Impossible Stories

by Zoran Zivkovic

  28. Alarm Clock on the Night Table

  Miss Margarita’s eyes popped wide open. She realized instantly that something was wrong. Lying there in bed, staring at the ceiling, she tried to figure out what had given her this impression. Had it come from her dream? But she couldn’t remember dreaming anything. That was odd because she always had dreams, and always remembered them. Then she realized what was wrong. She was surrounded by silence. Turning her head towards the night table on her left, she looked blearily at the round old alarm clock with its phosphorescent hands and two dome-shaped bells.

  It had been sitting there for more than half a century. Its ticking had only bothered her briefly in the beginning. She’d soon become used to it and now could not fall asleep without its steady metal throbbing. Once a year, when she took it to the watchmaker to be cleaned and oiled, she would lie awake in bed for a long time, sometimes all night. Miss Margarita used the clock only to fall asleep, not to wake up. During all these years she had never once set the alarm. There was no need for that; she was one of those rare individuals with a reliable internal clock, able to wake up at a precisely set time. Not a minute early or late.

  The night before she had set her internal clock for 7:30. There was no way she could have failed to do this, for it was an invariable part of her preparations for sleep. After coming out of the bathroom, she would bring a glass of water from the kitchen covered with a saucer, although she rarely woke up at night and even then was hardly ever thirsty. Then she would read in bed for about a quarter of an hour, always from the same book, a slim collection of love poems that had been with her as long as the clock. She had learned them all by heart ages ago, but read them nonetheless. Finally, after turning out the light, she would simply wish to wake up at the usual time. That was enough. All that was left was to close her eyes and surrender to the lulling ticking of the clock.

  The clock hands were now standing in a position that could not be correct: 12:07. Even though Miss Margarita’s eyesight had faded, she could still make out the long, black hands against the white surface with its Roman numerals. All the same, she reached for her glasses, which had been placed next to the water on the night table where she could find them easily in the dark. After putting them on she saw more clearly, but what she saw hadn’t changed. The clock had evidently stopped right after midnight. This was the first time it had stopped working completely.

  She would take it to the watchmaker’s right after breakfast. This would disrupt her day somewhat, but what choice did she have? She led an orderly life consisting of a well-established round of obligations. She didn’t like to deviate from it because postponing or neglecting her duties filled her with unease, and once that crept into her soul it was hard to get rid of. But this was an emergency. The alarm clock certainly had precedence. The thought of the clock standing broken on the night table, with her doing nothing to fix it, would upset her even more. In any case, the sooner she gave it to him, the greater were the chances that the watchmaker would fix it that very day, so perhaps she would not be without it the next night.

  She had a quick breakfast. She knew her sensitive stomach might complain, but she couldn’t eat any more slowly. Fortunately, the meal was light, as it was every morning. She crumbled one and a half slices of day-old bread into a cup half-filled with warm milk. The milk contained one teaspoon of chicory and half a teaspoon of sugar. Indeed, the sugar was always a bit more than half a teaspoon, but she considered it to be half nonetheless, scrupulously following her doctor’s orders. If she hadn’t been in such a hurry, she would have waited for the bits of bread to absorb the milk completely and become soggy. But now she didn’t have the patience, so she had to chew them instead of letting them slide down her throat.

  It didn’t take her long to get dressed either. She had two dresses for outings during the summer. She wore the less formal one to do the shopping and take her afternoon walk in the park, while she kept the other one for rare special occasions such as this. She stood in front of the mirror for a moment, deep in thought, and then decided to put on a brooch. She didn’t like jewellery and decorations, but she decided that without any accessory she would look somehow incomplete. The greatest amount of time was spent putting on her little black hat with its lace veil. Unfortunately, this could not be helped. Before, when her hair was still luxuriant, she had put her hat in place with ease, but her hair had thinned with the years, making it harder and harder. Finally, she dabbed on some perfume from a small bottle with the label half peeling off. Then, fearing that was not enough, she dabbed on a bit more.

  Outside she was greeted by a bright summer morning. The air was preternaturally transparent, as though rain had just washed all the dust out of it, but there was no trace of recent precipitation. Everything was dry, announcing yet another hot day. Smiling, she headed for the watchmaker’s shop, a twenty-minute walk away. She had gone about one third of the way when she was struck once again by the feeling that something was wrong.

  She stopped and stared intently ahead. Then she turned her head around slowly and looked behind her. She might have stayed in that position longer, but the ossified vertebrae in her neck soon started to complain. There had been no need for such exertions, however. Just one glance was enough to confirm that not a living soul was anywhere to be seen. She was completely alone in the middle of an empty street. And not only that. She suddenly became aware of something that the intoxicatingly bright morning had obscured. She had not seen a single person since leaving the house.

  Strange. She went to the grocery store every day at this time and always met someone along the way. Even in the worst weather. That was her entire social life. Since she had no friends to visit or to come and visit her, the only chance she had of talking to anybody was when she ran across acquaintances from the neighbourhood each morning. There were only strangers in the distant park and her walks there were silent. Her morning conversations in the street were not particularly profound: health complaints, passing on local news, exchanging thoughts about the weather, occasionally reminiscing about some bygone event. But she always felt satisfied and fulfilled afterwards, and the solitude of the rest of the day was easier to bear.

  Why wasn’t there anyone about? She mulled it over briefly but could find no explanation. She finally shrugged her shoulders. She certainly couldn’t stand there waiting for someone to appear. She had to hasten on her way. Maybe the watchmaker would be able to tell her what was going on. There must be a simple answer, but she just couldn’t find it. He would probably think her a senile or even dim-witted old woman when she asked. The best thing, actually, would be not to mention it. Was it all that important whether there were people in the street or not? This way was even better, as though the beauty of the day belonged to her alone.

  When she was almost there, she realized there was something missing in this beauty. The row of chestnut trees along the street was usually full of birds, particularly in the morning and evening, tirelessly chattering, competing with the rustling leaves in the treetops. Now only the breeze could be heard up there. Where had they all gone? There was no time to dwell on this matter, however, because another, more important one prevailed. What if the watchmaker wasn’t there? What if he hadn’t come to work and had gone somewhere like everyone else? That would be really hard to take. Who would repair her clock?

  There was a sharp jangling of bells above the entrance when Miss Margarita opened the door. She glanced towards the counter facing her and let out a sigh of relief when she saw the hunched figure of the watchmaker, a tube-shaped magnifying glass placed on the socket of his eye. He was engrossed in a repair job. He removed the magnifying glass, raised his head, squinted towards the entrance, smiled and stood up.

  “Hello, Miss Margarita.”

  “Hello,” she replied cheerfully and headed towards the counter.

  As she slowly made her way, she noticed a change on the side walls of the little shop. She remembered quite well from earlier visits that there had been two
identical grandfather clocks in mahogany cases. They rang out the hour in deep, harmonious tones and seemed very formal, like soldiers in dress uniform guarding the entrance to a castle. She’d envied the watchmaker. She would have been very happy to have such a clock in her parlor, but her income did not allow this. She had not even dared ask how much they cost.

  Now both walls were completely covered with alarm clocks. They came in all types, shapes, sizes and colors, from elegant to ugly, from ornate to plain. Their bells were what differed most. She seemed to be at a dolls’ show of metal hats worn by inappropriately stocky models. Those with two or three hats were particularly grotesque, which probably meant they had two or three heads. Then she noticed something that hadn’t immediately caught her eye. The clocks weren’t working. If they had, a deafening cascade of ticking would have gushed from both sides of the shop. No one would have been able to stand such noise for very long. The watchmaker did not wind the clocks after he placed them on the wall.

  When she reached the counter, Miss Margarita took the alarm clock wrapped in white flannel out of her brown shoulder bag.

  “It’s broken,” she said dejectedly.

  The watchmaker took the bundle and started to unwrap it. He was a small, thin man with long side-whiskers and a high forehead. He was wearing a dark three-piece suit of classic cut, with subtle gray stripes. The only accessory was the silver chain of a pocket watch hanging from the buttonhole on his vest, leading to a small pocket on the left-hand side. It was hard to determine his age. The best guess would be late middle age. Miss Margarita had concluded long ago that he was one of those people practically untouched by age. The long intervals between the times she saw him seemed to have had absolutely no effect on him.

  “Is it slow again, like last time?”

  “No, it’s not. It’s stopped.”

  “Completely?” he asked in surprise.

  “Yes, completely. Last night, right after midnight. You can see for yourself. I haven’t touched a thing.” Miss Margarita paused, waiting for the clock to emerge finally from the cloth, and then added, “I hope it’s nothing serious.”

  The watchmaker in silence made a cursory examination of the clock lying on the unwrapped cloth on the counter. She tried to figure out the diagnosis by the expression on his face, but it remained completely blank.

  “I’ll have to open it up,” he said at last. “Please take a seat, it might take some time.” He indicated two armchairs with a small table between them to the left of the entrance.

  Miss Margarita nodded and went to sit down. She would have been just as obedient if she’d been asked to leave the operating theatre and wait in the waiting room while they operated on someone very close to her. She would have cast the same worried glance towards the place where the vitally important business was taking place. But she couldn’t see very much. The watchmaker was hunched over, practically under the counter, working on a lower bench located in the back. All that appeared was the upper half of his head, with the watchmaker’s magnifying glass once again in place, almost touching the green shade of the lamp brightly illuminating the workbench.

  The silence of the multitude of clocks hanging over her, behind and in front, started to weigh her down. Although she detested noise, she now felt it would be easier to stand if they were working. It would be confirmation that time was flowing. This way, it seemed as though time had stopped and the operation on her clock could last an eternity. Nothing moved around her; the inside of the shop, together with herself and the watchmaker, seemed to belong to a pictured moment, frozen forever.

  The picture nonetheless soon came to life. The watchmaker slowly took the magnifying glass off his left eye, got up, took the clock from the workbench and placed it on the flannel cloth on the counter. He then took it in both hands, went around the counter, approached Miss Margarita, and sat in the other armchair.

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done,” he said in the voice of a doctor whose patient has just had a sheet pulled over his head. “Here, see for yourself.”

  He put the cloth with the clock on the little round table between them. Just then Miss Margarita noticed that the clock had not been put back together. The back cover was off, revealing a tangle of tiny gears, springs, levers, screws and pins. Her eyes remained only briefly on these mechanical entrails, for she quickly turned her head aside. She was overcome by nausea, as though looking at an open human body in an anatomy class. The watchmaker did not notice this movement, and had already started to explain.

  “These two gears here are broken. They’re worn out. Unfortunately, they are highly important. You might say they are the heart of the clock. And nothing can work without a heart, isn’t that so? If this were a newer model it would be easy to replace them, but no one makes spare parts anymore for such old models. The manufacturers are better off selling you a new one.” He sighed and turned to look at the wall covered with silent clocks. “Just like your clock, all of these could have kept time and woken people up, if only there had been parts for them.”

  “But I don’t need a clock to keep time and wake me up.” She’d thought she would never reveal her secret to the watchmaker, but now she had no choice.

  The watchmaker looked at her, puzzled. “What else could an alarm clock be used for?”

  She did not reply at once. She felt ill at ease, as though having to answer a doctor’s questions regarding something deeply intimate. But how can you expect the doctor to help if you hide something from him?

  “To fall asleep,” she answered at last, softly and reluctantly. “I can’t fall asleep without its ticking.”

  “Then maybe you should think about buying a new one? It could serve that purpose, while also carrying out all its basic functions. There’s no harm in having them, even if you don’t use them. I will be happy to buy your old alarm clock, so a new one won’t cost very much. As you can see, I collect them.” This time he gestured towards the multitude of clocks.

  “No!” said Miss Margarita, almost screaming. “I won’t sell it!” And then, ashamed of such a violent outburst, she hurried to add, “It’s a memento, you know, a very dear one, from . . . ”

  The sentence was left unfinished, but the watchmaker nodded nonetheless. “I understand. Please let me take another look at it. Maybe something can be done if all you want is for it to tick.”

  He put his hands under the cloth again and took the clock behind the counter. This time the wait seemed different to Miss Margarita. Her previous apprehension was replaced by impatience. She felt naked before the watchmaker and wanted this to end as soon as possible. Whatever the result of his attempts, she would no longer have any reason to go to this shop. If the clock ticked, all the better. If it didn’t, she would certainly not buy a new one. Where would she keep it? Next to the old one on the night table? That would be nothing less than sacrilege. She would simply have to get used to falling asleep without any help. It would certainly be difficult, at least in the beginning, but what other choice was there?

  From the smile on the watchmaker’s face as he returned carrying the alarm clock, this time with the back cover in place, she understood she had nothing to fear.

  “You were in luck,” he said after sitting in the armchair. “From now on your clock will tick if you wind it regularly, although it will always show the same time.” He started to wrap it in the flannel cloth. “That part of the mechanism is still in working order. It shouldn’t wear out for quite some time. Here you are.” He handed her the large bundle across the table.

  “Thank you,” she said, taking the wrapped clock. As she put it in her bag she could hear the soft ticking, muffled by thick layers of cloth. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Goodness, nothing. It was such a small thing.”

  “Please, I insist . . . ”

  “Miss Margarita, I doubt whether you will be needing my services anymore. Consider this a small farewell present. You have been a loyal customer for many years. This is the least I can do to repa
y your fidelity.”

  She had never liked people to give her services free of charge. If she were to insist on paying now, however, the watchmaker might take offense and this was certainly something she wanted to avoid. Particularly if this truly was, as he felt, their last meeting.

  “Thank you once again. I still remain in your debt.” She stood up and he did the same. They stood in silence for several moments, and then she said briefly, “Good-bye.”

  The watchmaker bowed. “Farewell, Miss Margarita.”

  She turned and headed for the door. This was the first time she’d left this shop sad and not pleased. Just a few minutes earlier she’d wanted never to come here again, and now she hoped he was wrong. The alarm clock was old, it might break down again. That would give her the chance to bring it back for repairs. Suddenly it became important for this not to be her last visit to the watchmaker. She didn’t like the hint of finality that went with it.

  When she went out in the street, her first thought was that her eyesight had blurred for some reason, just like in winter when her glasses suddenly fogged up as she entered a heated room out of the cold. But it wasn’t winter now, it was the middle of summer, plus she wasn’t wearing glasses. Indeed, she saw better with them on, but she felt they didn’t look good on her, so she preferred to strain her eyes a bit instead. Now even the strongest glasses would not have helped her see through the curtain of mist that had descended while she’d been inside. This was the exact opposite of the air’s previously ethereal quality. The world that had seemed perfectly clear before had now become completely opaque.

  She leaned her back against the shop door to obtain firm support. Wrapped in grayness that made it impossible to see even the pavement on which she was standing, she seemed to be floating in midair. She stayed there without moving for a time, not knowing what to do. She thought about going back inside, but then she would be faced with having to explain and would only become hopelessly muddled. No, that was out of the question.