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.
“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 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 suffering 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, 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 the endless, luminous panorama surrounding me. I wanted to remember it well. I intended, of course, to come again next day, but the old man was right: I did not know what lay in store for me. What if something prevented me from coming? What if a long time, several decades, passed before
I happened to climb the Cone again?
7. The Bookshop
The fog, as usual, set in swiftly.
Only a few minutes had passed since the last time I’d raised my eyes from the computer screen and looked out of the bookshop’s large display window. In the early twilight I had been able to see buildings on the other side of the river quite clearly, speckled with the first evening lights. Now everything had suddenly disappeared in the thick greyness; not only the opposite bank but also the long row of horse chestnut trees extending along the quay on this side of the river, just a few steps away. Although this transformation had taken place almost every evening since the middle of autumn, it never ceased to fascinate me. One moment the world was there, real, visible, tangible; then, in what seemed like the twinkling of an eye it would magically dissolve in the humid breath of the river spirits.
I could have closed the bookshop and gone home. For days no one had entered the shop after the fog rose. In autumn the river reversed its genial summer personality. When the weather was warm, the promenade under the horse chestnut trees was thronged till late in the evening. Then I would often stay open until midnight and sometimes even later, until the last customer had finally finished leafing through what I hoped would shortly be his book. The customer has always come first in this bookshop. But now I remained in the shop not only because the shop hours posted on the door obliged me to. I did not have a computer at home, and it seemed somehow inappropriate for me to write science fiction in the old-fashioned way, pen to paper.
But tonight I was not to be allowed to return my attention to the screen. My eyes were still gazing, unfocussed, at the wall of mist on the other side of the window, when a figure took shape in front of the entrance, seeming to materialize out of nowhere. Its sudden appearance, unannounced by any footsteps on the pavement—unless, lost in thought, I had simply not heard them—made me start. Fog is apt to produce such eerie surprises, and I disliked it almost as much for that as for taking away my customers.
The man who came in was small and slight, with a short, sparse beard and wire-rimmed glasses. Although he appeared youthful, his grizzled sideburns and the silver streaks in his beard, particularly on his double chin, strongly suggested that he had passed the half-century mark. I have a good memory for faces, so one glance was enough to tell me that I had never seen him here before.
It must have been rather cold outside, for no sooner had the visitor entered the heated air of the bookshop than moisture condensed on his glasses, fogging them up completely. He stood by the door without moving, seeming to stare fixedly at me through large, empty eyes of unearthly blankness.
I pressed two keys at the same time, saving the text. This was not really necessary, as I had made no changes since the previous save, but that is what I always do, automatically, whenever there is about to be a break in work.
“Good evening,” I said. “The fog is really thick tonight.”
The man took off his glasses. He rummaged for a while through his long, green coat until he found a crumpled white handkerchief in an inside pocket and started to wipe his glasses. His movements were brisk and impatient, and left patches of condensation by the edges of the frame when he put them back on.
“This is a science fiction bookshop.” It was somewhere between a question and a statement. There was something strange about the way he drew out his vowels, as if he were a foreigner who had learned the language well, but still hadn’t quite mastered the proper accent.
“That’s right,” I replied with a smile, “Polaris. At your service. If it weren’t for this terrible fog you wouldn’t have to ask. There’s a large neon sign above the entrance, but what good is it now? I paid a ton of money for it, but they forgot to tell me that it’s completely useless in the fog. It would probably be better to turn it off. Drives customers away more than it attracts them. Even when you’re right under it, it just looks like a bright, shiny rebus.”
Still standing by the door, the visitor began to look around the shop. He slowly skimmed the shelves full of books and magazines, appearing somewhat bewildered, as though he had entered some amazing place, and not an ordinary bookshop at all. That is to say, maybe not exactly ordinary, since science fiction bookshops are a bit unusual, but they don’t generally induce such bewilderment.
“I’m looking for a . . . work of science fiction,” said the man, after his eyes had finally reached the counter with the cash register and computer, next to the display window, where I was sitting. His voice sounded hesitant, as though he had trouble choosing his words.
“Then you’ve come to the right address,” I replied cordially. “We offer a wide selection of science fiction—new editions and secondhand. We really pride ourselves on them. We’ve got some truly old books. Real rarities you won’t find anywhere else. And should we happen to be temporarily out of what you want, we can get it very quickly. In two or three days at most.”
The visitor finally moved away from the door and headed towards the counter. He stopped uncertainly when he got close to me, as though not knowing what to do with himself. I got a sudden whiff of a fresh, outdoorsy smell. It immediately brought to mind newly mown grass. The man must use a deodorant based on plant extracts.
“The work I’m looking for is in this bookshop,” he said. His tone had lost its previous uncertainty and become self-confident. Even more than that: he said it in a voice that would brook no objection. “And it’s not old at all. Quite the contrary, it’s just been written.”
“In that case,” I replied, “it must be here.” I got up from my chair and headed towards the shelf where I kept the latest editions. “Here you are.”
Seven narrow rows contained some fifty books that had been published in the last several months. Science fiction was on the upswing again. This time last year those shelves had held barely fifteen volumes. I reached towards the middle shelf and pulled out a rather small book with a shiny cover.
“This is our most recent acquisition—Impossible Encounters. Might this be what you are looking for?”
The customer briefly examined the book in my hand, then shook his head. “No, that’s not it.”
“I suggest you have a look at the other books. These are all recent editions.”
I left the visitor in front of the shelf and returned to the counter. People don’t like you to hover round while they leaf through a book. It gives them an unpleasant feeling of being under surveillance.
My eyes dropped to the screen, with its tangle of words. The story I was writing was practically finished. All that was left was to read it once again and polish it up here and there. I would have had no trouble doing so in the solitude I’d expected until I closed the shop. Now that solitude had been interrupted, but I hoped the man would quickly find what he was looking for so that I could resume my concentration on the text. I could not, of course, work while he was there. Not knowing what else to do while I waited, I pushed the ‘save’ keys once more.
My fingers were still on the keyboard when the visitor came up to me again. At first I thought he’d found the book he wanted, but when I raised my eyes I saw that his hands were empty.
“It’s not there,” he said.
“You’ve already looked at everything?” I asked, unable to conceal a note of disbelief.
“Yes, there are only forty-eight books,” he replied in an even tone. If he’d noticed the surprise in my voice, he did nothing to show it.
I gazed briefly at the man in front of me, and then at the shelf with new editions. “Why, yes,” I said at last, “only forty-eight.”
“Where else could I look?” he asked rather quickly.
“If it’s a really new book, then that’s the only place it could be. I don’t keep them anywhere else. The other shelves contain older editions. Which book are you looking for? If you tell me the title, I can help you find it.”
“Title?” The visitor squinted in dismay through his glasses, which were now dry. “I don’t know the title.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I hastened to assure him. This was by no means a rare occurrence. I encountered variously incomplete requests almost every day. “The writer’s name will be enough. That will make it easy for us to find the book.”
The man took his handkerchief out of his pocket once again and wiped the top of his forehead. He was clearly dressed too warmly for indoor temperatures, and beads of sweat had started to break out. I was assailed by another outdoor smell. Instead of mown grass it was some wildflower this time, but I couldn’t determine which.
“I don’t know the author’s name.” A look of unease crossed his face.
I sighed inwardly. Any chance of finishing work on my story that evening was receding. This was likely to take some time.
“Why don’t you make yourself more comfortable,” I suggested. “It’s rather warm in here, and it may take us a while to find this work, with its unknown title and unknown author. You can leave your coat on the hook by the door.”
The visitor shook his head briskly. “No, no. I can’t take off my coat. I don’t have much time. It’s an urgent matter. I have to find the work as soon as possible. I can’t go back without it. You don’t understand . . . ”
He said this very quickly, in one breath, and then suddenly stopped, as though for some reason he couldn’t or didn’t want to continue. A pleading look came into his eyes.
“I do understand,” I replied after a short pause. “You want to find a specific work of science fiction and you are in a hurry. I certainly want to help you, but you have made only very scanty data available to me. All that I know is that it is some new work and that you didn’t find it on the shelf over there. If you could tell me something more about it, I might recognize it. I read a lot, almost everything that comes out. Particularly new things. Could you at least give me some idea of what the work is about?”
A smile played on the man’s lips. “That I can do, yes. Certainly. It is about my world.”
We stood there several moments looking at each other without speaking. I was smiling too.
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