Impossible Stories

by Zoran Zivkovic

The change was barely noticeable. The background stayed black, with two small additions appearing under the name of the site and the slogan. The first was the standard search field: a narrow white rectangular space in which to type the search text. This, however, could not be the title of a work or some other data, since the word “Author” appeared at the beginning. I shook my head. More sophisticated capabilities were to be expected from a library that prided itself on being the “ultimate.” At the very bottom of the screen was a short e-address.

  I typed in my own name. This was not out of vanity, although it might have appeared so. I chose myself because, obviously, I am most familiar with my own work. If the Virtual Library truly contained what it claimed in its slogan, then my three books should be no exception. I am certainly not a well-known or popular writer, but I still should be included in a library containing all authors. In such a place there should be no discrimination of any kind.

  There were two possible outcomes. If the search did not produce the expected result, which was quite likely, then the whole thing was probably a practical joke. Someone had decided to have some fun at the expense of writers, or perhaps publishers, critics, librarians, bookshop owners, and the book world in general. Who knew what kind of trick might be played instead of a page listing my works. But I had no right to complain; no one had forced me to visit the site. A joke would serve me right for not minding my own business.

  If, however, my books appeared in electronic form, then the situation was considerably worse. I had not ceded my rights to anyone for such publication, which would mean they were pirated editions. That really would be a problem. The Internet is awash with this type of abuse, and as far as I have heard, protection from it is just as difficult as protection from unwanted e-messages.

  If my work did exist in the Virtual Library, the search would have to last some time. Regardless of increases in computer speed, the gigantic corpus involved could certainly not be searched in a moment. But that is just what happened. As soon as I clicked the mouse to begin the search, a new page appeared on the screen. This time it had a gray background, with black and white writing. A smaller picture also appeared in color, disturbing the uniformity.

  At first I thought that the speed with which it had been found was a sure sign of something fishy. But when I found myself squinting at my own face on the screen, a shudder ran down my spine. That was me, no doubt about it, although I had no idea when and where the picture had been taken. I appeared to be somewhat younger, but it was hard to tell how much younger.

  Under the picture, on the left-hand side of the screen, I found a brief biography. All the information was correct, except for the last bit. Unless something had happened without my noticing it, I was still very much alive. The facts about my death, though, were strangely undefined. The word “died” was followed by nine different years, separated by commas. Unlike the black letters before them, these numbers were white. The closest year was a decade and a half in the future, while the most distant was almost half a century away. Whoever had edited the entry obviously had a morbid sense of humor.

  On the right-hand side of the screen I found a list of my books. It did not end, however, after the third book. It continued all the way to number twenty-one which, of course, was ridiculous. I’m not saying that such a voluminous bibliography didn’t please me, but it simply was not mine. Two colors had been used here as well. The three books I had actually published appeared in black type, while the other eighteen works appeared in white. These other titles were presented in chronological order. The first dated from the following year, and there were forty-five years to go until the last date. So I was dealing not only with a twisted prankster, but someone who seemed to imagine himself a clairvoyant.

  None of this mattered, however; I still had to find out the most important thing. Was this just the work of some idler who had nothing better to do than fool around with such nonsense? The Internet is full of people who think nothing of putting time and effort into pulling off stunts like this. Hackers are a good example. They invent and spread destructive viruses, even though they gain no benefit other than an insular satisfaction. I clicked the cursor on the first of my three books, certain that nothing would happen. But the arrow, unfortunately, turned into a hand again and the screen soon filled with text.

  I had only to read the first sentence to confirm that this really was my first novel. A wave of anger rolled over me. My book was accessible to the whole world without any permission or payment! How dared they! Why, this was highway robbery! And then suddenly I was filled with the hope that perhaps it wasn’t all there, that maybe only an excerpt had been posted, which might be somewhat bearable. But as soon as I scrolled down to the end of the page, I lost this faint hope. The whole book was there, from the first word to the last. I didn’t even have to open the other two titles. I knew perfectly well what I would find.

  Enraged, I reached for the mouse once more, clicked on the button, and returned to the previous page. I brought the cursor to the e-address at the bottom, then clicked again. My browser opened a blank email window with the site’s email address in the “To” field. I stared at the empty page for a few moments, deliberating. Finally, I wrote “Piracy” in the “Subject” line, then started to write.

  Dear Sir,

  A very unpleasant surprise awaited me when I visited the Virtual Library site. I found my three novels there freely accessible to anyone. Since I, as the copyright holder, never gave permission for such publication, it clearly represents an act of publishing piracy, punishable by law. I order you to withdraw my works from your site without delay. I would also like to inform you that my lawyer will soon be sending you a request for due compensation for damages, not only for the unauthorized placement of my books on your site but also for the inaccurate, and insulting, additions to my biography and bibliography.

  I signed my name at the end, without any closing salutation. It was impolite, but I couldn’t think of anything that sounded appropriate. It would have been hard to put the formal “sincerely yours” or “yours truly.” I also had trouble adopting a suitably severe tone for my missive; I had no experience of this sort of thing. The letter, I suppose, must have appeared harsh enough and a warning, although, to tell the truth, I did not count on it having much effect. The most that could be expected was for them to remove the page containing my works, while I hadn’t the slightest hope of receiving any compensation.

  I even doubted that I would receive a reply. But I was mistaken. Just after I sent the email, a message came back in response. The only explanation was that the editors of the Virtual Library, flooded with similar protest letters, had a ready-made reply to be sent automatically upon receipt of such a complaint. They probably didn’t receive any other kind of letter. What did they have to say in their defense?

  Highly esteemed sir,

  First, please allow us to express our deepest gratitude to you for having shown us the honor of visiting the Virtual Library.

  We hasten to dispel your fears. This is not an unauthorized publication of your works. Although the page devoted to you does contain the texts of your books, access to that page is not at all free, as you have assumed. It is allowed exclusively to you, and only once. Since you have just used this opportunity, you may rest assured that no one will ever again be able to access the page containing your bio-bibliography. You will see this for yourself should you try to return to it.

  Regarding the information that you have concluded is incorrect, please rest assured that it is accurate.

  Sincerely yours,

  Virtual Library

  So they had it all worked out. As soon as an author complained, they quickly removed the page. No page, no proof of piracy. I had nonetheless expected something more ingenious. That page still existed in the “cache” memory of my computer as irrefutable proof. All I had to do was hit the “Back” button and save it. Nothing easier. In addition, it seemed the Virtual Library considered writers to be so computer illiterate
and naïve that they would easily swallow the story about access to their page. Nonsense. As if something like that were even possible. Or that bit about the accuracy of the invented data. What a misjudgment.

  I quickly clicked “Back” on the toolbar. But something unexpected happened. Instead of showing the previous page, the window with the letter from the Virtual Library closed, and the “Back” button became inactive, as though nothing had been stored in the “cache” file. I stared in bewilderment at the primarily black picture on the screen, uncomprehending. The page had to be there. I had been on it just a few minutes before and had done nothing in the meantime to delete it.

  Obviously, something had gone wrong. I wasn’t computer illiterate, but I also was not skilled enough to figure out everything that could go wrong with these strange machines. But it made no difference, I would enter my name once again in the search rectangle. Although I had been informed that access to my page would henceforth be blocked, it would be hard for them to do so instantaneously. Unfortunately, the search came up blank this time. The program informed me that no writer with my name could be found in the library that included all authors who had ever existed.

  Confusion and anger started to get the upper hand. I looked like a fool who, thanks to his own rashness, had been taken in by a cheap trick. It even crossed my mind that a throng of happy people from some television station might burst into my study at any moment, revealing that all of this had been just a cleverly organized candid camera episode. But no one appeared and, after several long minutes, I did the only thing I could do. I clicked once again on the lower e-address and started to type a new email.

  Dear Sir,

  I don’t know how you did it, but that’s not important. Your joke—I could use a stronger word—is tasteless to say the least. People like you are inflicting enormous damage on the noble idea of the Internet. You should be ashamed of yourselves. Don’t forget that I still have the address of your web site. I will try to trace you through it. Your library might be virtual, but you certainly are not.

  Once again I used my signature, without any closing formality. Good manners were superfluous to the situation. I should have left out the “Dear Sir” too. The people behind this travesty did not deserve such a courtesy. When I sent the message I was again sure there would be no reply. How could they respond to my accusation? But I got one anyway, at the same instant, just like before. The speed of the reply should have aroused my suspicions, of course, since this letter could not have been prepared in advance like the previous one. All caught up in my anger, I did not give proper consideration to this impossibility which was, in any case, not the first one I had encountered at the Virtual Library. How strange it is, the way one so easily starts to accept things that have no explanation, particularly when computers are involved.

  Highly esteemed sir,

  We are sorry that you received the wrong impression. Making jokes is the farthest thing from our intent. All our efforts go towards the serious execution of our responsible work, which is the only fitting thing to do.

  Sincerely yours,

  Virtual Library

  As I opened the window for a new letter to my unknown adversary, a sober voice inside tried to dissuade me. It was pointless taking any more part in such a farce. I had already achieved as much as I could, given the circumstances. The page with my works had been removed and further correspondence would lead nowhere. Unfortunately, one does not always listen to sober advice.

  I suppose you expect me to take the list of books cited as mine seriously, even though they have not yet been written. I might have admired your ability to foretell the future if you had not been so indecisive regarding the year of my death. Nine possibilities! I would appreciate being informed when you decide on one of them. Timely knowledge in this regard would considerably facilitate the remainder of my life, however long it might be.

  This time I even omitted my signature. That fact, and the conspicuously sarcastic tone of the letter, should have indicated what I thought of them, had they been previously unaware. Their pointed politeness, not at all appropriate to the circumstances, had started to get on my nerves. The answer arrived once again a moment after I sent my message, but this no longer amazed me. Sleights-of-hand cease to be interesting when they are repeated too often, even if you don’t know how they are performed.

  Highly esteemed sir,

  We are unfortunately unable to inform you of when you will die. It is not easy to forecast the future. All nine possibilities have equal footing at this moment. Chance will decide which of them comes true. Your bibliography contains all the works from all these futures. However, you will not write and publish all eighteen of them on a single one of the branches of life that await you, to use a picturesque expression. Your later works will include at most eleven and at least six books. You were only able to see them all on our site. We therefore hope that we have justified our slogan.

  Sincerely yours,

  Virtual Library

  Just as I finished reading the message, it vanished, the window in which it was located suddenly closing even though I had not touched any keys. A moment later, the same thing happened to the browser window. The only window left open was for email, but it did not contain the original message from the Virtual Library, although it should have been there, since I had not deleted it. Before I closed it, I checked to see if any new email messages had arrived in the meantime, but there were none.

  I sat there for a long time, eyes unfocussed, staring at the empty screen before me. I did not try to understand. The ways of the computer are often incomprehensible to me. I searched my memory, but hard as I tried the text written in white against a gray background to the right of my photograph did not become sharp enough to read. It seemed to be covered by a shimmering, impenetrable veil. Finally, even though frustration weighed me down, I abandoned my vain efforts and turned off the computer.

  From then on, I continued to delete unwanted email messages, but no longer right away. First I read them, even when it was immediately apparent that they did not deserve the slightest attention. I felt foolish as I skimmed through various incoherent offers, particularly since I hadn’t the faintest hope of ever seeing among them one that was quite brief, on a black background. But such was the burden I had to bear.

  19. Home Library

  I unlocked the mailbox.

  All I ever found in it were bills at the beginning of the month, but I still checked it regularly when I returned from work. I checked it on Saturday and Sunday, too, at the same time as on the other days, even though the postman didn’t deliver on those days. Just in case. In addition, on Tuesday I always took a handkerchief and wiped out the dust that had collected inside, although you couldn’t see the dust from the outside. We have to take care of such places, perhaps even more than those that are visible to the eye. People tend to neglect them, even though they are actually the best testimony to meticulousness.

  There should not have been anything in my mailbox because it was only the middle of the month. But when I opened the wooden door, I saw a large book, hardcover bound in dark yellow. It almost filled the entire mailbox. In my place somebody else would probably have found many reasons to be surprised by this sudden apparition. First of all, who had sent it to me? No one had ever sent me a book before. Why would anyone, anyhow? Plus, it wasn’t even wrapped, and nothing on it indicated it was intended for me. So why had the postman put it in my mailbox? And finally, how had he managed to fit it inside? The book was a lot thicker than the narrow slit through which he inserted bills. It certainly could not have got in through the slit.

  I, however, wasn’t surprised at all. I didn’t let any of these annoying questions upset me. Long ago, I realized that the world is full of inexplicable wonders. It’s no use even trying to explain them. Those who try anyway just end up unhappy. And why should a person be unhappy when he doesn’t have to be? Unusual things should be accepted for what they are, without explanation. That is the easiest way
to live with them.

  Before this became clear to me, various unaccountable phenomena had made my life miserable. For example, the number of steps between my second-floor apartment and the ground floor. I’m used to counting steps, half out loud, everywhere and on all occasions, even when I already know the number of steps. When I climb up to my apartment, there are always forty-four steps. Whenever I walk down to the ground floor, there are only forty-one. For a while after I moved here, I found myself in some discomfort because of this difference. I tried just about everything to figure out what was wrong.

  I first attempted to outsmart the stairs. I counted them to myself while keeping my mouth firmly shut, so there was no way of knowing what I was up to. It didn’t work. On the way up there were still persistently three more steps than on the way down. Then I counted them while walking backwards; although I walked carefully, this was not only difficult and dangerous, but for some reason also drew confused and suspicious looks from my neighbors. Despite my greeting them politely, raising my hat and nodding, they would just mumble in reply with their heads down. People can really act oddly sometimes.

  Finally, it occurred to me to count the steps in the dark. I would leave the apartment after midnight wearing light, rub-ber-soled shoes so my footsteps wouldn’t wake anyone. Without turning on the light in the stairwell, I walked down to the ground floor, then climbed back up to my apartment, down and up, up and down, until dawn. It wasn’t hard, despite the murky darkness, because I knew the exact number of steps in either direction. I would have had a hard time—stairs can be dangerous even when you can see quite well, let alone in the pitch black of night like that—if I had stuck to what common sense told me: that the number of steps must be the same going up and coming down.