He tried to identify them, but the piercing music behind his back interfered. Several people were talking at the same time, and the squeaky, clamorous voices of children and their noisy laughter rose above the rest. Mr Oliver stared at the door in front of him, bewildered, not knowing what to do. The reasonable part of his mind told him to open the door and find out what was going on in the dining room. But another part, deeply hidden, feverishly held him back, insisting the contrary: that he close the door at once, by no means look inside, get away as soon as possible, even flee.
When he finally started to open the door, slowly and hesitantly, he did so only because he believed he would never forgive himself if he didn’t do so. In addition, something in the indistinct voices from the dining room was calming, and even more than that: familiar. He could not determine exactly what it was, but what he felt was enough to convince him that nothing bad would happen.
In the dining room he found the oval table laid for lunch. Five chairs were occupied, with two adults and three children sitting and eating. It was a family meal, its atmosphere gay and relaxed, because there were no guests whose presence would require formal behaviour. Not a single head turned towards the uninvited visitor standing in astonished confusion at the kitchen door. He stayed there, immobile, like an invisible ghost.
His eyes first stopped at Katerina. He had some pictures of her from when she was young, of course, but the only place she remained as lively as she looked now was in his memory, although he couldn’t remember her hair like this. Next to her was the youngest of the three children, a little girl with freckles and long, dark, curly locks, wearing a stained bib. Her mother repeatedly lifted spoonfuls of soup from a bowl, saying each time that it wasn’t hot as she blew unnecessarily at the thick, red liquid, while the little girl tried, through a babbling string of words, to postpone the inevitable as long as possible.
The boys sitting on either side of their father were twins, three or perhaps four years older than their sister. They wore identical clothes and had very short hair. The one on the right was recounting, with a lot of giggling, one of his and his brother’s recent larks, trying to keep everyone’s attention by raising his voice. He continued to eat all the while, so his father had to quieten him down and remind him not to talk with his mouth full. The other boy was eating in silence, waiting for the chance when no one was watching to drop a bit of food to the tortoiseshell cat standing by his chair.
Feeling a swarm of needles land on the back of his head, Mr Oliver finally looked at the father. What struck him first was how different he looked with a moustache. At one time, soon after he married, he had started one, but Katerina hadn’t been very pleased with it, so he had abandoned the idea. Now he concluded that it didn’t look that bad on him. It lent a certain seriousness to the young face, as befitted the head of the family. The glasses also contributed to this effect, although Mr Oliver found them less appealing. He was proud that his sight was still quite good, despite his advanced age.
When Katerina got up, took the soup tureen from the table and headed towards the kitchen, the old man standing at the door, captivated by the impossible sight before him, was startled out of his paralysis. He couldn’t just remain there, blocking her way, but what should he do? Complicated questions, which he had suppressed until that moment, started to appear everywhere, finding no answers, as the young woman drew inexorably closer.
And then, as if things were not hopeless enough, behind Mr Oliver’s back came a sharp, metallic rattle followed by a high-pitched gasp. His nerves taut, he jerked round, but nothing was happening there. The music box had stopped playing, either because the spring had wound down or (more likely, given the squeaky wheeze that had just echoed) because some part of the neglected mechanism had finally collapsed.
Mr Oliver quickly turned his head towards the dining room, almost expecting to collide with Katerina, but no one was coming towards him any longer. There was no mother carrying a soup tureen. There was no daughter who didn’t like hot soup, no son who liked to talk while he ate, no second son who liked to sneak food to the cat. There was no young father with a moustache and glasses heading the table at the family meal. The large room gaped empty and quiet, just as it had for so many years.
Mr Oliver remained standing at the door to the room, glazed eyes staring, until a new noise came from the kitchen. It was considerably softer, so this time he did not have to turn around so suddenly. Out of the boot box appeared first a whiskered muzzle, then a white head. Oscar stayed like that for a while, as if wondering whether to go back inside his nice hiding place or leave it. Finally the lid rose a bit further and he glided onto the table.
Even before Mr Oliver reached Oscar, he had come to a decision. He would not be able to repair the music box after all. Better not even to try. It might well not be fixable, and even if it were, the repairs might cost more than the price of a new music box—and in any case, he had no desire to own one. He put it back in the cardboard box, put the box under his arm and left his apartment, followed by Oscar’s inquisitive eyes.
When he appeared at the door to the junkshop carrying the box, the owner eyed him suspiciously, sensing trouble. He was just about to tell the customer, with a suitably implacable expression on his face, that items purchased in his store could not be returned (as was clearly stated in the framed sign on the wall) when Mr Oliver interrupted him with a movement of his hand.
After the shopkeeper found that he was not expected to return the money he had been paid, only to take back the music box without any compensation, he wrinkled his brow briefly, wondering what traps might be lurking behind such a strange offer. Being able to find none, he finally agreed, trying to insinuate by his tone of voice that he was doing so unwillingly and as a special favour. His conviction that he had made a very good deal was only slightly dented when the customer left the shop, with the bow and the broad smile of one who has got by far the best of the bargain.
Immediately on returning home, Mr Oliver recounted to Oscar his experiences with the second-hand dealer. The tomcat listened attentively, not interrupting him with superfluous meowing. That would begin to happen somewhat later, as he listened to other stories, restrained and shy at first, and then increasingly uninhibited, as the voice of the old man with whom he lived gradually softened, on its way to turning into baby talk.
14. The Waiting Room
Miss Adele did not like travelling.
She had not enjoyed it much even in her younger days, and as the years passed she found the occasional need to travel ever less agreeable. But she could not avoid this trip, though there was nothing in its favour. First of all it was winter, and one of the harshest to hit the region in a long time, with heavy snowfalls that completely disrupted the rail system. The schedules had become unreliable, as the snowdrifts not only slowed the trains down but often stranded them for hours in the middle of nowhere. Moreover, the general situation was gloomy and tense. Although everyone felt that war would not break out before spring, no one would have been very surprised should it come much sooner.
When Miss Adele received the news that her younger sister, Mrs Teresa, had been taken ill, her first thought was that this was a threefold vexation. She was naturally upset at her sister’s illness, which came as a complete surprise, but she found the two necessities resulting from this misfortune almost as irksome. She would certainly have to visit her sister. That, even if everything went well, meant an exhausting five-hour train journey, and in such bad weather the trip’s duration might be open-ended. She could already see herself shivering in an unheated compartment, in who knows what kind of company, as the train stood hopelessly trapped in the middle of a gloomy, white wasteland. But even that would be preferable to the meeting that awaited her.
She had never forgiven Teresa for marrying that man and going off with him so far away, leaving her alone. Adele had disliked him at first sight. He was so full of himself, so negative, and cynical as only men know how to be. And then there were those
watery eyes of his that looked derisively down at you, and his thick, red beard that smelled of tobacco smoke even when he wasn’t smoking that horrible pipe. What had Teresa seen in him, anyway? He certainly made her suffer, poor thing, although she was too proud to admit it. Miss Adele had reminded her sister on each of her rare visits, usually made alone, that she could come back to the family home whenever she wanted. But Teresa had refused even to talk it, sometimes quite rudely, despite the fact that her older sister had only wanted what was best for her, as always.
The telegram she had received from him was so worded as to inflict maximum worry through a dearth of information. He had done it on purpose, of course. “Teresa sick STOP Wants to see you STOP Jacob.” Truly, what could she conclude from that? How serious was Teresa’s condition? It must be quite serious, or she would never have asked her to come in such weather. And what disease had she caught, all of a sudden? Maybe it wasn’t all of a sudden. It wouldn’t have surprised her a bit if Teresa had been sick for a long time living with that man, but had hesitated to tell her sister about it. As soon as Adele had gauged his character, and it had not taken her long, hadn’t she warned Teresa that she wasn’t safe with him, that he might even be the death of her? But Teresa, with her lack of understanding and simple, open-hearted nature, had waved that dismissively away.
She tried to call her sister on the phone, something she did very rarely and unwillingly, always horrified at the thought that he might answer. She had no desire to hear his voice, let alone talk to him. Now, of course, she must steel herself to endure that unpleasantness—but the long-distance lines were down. Even when the weather was fine it was hard to make long-distance calls. The blizzard must have brought down the lines somewhere. It was a wonder that she had received the telegram.
So she had no choice but to head for the railway station and catch the afternoon train. She might have called information first to see if there were any delays, but in the turmoil that overcame her that never crossed her mind. She quickly packed some warm clothes in a small suitcase, then put a full hot water bottle on top of them as final protection in case the train got stuck in a snowdrift. She filled a thermos with tea and, after a moment’s hesitation, added a little of the rum she used to make holiday cakes. She included a box of the cookies that she usually nibbled with her tea and, as a final afterthought, put in another box.
When she arrived at the station she learned that the train was indeed late, but no one knew by exactly how long; more specific information was expected in about half an hour. The man at the window where she bought her ticket gave her a compassionate look when he heard where she was going, and suggested she take a seat in the station restaurant or in the waiting room. Miss Adele had never sat by herself in a restaurant, so she headed for the waiting room.
The corridor that led to the waiting room was full of soldiers. They stood talking in small groups or sat dozing on grey, wooden footlockers or even on the cold floor, their rifles leaning against the wall. They looked exhausted and there were patches of fresh mud on their untidy uniforms. Most of them were smoking cigarettes; a thick, bluish cloud of smoke hung motionless in the gloomy corridor. Miss Adele felt ill at ease as she made her way through them, head bowed and hand held over her mouth and nose, although no one paid any attention to her.
The waiting room was not very full. Only a calamity of the sort that had befallen her could force people to travel in such cold. Miss Adele found a seat in the corner across from a family of three sitting to the right of the entrance. The man was tall and thin, sitting stiffly, already bald although he was barely into his thirties. He had taken off his coat and placed it neatly on the bench next to him beside a rather large travel bag, but he had kept his long, blue woollen scarf round his neck. His wife seemed disproportionately small compared to him. She was wearing a pretty little grey hat the same shade as her fur coat, which she had only unbuttoned, although the waiting room was heated by a tall tile stove. Her cheeks were ruddy and her forehead was lightly beaded with sweat. Between them sat a little girl about six years old. She had inherited her mother’s height, so her short legs dangled, swinging restlessly, not touching the floor. Whenever she banged the heels of her high-topped shoes together her father would look at her reproachfully, but without saying a word. The little girl frequently raised her lips to her mother’s ear to whisper something, and her mother would reply briefly in a low voice. From time to time she wiped her daughter’s nose with a large, white handkerchief.
On the other side of the waiting room, across from the stove and next to one of the windows that gave onto the empty platforms, sat a stocky officer with a heavy moustache, curled upwards and waxed at the points. His heavy overcoat and sheepskin hat were hanging from a hook on a nearby wall, and a small puddle of melting snow spread around his boots. He was engrossed in a brochure, although the weak light from outside made reading rather difficult, so that he had to hold it close to his face. On the bench nearest the stove, leaning against a small hand organ, dozed an old man of very unsavoury appearance. His unshaven face was gaunt and heavily wrinkled, and everything he wore seemed old and tattered. The rim of his hat was ragged, gloves that had once been white now showed fingertips in two or three places, while a crooked bow tie, a thin coat with two large, conspicuous patches and flat shoes that were certainly not suited to such snow completed his ensemble.
Miss Adele did not mind waiting very much; she was accustomed to it. She had spent most of her life waiting. In her younger days it had often made her restive, although she had been unable to say exactly what she was waiting for. In any case, whatever she was expecting had never happened, and she had long since reconciled herself to that. Now she was only saddened when she felt that all she really had left was to wait for her life to pass. Like the small woman, she did not take her coat off, though she unbuttoned it. She sat with her hands folded on the muff in her lap, staring blankly out of the window.
Although it was only mid-afternoon, it had already begun to grow dark. The wind had died down temporarily, allowing the big, fluffy snowflakes to fall straight down, as if in dreamy slow-motion, and so thickly that buildings on the other side of the platform were barely visible. The silence of the gloomy waiting room was broken infrequently: somewhere outside could be heard the distant, rhythmic banging of a hammer, and from the corridor echoed the muffled laughter of several soldiers. The little girl continued to bang her heels together from time to time despite her father’s obvious displeasure. In the tile stove the large logs emitted occasional sharp crackles.
Miss Adele started out of her reverie when she heard the hand-organ. Staring out of the window, she had not noticed when the ragged old man woke and picked up his instrument. She had never liked music—it was always too loud for her. She had a radio at home, but even on those rare occasions when she listened to it, she always kept the sound low. She glanced angrily at the organ-grinder. Such people should be excluded from waiting rooms, she thought—or at least they should be ordered not to bother decent people with their noisy instruments. She turned, expecting so see similar views expressed on the faces of the other occupants, but all remained strangely indifferent, paying no attention to the musician.
Then Miss Adele experienced her first vision. She had just directed another angry look at the organ-grinder when, although she could still hear him playing, he disappeared—suddenly, and without warning, along with everything else that had been within her field of vision a moment before. Something else appeared instead. The waiting room was still there, but on the edges, like some sort of frame, as if a smaller picture had been placed over a larger one.
The smaller picture showed a room principally occupied by a large, brass bedstead. It looked familiar to Miss Adele, but in her initial confusion she was not able to place it, nor did she recognize the woman lying motionless in the bed, with the eyelids closed on her pale, drawn face, and hands crossed on her chest. She only realized what she was looking at when the taller of the two men sitting bes
ide the bed raised his head and turned his watery eyes briefly in her direction. He then turned back towards the priest on the other chair, who was absorbed in reading a prayer aloud from his breviary, and said something to him that she could not hear.
Miss Adele gasped in pain and raised her hands to her mouth. Her muff slipped off her lap. Her whole body shook, and her head was spinning. Only after several long moments of great effort was she able to regain partial control of herself. This certainly cannot be true, she tried to convince herself. Teresa could not be dead, if only because Jacob, with his malicious, hateful nature, would not for a moment have hesitated to inform her, taking pleasure in the suffering that the news would cause. His telegram had only said her sister was sick. It didn’t even say seriously—simply, sick.
This was only a silly apparition, she thought, although very convincing, and that terrible organ-grinder was to blame. He had completely addled her brain with his impudent and unexpected music. Really, how dared he? It was only then that she realized she could see him again. He was no longer concealed by a ghostly picture. He had stopped turning the handle of his dilapidated organ, and was watching her from the other end of the waiting room. Four other pairs of eyes were looking askance at her.
Her gasp must have caught their attention. What must they think of her now? That she was a senile old woman living in some imaginary interior world? Or even that she was clinically insane? If they knew what had just appeared to her, their conjectures would be completely confirmed. Just look what an unseemly situation such a vagrant could bring upon a decent woman! It was because of unpleasant encounters such as this that she was so disinclined to travel, or even to go out among other people. Miss Adele bent down and picked her muff up off the floor. She shook it gently and returned it to her lap, then waited stoically for the inquisitive stares to turn away.
Impossible Stories Page 19