“Everything happened in a twinkling. Blows were exchanged, jugs and chairs went flying, knives flashed. When the skirmish was over, the arrogant sailor was twitching on the floor in the throes of death, his stomach skewered, while everyone else had fled. The terrified girl begged her savior, who had an oozing wound on his upper arm, to escape as well, even offering to hide him in her room upstairs, but he refused and waited for the police to arrive.
“Although the girl and all those who witnessed the tavern brawl testified in his defense at the trial, he was still found guilty of murder and sentenced to twelve-and-a-half years of hard labor. In prison he was put in a cell with an older convict who was soon to be released after being locked up almost a quarter of a century. A crime of passion had put him there. He’d found his wife in bed with his best friend and in a moment of blind rage killed them both with one single shot from a crossbow.
“The old man turned out to be very well-read. Since the young convict was also proud of his erudition, the two of them began spending long hours in stimulating conversation, amazing each other with their knowledge and sagacity. When the day of his departure was quite near, the old man decided to tell his last cell-mate, in whom he had infinite trust, something that he had not confided to anyone.
“In the prison library, which was surprisingly well-stocked and contained some truly rare editions, he had come across a book that mentioned a secret society with a strange belief. All creatures capable of thinking were nothing more than cells in the gigantic brain of a cosmos that was striving to grasp its own meaning. The former cook found this very interesting and wanted to read the book without delay. But this, unfortunately, was not possible. The old man told him that the book had disappeared from the library after he’d returned it and all trace of it had been removed even from the card catalogue.
“Luckily, however, the old convict had a photographic memory, so he was able to pass on faithfully everything he’d read, including the part about the complex and dangerous rite of linking with the cosmic mind. Wonderful possibilities opened up for those who survived it, for they would acquire almost divine abilities. The old man admitted, a bit reluctantly, that he had started the ritual once but stopped at the last moment, lacking courage. He asked his cellmate whether he might have the necessary bravery, and he agreed without a moment’s hesitation.
“The next morning when the guards came to release the old man, they found him sitting in the corner of his bed, terrified, shaking his head, mumbling something unintelligible. There was a wild look in his eyes and his hands trembled uncontrollably. There was no trace of the other convict. It was impossible to learn what had happened in the cell during the night. The old man never emerged from his stupor, so instead of finally finding himself free he was locked up again, this time in a mental asylum for the poor.”
Finishing the story, the young man bowed towards Miss Greta, but there was no time for her to return the bow because the young woman started right away.
“Leaving the museum, the former illusionist and restorer joined an expedition into the jungle, where the ruins of a temple from a previously unknown ancient civilization had been found. The team was led by a famous archeology professor, a tall and learned man with graying hair that only made him more attractive. She fell in love with him immediately, but had to hide her feelings because the professor’s wife was present. She was also a prominent scientist and still lovely, although no longer in her prime.
“On the other hand, suspecting none of this, the professor’s two assistants had their eye on the former restorer. They competed for her favor, even though she made it perfectly clear that their efforts were in vain. Who knows where their rivalry might have led—a duel with machetes was only avoided by a hair—if it weren’t for a discovery that pushed their aching hearts into the background. Underneath the temple they found a network of underground passages filled with priceless treasure. In addition, unknown hieroglyphics covered the walls.
“They all threw themselves enthusiastically into their work, but not for long. The three male members of the team soon came down with a mysterious disease that brought shivering, high fever, exhaustion and vomiting. Something in the stale air of the passages seemed to affect only the men. The expedition had to be suspended so the ailing men could be taken urgently to the hospital.
“Although the professor tried to dissuade the two ladies, mentioning in his delirium an ancient curse, they decided to take their last chance and go down below the temple one more time before the helicopter arrived. Just as they reached the passage, everything around them started to tremble and give way. It looked like a strong earthquake, but it turned out later that the trembling had not been natural. They rushed for the way out, but only the professor’s wife was saved.
“When she had recovered a little from her shock, she confided to the professor alone what had happened in her last moments underground. Both of them could have been saved, but just when they reached the stairs there was a powerful flash of light in the chaos behind them. She was blinded an instant; when she regained her sight she saw the young woman going back down again. She screamed at her to come back, the passages were liable to collapse at any moment, but she paid no attention. She continued, arms stretched out in front of her as though spellbound. There was no time to try to rescue her because that’s when the granite walls around her started to crack as though made of plaster. She was barely able to make it to the surface.”
Just as the young man had done before her, the girl bowed after she had finished. This time Miss Greta applauded without the slightest hesitation, unconcerned that she was disrupting the silence in the teashop. She had to express her delight and in return received one more bow in unison from the two young people. The other stories had been wonderful, but these surpassed them. particularly the girl’s—so full of passion, tension, mystery. She didn’t like the episode in the prison very much in the boy’s story. It had been interesting, but she was bothered by the absence of female characters, although she knew it would be hard to have them in a men’s prison. The episode in the tavern, though, had been perfect in all respects.
Not only were the stories superlative, they had also been told with such inspiration. These two could not be just customers in the teashop, as she’d mistakenly assumed. They were most certainly professional actors. only actors were capable of presenting events so skillfully and convincingly, as though it had all happened to them, each one picking up where the other left off. She felt like clapping again when she realized this. It was beyond all expectations: keeping two actors on standby just so one of the customers would be able to order tea made of stories.
And then a thought made her stiffen. She hadn’t paid attention to the price of the tea she’d ordered. She hadn’t thought it necessary. Tea didn’t cost very much. But there was no way that this one could be inexpensive. perhaps the waiter’s and cashier’s stories had been free, but actors had to be paid. Who would perform and hang around wasting time between performances without remuneration?
Unable to control her impatience, she opened the menu again with a mixture of dread and embarrassment, even though she was not alone at the table. She hoped that the two actors sitting there smiling at her would not figure out what she was doing. Her eyes flitted down the fourth page. What she saw brought relief along with confusion. The only place where the price was not listed was for tea made of stories.
She closed the menu and in her bewilderment, almost unconsciously, just to occupy her hands, raised the cup and took one more long drink that emptied it. The color seemed to have turned a darker green and it was now tepid, but strangely enough this did not lessen the flavor. on the contrary, it seemed to have acquired an additional quality. As she lowered the cup, the young couple stood up, bowed one last time and returned to their table by the window.
Miss Greta wasn’t sure whether the performance that went with the tea made of stories was over or not. It seemed to her somehow unfinished. perhaps the waiter or cashier would
return to the stage, or both of them together. It wouldn’t be surprising. What did happen, though, was the last thing she expected. A new couple headed towards her table: the woman in the navy blue suit and the man who had been reading a newspaper.
He bowed, she smiled, and then they settled into the arm-chairs. There was no introduction. The woman started her story at once.
“The archeologist’s wife left him soon after he recovered from his fever. The illness seemed to have changed him. He blamed her without letup for what had happened when she’d gone underground for the last time. He seemed to regret the loss of his assistant more than the disappearance of an ancient civilization’s shrine. She felt doubly betrayed: as a wife and an expert.
“She gave up archeology and joined a charitable organization that sent its members to different parts of the world, where they helped the unfortunate. Her first assignment took her to a desert region hit by starvation and contagious disease. There she met a handsome missionary who helped her get accustomed to the terrible conditions. Working selflessly with him day in and day out, she started to feel an attraction for him, although he could almost have been her son.
“She would have kept this secret to herself, of course, if the young missionary had not contracted the disease. Its course was unremitting: it led first to blindness and then death. Conscious of the fact that there was nothing to be done, he refused to go to hospital, wanting to stay in the mission until the end. She never left his side, particularly after he lost his sight. When his end drew near, she finally confessed her love for him.
“He, however, refused to believe her, claiming that she only felt compassion because of his condition. overcome by despair, she thought of catching the disease herself in order to prove her love, but failed in this intention because death was faster. The missionary died in her arms, unconvinced of her love, and she, totally crushed, decided to return home.”
There was no pause. As soon as the woman in the navy blue suit finished, the man adroitly picked up the thread.
“The old man spent three and a half months in a mental asylum for the poor. He finally recovered, although it was impossible to get anything out of him about what had happened that fatal night in the cell. A free man at last, he found work as a cemetery guard in a small town in the provinces. He soon caught sight of a young woman who came every Monday morning right after eleven when there were usually no other visitors.
“Dressed in elegant mourning and always wearing sunglasses, she would go to the spot where a retired ornithologist had lain in rest for more than eighty-five years. She would spread out a gray blanket on the grave, sit on it and then take a chess set out of her bag. She would line up the pieces, always putting the white ones in front of her, and the match would begin. After she made her move, she would look towards the tombstone and then, as if receiving instructions, play a black chess piece. Sometimes the games were drawn out. once it was almost five before she left the cemetery.
“The old man was a devoted chess player himself, so it was no wonder that he was compelled by the unusual rivalry. In the beginning he kept his distance, watching surreptitiously, but since his eyesight was already poor, he gradually came closer, though fearing that the woman in mourning might chastise him for disturbing her. But there was no word of reproach, not even when he approached quite close and stood right behind her back.
“He was rather surprised to learn that this was not amateur chess, as he’d expected for some reason. These were sophisticated matches between players of equal stature. They always ended in a draw, which was reached after a great battle. Each time before she left, the woman would take a queen’s chess piece made of marzipan out of her bag and put it on the tombstone. The birds would devour it by morning.
“Several months passed before the cemetery guard mustered the courage to ask the woman in mourning if she would play a game of chess with him. He was convinced she would refuse, but she agreed without a moment’s hesitation. Without a word, she indicated that he was to sit on the blanket across from her. Three hours and forty-two minutes later he got up from there the loser. Even worse than the defeat was the fact that he was certain he hadn’t made any mistakes.
“Then, for the first time, the woman took off her sunglasses and spoke. She told him that if he wanted to live he should never play chess again, he should quit his job at the cemetery and leave town. He hesitated not a moment as to whether to do as she said. He went straight to the cemetery office and resigned, then went to his rented apartment, packed his few belongings, and headed towards the train station. He bought a ticket to the farthest destination that could be reached by the next train.”
“All that remained was for her to take a train on the last part of her arduous trip from the desert regions and the dismal memories that tied her to them. She was alone in the compartment for a long time, and then she acquired a traveling companion at the station in a small town with a pretty cemetery next to the track, full of tall cypress trees.
“She was pleased to see that the elderly man kept to himself. He greeted her politely, sat next to the window and gazed out pensively. She certainly would not have liked to engage in small talk. She went back to reading the archeological journal that she’d bought at the airport.”
“Two stations later another passenger entered the compartment. He was on the brink of middle age, heavyset, with bushy sideburns and a thin mustache. He bowed and sat down next to the door without a word. Silence reigned in the compartment until they stopped unexpectedly in a tunnel. An announcement came over the P.A. system that there had been a rockslide nearby and the rails would be cleared in about fifteen minutes. no one got up to turn on the light nor did anyone suggest it.”
“When the train came out of the tunnel, only the passenger who was last to arrive was sitting in the compartment. He was in the same place, staring straight ahead. The darkness had hidden what had happened to the other two passengers. There was no trace of them, not even their luggage.”
“The passenger got out at a large station where several lines intersected. Just as he stepped onto the platform, out of the blue he made the most important decision of his life. He would no longer be an executioner. He would interrupt the family tradition of the past six generations. And he would not tell anyone why. It was none of their concern, after all.”
“As he left the train station he almost ran into a woman who suddenly started to turn this way and that, looking for the left luggage window. Although she hadn’t noticed him, he mumbled something in apology and then continued on his way.”
The stories were over, but Miss Greta did not clap. She sat there without moving, watching the woman in the navy blue suit and the older gentleman stand up, nod briefly and return to their seats. When they sat down, she lowered her eyes to the empty cup in front of her.
She stayed like that, staring for some time, as though seeing something on the bottom that other eyes could not discern. She finally turned towards the coat rack, reached into her coat pocket and took out the baggage check she’d received at the left luggage window. She turned it over several times and then raised it a little as though wanting to show it to everyone. Then she tore it up. She was delighted to receive the resounding applause that greeted her after she placed the pieces of paper on the saucer next to the cup.
Twelve Collections and the Teashop Page 9
