Impossible Stories

by Zoran Zivkovic

  That’s when I gave up trying to find an explanation for everything no matter what the cost. Common sense is all very well and good, but you can’t always rely on it. Sometimes it is far more advisable and useful to accept a wonder. It might even save your neck, and that’s no small thing. Not only did I survive the dark stairwell, I quickly regained my peace of mind. As soon as I stopped burdening myself with superfluous curiosity, I slept better, my appetite returned, and I wasn’t chronically depressed, apathetic and anemic any longer. It’s amazing how one simple decision can make a new man out of you in no time at all.

  So now, instead of wasting time being amazed, I took the book out of my mailbox and examined it. The title was written in large, ornate black letters: World Literature. There were no other words on the cover, not even the author’s name. I was not surprised, for how could anyone truly be the writer of such a work? I quickly leafed through the book and discovered there were even more pages than the size indicated because the paper was very thin, like onionskin. This suited the title: anything more limited in scope would hardly fit the bill. The edition seemed quite splendid in all respects. It even had a brown ribbon to mark your place when you had stopped reading.

  I put World Literature under my arm and headed up to my apartment. I reached the twentieth step, then stopped short. Today was Tuesday! That fact had slipped my mind owing to the unexpected appearance of the book. I had no choice but to walk back down. One should not let anything interfere with carrying out one’s duties, not even an unforeseen event. Descending to the ground floor, I took from the inside pocket of my jacket the green silk handkerchief used exclusively to clean the mailbox.

  When I opened it, another surprise awaited me: another thick, dark yellow book with the same title. Someone unaccustomed to wonders would probably have been flabbergasted. Such a person might have stepped back, heart racing, a shudder running down his spine. Once he had collected his wits, he would begin feverishly searching for an explanation, but it would be hard to come up with anything coherent. I hesitate to think of what he might do afterwards. Maybe even attempt suicide.

  But I, of course, remained perfectly calm. There was no reason to get upset. I simply took out the second volume of World Literature, put it under my arm with the other one, and wiped out the mailbox. I only needed one hand for that, thank goodness. As usual, I concentrated on the lower corners, from which it was hardest to remove the dust and yet where it most collected, as if out of spite.

  I locked the mailbox door once again and headed for the second floor. This time I did not get very far: I’d just raised my foot to the first step when a thought struck me and brought me back to the mailbox. As I opened it, a surge of excitement flowed through me. Everyone enjoys having premonitions come true, particularly if they are auspicious. Had one of my neighbors walked by at that moment, he would have seen my face light up when a third dark yellow book appeared behind the door.

  I can’t explain how I suspected it would be there. Intuition, I guess, but not only that. Such an idea would never occur to a person who was hostile to wonders. That’s another advantage of not giving in to prejudice. I took the new World Literature, but didn’t put it under my arm. I couldn’t hold three thick volumes. Instead, I placed the books in the crook of my left arm. Then I locked the door again, but this time I waited in front of the mailbox. I stood there for several moments, trying not to appear too impatient, then opened the mailbox a fourth time. Even though glad to see it filled once again, I found my previous excitement was somehow missing. Self-satisfaction is in bad taste. Or at least, showing it openly is.

  After the thirteenth book I had to stop, mostly because of the weight. In my fervor, I’d forgotten that books, contrary to popular belief, are not light, particularly when gathered in a pile. They had to be carried up to the second floor. I certainly would have had an easier time taking them down the stairs rather than climbing up, because, inter alia, there were three fewer steps going down. In addition, the load turned out to be quite awkward. I had to stretch my arms almost to my knees in order to hold the books piled one on top of the other, while my chin on top secured this unstable arrangement, with my head forced back. I looked around uneasily. It wouldn’t be good for one of my neighbors to see me carrying too many of the same kind of book. Who knew what they might think? People have a tendency to jump to conclusions.

  When I finally got home, I was gasping for breath. I had a hard time unlocking the three locks, the armload of books briefly supported by just one hand. The bottom lock, next to the threshold, gave me particular difficulty. I had to squat, barely keeping my balance. If any other title had been involved, I might have had to put them down on the floor. Because I fastidiously clean the area around my front door, the books would not have gotten dirty, but the thought of World Literature against cold tile seemed somehow improper. Almost a sacrilege.

  Once I entered the apartment, I was confronted by the problem of where to put the books. I hesitated and stood next to the door for a time, not knowing what to do with them. In the end, I put them on the table until I could give it some more thought. The best solution would have been a bookshelf. That’s the right place for books. Unfortunately, I didn’t have one. What did I need a bookshelf for when I didn’t own any books?

  Since moving to the apartment, I had not kept a home library. My apartment is small—just a studio. One little room, a vestibule, a kitchenette and a bathroom. You can’t even turn around without banging your arms against the walls. And it is a well-known fact that books devour space. You can’t reverse this law. However much space you give them, it’s never enough. First they occupy the walls. Then they continue to spread wherever they can gain a foothold. Only ceilings are spared the invasion. New books keep arriving, and you can’t bear to get rid of a single old one. And so, slowly and imperceptibly, the volumes crowd out everything before them. Like glaciers.

  But now I had no choice. The books were already in my apartment and they had to be put somewhere. I couldn’t just leave them in the mailbox. After all, I’m a mature, responsible man. How would it look if I pretended, ostrich-like, that they weren’t there?

  If nothing else, inaction on my part would arouse the postman’s suspicions the next time he tried to insert my bills and couldn’t because the mailbox was full. He would wonder why I hadn’t picked up my mail. He might even come up to ask me about it. And what could I tell him? No, ignoring the books was out of the question. I had to bring them into the apartment. Later I would figure out what to do with them.

  Now the question became how to carry up the rest of them, assuming there were more. I couldn’t do what I had done the first time. That was too inconvenient. I had to find something suitable in which to carry the books. Looking around the room, I finally remembered something that would suit the purpose, although it was not within my field of vision. I took a large suitcase with brass reinforcements on the corners out of the double-fronted wardrobe. I could fit lots of books inside, which was all to the good. However, once filled, it would be extremely heavy. Sometimes you can’t have your cake and eat it too.

  Bringing up fifty-six volumes of World Literature all at once to the second floor was no easy matter. I had to hold the suitcase handle with both hands. On the twenty-eighth step, I realized I shouldn’t have loaded myself down so much. However, if I’d taken fewer books, I would have had to make the climb several times, actually gaining nothing. Only an elevator would have made any difference, but unfortunately the building didn’t have one. Not a single shortcut could be taken if I wanted to bring the books up to my apartment.

  While I started to take out the books and put them next to the first thirteen, I realized I had another problem. One more full suitcase and the thin legs of the little table would give way under the weight. And then what? Before continuing, I had to devise a plan. Something like this couldn’t be approached haphazardly. I had no idea how many more volumes would appear in my mailbox. Maybe just a few, maybe hundreds. Most likely the
latter. This was world literature, after all, and had to be enormous, even when printed on onionskin. I had to prepare for the worst.

  The furniture in my only room was sparse, which now turned out to be a blessing. Along with the table and wardrobe, I had four chairs, a bed, a dresser and a night table. I pushed them all into a corner, freeing up about two-thirds of the available space. Naturally, this had an equal and opposite effect: the area to the right of the door was now cramped and crowded. That didn’t bother me. Exceptional circumstances require a man to make sacrifices without complaint. Besides, I had never cared much for comfort.

  I spread newspapers across the floor in the empty part of the room. It was spotlessly clean, of course, but this way seemed more appropriate. Then I started to move the books. This required some planning. I began by arranging them in the corner farthest from the door—the same place I would have started if polishing the floor, for example. A stack of exactly forty volumes fitted from floor to ceiling. In order to place the last seven, I had to climb onto a chair. The tall yellow column would probably have toppled if it hadn’t been leaning against two walls and secured firmly from above by the last book that I barely managed to wedge in. I got down from the chair, took a step back and admired the scene.

  With my strategy established, all I had to do was get down to work. There could be no hesitation. Who knew how long the whole thing would last? I took the empty suitcase and headed downstairs. I had simplified the operation, so now I could act more quickly. After taking one volume out of the mailbox, I would just close the door briefly and then open it again. I didn’t need to lock and unlock it. A new volume was already waiting inside. I became skilled at arranging the books in the suitcase, managing to fit in fifty-eight volumes.

  My neighbors passed by several times, but no one paid any attention to me. All they did was look away and quicken their steps. It’s hard to understand people sometimes. I don’t mean to suggest that this lack of interest didn’t suit me—I didn’t want to explain my actions, even though in point of fact I didn’t have to answer to anyone for them—but such indifference was nonetheless inexcusable. What if someone with suspicious intent, or even worse with questionable sanity, had been there in my place? These days, all kinds of disturbed people loiter around respectable apartment complexes.

  As time passed, exhaustion inevitably crept over me. After the twenty-seventh suitcase, I could no longer reach the second floor without a short break. The most logical idea was to take a break in the middle, after the twenty-second step, particularly since it was on the first floor. But I ran into trouble after the forty-ninth suitcase, at which time I decided to take a second break. Forty-four steps cannot be evenly divided into three parts. I was forced to resort to an inelegant solution. The first time, I stopped briefly after the fifteenth step, the second time after the thirtieth, with only fourteen steps left in the third part of my journey. The dissonance of the solution bothered me until the sixty-third suitcase, when the need arose for one more rest. Forty-four is divisible by four, thank heavens, so I was able to stop after every eleventh step, i.e., on the landings and on the first floor.

  When I brought up the ninety-second suitcase, its contents filled the area I had emptied. Before me rose an enormous dark yellow wall. To behold world literature in this way revealed its true majesty. Night had fallen long ago, but I was still surprised when I looked at the clock and realized it was 2:17 a.m.

  I could work deep into the night without bothering my neighbors because I didn’t have to turn on the light in the stairwell. I also took special pains to be as quiet as possible. I even took off my shoes. The entrance to the bathroom, where I kept my lightweight shoes, was blocked by piles, so I stayed in my socks, but thanks to the warm weather I was in no danger of catching cold. I probably should have changed into something more appropriate, but in my rush I failed to do so. All the hauling had completely wrinkled the suit I wore to work, my shirt was soaked in sweat and my tie was loose. At least I had taken off my hat.

  An end to my torment, however, did not seem likely. Regardless of how many times I emptied the mailbox, it was full the next time I opened the door. I had no other choice but to find space for the new books. I hesitated several moments about which piece of furniture I could best do without. I finally decided on the bed because it almost certainly would not be needed that night. I would have trouble finding time to take even the shortest break. Although small, the bed was heavy. As I carried it down, I was consoled by the thought that it would have been much heavier carried in the opposite direction. I took it to my basement storage space. The space was small but empty because I had nothing to store inside it. I pulled the bed upright, anticipating that sooner or later I would have to put something else inside as well.

  Shortly before 5:00 a.m., after the one hundred and nineteenth suitcase, my fears became reality. The space vacated by the bed was now filled to the ceiling with dark yellow volumes. I agonized over what to take to the basement next, and then realized that it didn’t matter. There was no sense in fooling myself. Each piece of furniture would have to be removed in its turn, so the best thing was to take it all at once. Now was the right time, while everyone slept. It could be done inconspicuously and not under the inquisitive gaze of the neighbors.

  I had no trouble moving the table, chairs, dresser and night table, but the wardrobe gave me a real headache. Not just because it was heavy, but because of its bulk. I staggered and swerved underneath it, struggling to keep my balance. On two occasions I almost fell. I carried it on my back most of the time, trying to make as little noise as possible, although I couldn’t help some squeaking and cracking. With luck, I hadn’t woken anyone up. In any case, no one came out to see what was going on.

  Once I reached the basement, all my efforts almost went for naught. It took considerable ingenuity and maneuvering to get the wardrobe through the narrow door. Not only was my storage compartment crammed, but I didn’t see how anything could be removed without breaking down the partition wall.

  As dawn approached, the rest of the free space in the room filled up. Before blocking the bathroom entrance with books, I spent several minutes inside. It was either then or never. I came out a bit more refreshed and tidy. I hadn’t been able to remove all the traces of the night’s hard work, but I hoped I wouldn’t look too shocking when I began to meet my neighbors in the stairwell. In order to improve the impression I made, I put on my hat and shoes.

  When it came time to cover the door to the kitchenette with books, I thought I might take at least the refrigerator and little stove out of there, if not the dishes and cutlery. But I had to abandon that idea. I didn’t know what to do with those bulky items. There wasn’t any room left in the basement and I couldn’t leave them by the front door. No, they could stay inside; even though inaccessible, they weren’t in the way.

  At 8:26 a.m., after the one hundred and forty-third suitcase, I had finally packed the room. Eight thousand three hundred and five books! It was truly an impressive sight; after wedging in the last volume, I stood in the solemn silence, looking on in admiration. Had anyone anywhere ever had a chance to see all of world literature crammed into such a small space? It left me breathless. The enormous effort had been worthwhile in the end.

  I didn’t have much time to admire the sight, however. I had to leave for work. In all my years on the job, I have never been late. I would be able to enjoy the books to my heart’s content when I returned home in the afternoon. I would sit in the vestibule in front of the open door to the room and just stare at the dark yellow treasury before me. What else did a man need? A chair, perhaps? No, I didn’t need a chair. My needs have always been modest. Since I’d already done away with all the other things, I would make do without a chair. In any case, I would not be sitting on the bare floor. I had a rug made of pure wool.

  Descending to the ground floor, I unlocked the door to the mailbox once again. Even though it was only Wednesday, I took the green handkerchief and wiped the inside, alth
ough in my rush I was not as thorough as usual. Books are clean, particularly new ones, but after so many volumes passing through the mailbox, there must have been some dust left behind.

  20. Night Library

  I shouldn’t have gone to the movie first. If I’d known it would last almost two hours, I’d have gone to the library beforehand. I might have felt silly with several books on my lap during the movie, but I doubt anyone would have noticed. As it was, around 7:30 p.m. I began to squirm in my seat. I kept turning my left wrist towards the screen so I could see my watch. Although gripping, the plot seemed more drawn out than it should have been. I was tempted to leave before the end, but since I was sitting in the middle of the row, it would have been too awkward.

  When the movie finally ended at ten to eight, I hurried out of the theater. I received several reproachful glances and heard muffled complaints as, apologizing, I cut my way through the moviegoers who were closer to the exit. If I quickened my pace, I might still make it. The library was not far from the movie theater. It closed at eight, but I was a frequent visitor. I could probably count on bit of forbearance from the staff.

  Everything would have been different, of course, if it hadn’t been Friday. Saturday and Sunday, the library would be closed, meaning that if I failed, I would have nothing to read over the weekend, a possibility that wasn’t at all pleasing. Since I live alone, I am inevitably faced with an abundance of free time that has to be filled somehow. Long ago I discovered that reading was much more useful and pleasant than dulling my senses in front of the television.

  The threat of spending the next two days in front of the television, filled with frustration and self-reproach, forced me into a run. Running wasn’t easy, however, because it had started to snow while I was at the movie. Driven by the wind, the large, thick flakes fell at a slant, hitting me in the face as I rushed forward. I finally had to open my umbrella, holding it in front of me to ward off the snow. This slowed me down since I couldn’t see where I was going. Luckily, I knew the way and in such weather there weren’t many people in the street.