Unlike him, this device had physical limits. Three months and seventeen days after he’d started to log emails his hard disk was finally filled up. if he’d been given a new computer when he retired this problem would not have appeared quite so quickly, but the old hard disk had a very modest capacity.

  Mr. Pavek was in a bind with no easy way out. Had his pension been larger, he could have bought a new hard disk, but he could barely make ends meet as it was. Unplanned expenditures were out of the question. And the virtual mailbox was getting fuller all the time.

  He stared helplessly at the screen with its flickering warning in large letters: hard disk full! Something had to be done urgently, but he didn’t know what. But just when panic was getting the upper hand, something happened. The warning suddenly disappeared and was replaced with his image, as though the screen were a mirror. But the reflection was not faithful, for Mr. Pavek’s virtual face was deformed by a scream. it was soundless, because the old computer didn’t have speakers. This made no difference anyway, as there was no one to hear it. The chair in front of the screen was empty.

  11. HOPES

  I HEARD THE DOOR OPEN and then footsteps headed my way. Even though I couldn’t see anything, my head turned in reflex towards whomever was approaching, giving my neck a bit of a crick. The kidnapper stopped next to me. Nothing happened for several tense moments, and then he took off my hood.I squinted after spending so much time in the dark, even though the light wasn’t very strong. I looked around, taking in my surroundings. I’d had no idea where I was, but for some reason I’d thought I was in some sort of windowless, sparsely furnished cellar. I could tell that I was sitting in an armchair, tied with handcuffs to the wooden armrests, and this had confused me. Such comfort was incongruous with a bare, subterranean cell.

  One look was enough to realize that my suspicions were wrong. The armchair stood in the middle of a spacious and high-ceilinged study. all four walls were lined with shelves containing heavy volumes. There were only two interruptions to this uniform background. a padded door broke the wall of books to my left, while the opposite wall was divided in two by a window that reached almost to the ceiling. It was covered with heavy purple drapes.

  Right above my head was a chandelier, but it was not switched on. The only source of light was a shaded lamp on the solid wood desk in front of me. along with it were a pitcher of water, a glass and a small hourglass. on the other side of the table rose the arched back of a deeply engraved black chair.

  I’d been wrong in one other respect too. I’d been convinced that my kidnapper was a young, thickset male. True, he’d never spoken, so his voice had never confirmed this assumption, but it had somehow seemed natural. The person now standing before me was much more reminiscent of a retired literature professor than of a hardened kidnapper.

  He had to be in his sixties, with thinning gray hair, and was slight of build. He was wearing a long bathrobe of the same purple color as the drapes. Small round reading glasses dangled on a chain around his neck.

  “Hello,” he said, smiling.

  “Hello,” I replied, after hesitating briefly, feeling this was a ridiculous way to start a conversation between kidnapper and kidnapped.

  He indicated the handcuffs. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience. I believe you understand they are necessary for the moment. I hope they don’t bother you too much. How do you feel? Is there anything you want?”

  I hesitated again, keeping my eyes on him. “I’d like a sip of water. I’m thirsty.”

  He nodded. “of course.”

  He went to the desk and poured some water into the glass. He brought it up to my mouth and tipped it. as I drank, water dribbled down my chin.

  “Excuse me.” He quickly took a matching handkerchief out of the bathrobe pocket and wiped my face. Then he went back to the desk, put the glass down, walked around to the other side and sat in the chair. His head dipped below the top of the chair back. He inverted the hourglass. The sand in the upper chamber started to seep into the lower chamber.

  We looked at each other for several moments in silence.

  “What do you want from me?” I said, breaking the stalemate. “If it’s money you want, a real bundle, then you’ve kidnapped the wrong person. No one will pay to get me back.”

  “I’m not looking for a bundle of money.”

  “Then what are you looking for?”

  “Some things are more valuable than money.”

  “Sure they are, but kidnappers couldn’t care less.”

  “There are kidnappers and kidnappers. let me ask you a question in return. what price would you be willing to pay to be free once again?” I’d never been kidnapped before, but even so I hadn’t expected negotiations with a kidnapper could be anything like this.

  “I wouldn’t know. If it’s not about money, what else do I have that could possibly interest you?”

  “There certainly is something, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. But let’s turn the question around. what would you be unwilling to give in exchange for freedom?”

  I fixed my eyes on the old man. Had I not been bound to an armchair, I might have found this strange conversation in an even stranger place interesting, in a rather twisted way.

  “I don’t know,” I said in all sincerity. “I’d have to think it over. It’s not an easy question.”

  “It’s not, I agree. But I’m afraid we don’t have much time.” He indicated the hourglass in front of me, its gray stream flowing steadily, as though this explained everything. “I’d like to help, if you consent. would you aban
don all hope if that would bring you freedom?”

  “Hope?” I repeated, bewildered. “what hope?”

  “Hope in general. The right to hope for anything in life.”

  “I don’t understand. How could I abandon hope?”

  “Easily. Just by saying so.”

  Then it hit me. This wasn’t an ordinary kidnapper. I’d been kidnapped by one of those demented types who are in the grip of deranged ideas. looks can be quite deceptive. The polished elderly man sitting in front of me was the last person in the world I would have thought had lost his mind. I had to be very careful. He might be crazy, but he certainly wasn’t stupid.

  “So, it’s enough to say that I abandon all hope,” I said in a low voice, “and you will release me?” I raised my hands a little, making the handcuffs rattle.

  “That’s right,” he replied with a smile.

  “There aren’t any other conditions?”

  “No.”

  I sighed. “all right, then I abandon all hope,” I said formally.

  The old man’s smile broadened. “very good! I am very happy things went so smoothly with you.”

  He stood up, took the hourglass and placed it horizontally.

  “Sometimes it can be quite unpleasant,” he continued after going around the table and stopping in front of me. “Some people prefer hope to freedom. They feel they can live without freedom, but not without hope.”

  I was briefly tempted to ask him what had happened to them, but concluded that it was actually none of my concern. Everyone has the right to their preferences. But there was one thing I had to know.

  “If it’s not a secret, would you mind telling me what you get out of the fact that people abandon all hope?”

  “It’s no secret. I am a hope collector.”

  He was as laconic as when he’d mentioned the hourglass. Indeed, why explain something when it’s as clear as day?

  “oh, that’s it,” I said, as though grasping a simple truth.

  The old man picked up the hood from the back of the chair.