Impossible Stories II

by Zoran Zivkovic

  “No.”

  “Smart man. If you did you’d be in a terrible fix right now. I don’t know how I’d make it through such torture. Even this short time in here with you without a cigarette is hard for me. But there’s a good and bad side to every profession. Is there something else you miss?”

  I thought it over briefly. “The limited number of channels on the cable television bothers me. It’s almost entirely sports, action films and quiz shows. There are practically no programs on art or culture.”

  “Why, that’s unacceptable!” The lawyer opened his briefcase, took out a notepad and pencil and wrote something hurriedly. “This is a violation of basic human rights. You that we’ll put an end to such mental tyranny. It won’t be easy, not in the least, the members of the board who make the regulations in this place are as unbending and conservative as the church fathers. But we know how to get around them. We’ve been locking horns with them for decades. I promise you that the very next man on death row will have complete freedom to choose whatever cable TV channels he wants.”

  “Thank you.”

  We spent a few moments looking at each other in silence, both of us smiling.

  “You don’t hold it against me, I hope?” he said at length.

  “What?”

  “For losing the case.”

  “Oh, no. Certainly not.”

  “You are very kind. Such understanding is rare among people who share your fate, unfortunately. They expect lawyers to be miracle workers, and when there is no miracle they shift the entire blame onto us.”

  “You did everything you could.”

  “I really did. I’m glad you realize that. It’s critically important in my line of work to part with my client as friends, regardless of the outcome. Nothing distresses me more than a dissatisfied client. No matter how unfounded his dissatisfaction may be, it’s always a heavy burden on my conscience. And believe me, it isn’t at all easy to live with a troubled conscience.”

  “I believe you.”

  The lawyer’s face lit up again. He nodded, then picked up the glass from the coaster and finished the juice.

  “A little more, perhaps?” I offered.

  “No, thank you. I’m actually quite fond of orange juice, but I have to watch it. Stomach acid, you know.”

  “I have problems with it too.”

  “Not much fun, is it. But it can’t be helped. You have to live in spite of adversity. All right, then. Let’s get down to business. I’m sure you wonder why I’ve come.”

  “To say goodbye, I suppose.”

  “Yes, of course. But not only for that reason. I’m here to tell you a story.”

  “A story?”

  “Yes. Don’t worry, it’s very short. I won’t take up much of your time. That would be thoughtless of me considering your circumstances. I hope you want to hear it. You’ll see, it’s quite edifying and entertaining.”

  “I love edifying and entertaining stories.”

  “Excellent. I heard the story early in my childhood from a distant relative on my mother’s side, the widow of a retired colonel in the medical corps. She visited us from time to time in our family’s summer cottage, when the city was overcome by unbearable heat. She told it to me behind my parents’ back, before I went to sleep one particularly sultry evening, full of noisy crickets and a looming storm that bypassed us in the end. Under the thrall of the story I couldn’t sleep for a long time that night. It became etched in my memory forever. As an adult, it has often come to mind in the most unexpected circumstances, but I have yet to tell it to someone else.”

  “I’m flattered to be the first.”

  “Think nothing of it. You certainly deserve it. My elderly relative heard the story from her husband, but not until he was on his deathbed, and he’d heard it many years before from a superior officer he’d treated for a particularly serious form of tropical fever. The man had related it in a state of delirium caused by his high temperature. Later, when he recovered, he firmly denied any knowledge of it. Nevertheless, I never doubted the authenticity of the story, even though it’s quite strange, as you will soon see for yourself.”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  “A missionary lived with his wife and five daughters on the edge of the jungle. In his leisure time he liked to paint. He was inspired by the lush plant and animal world that surrounded him. He would take his painting equipment and head into the jungle, returning with exquisite canvases. He produced eleven paintings, but the twelfth turned out to be fatal, unfortunately. He’d almost finished it when a bird such as he had never seen landed on a nearby tree.

  “The beauty of the bird was enchanting. Its feathers changed color with the slightest shift in the angle from which it was viewed and it seemed to glow with some sort of inner radiance. And when the bird started to sing, the missionary was filled with a pleasure he had never felt before. Although such a thought was blasphemous for a member of the clergy, he felt he was beholding an epiphany. He was barely able to pull himself out of this spellbound state, then fell vigorously to work to paint the bird. Just enough space remained on the canvas.

  “The moment he finished, the bird spread its wings and flew off, resembling a fireball rising in the air, leaving a brief trail of glittering dust. The missionary felt a sharp pang of sadness, as though suffering a great loss. He was consoled, though, by the fact that he had put the bird on canvas. He hastened out of the jungle to show the wondrous creature to his wife and daughters.

  “When he finally removed the lightweight material covering the painting on the veranda of his house by the sandy seashore, having first told the household briefly and excitedly about his unusual experience, a terrible surprise awaited him. On the spot where he had painted the bird gaped white canvas, as though he had never put his brush to it. He stared at it in disbelief, paying no attention to the bewildered faces of his womenfolk. And then something seemed to break inside him. Without a word of explanation, he grabbed the canvas and rushed back into the jungle.

  “They waited for him to return, but there was no sign of him anywhere. When the sun began to set on the watery horizon, his wife and daughters became seriously worried. Never before had he stayed in the jungle so late. The approaching night would bring great danger when predators set out to hunt. Something urgent had to be done. As dusk was falling, a group of natives with lighted torches headed out in search of the missionary.

  “They came back one hour and fifteen minutes later, empty-handed. They’d searched intensively for the missionary and called out to him tirelessly, but there was no trace. All they found was the painting leaning against a tree. When his wife and daughters looked at it, they had a surprise in store for them. The white spot where the bird had first been painted was filled once again. In its place was the missionary, gazing at something beyond the edge of the picture, his face filled with an expression of infinite bliss.

  “A wide swathe of the surrounding jungle was thoroughly combed in the following days, but the earth seemed to have engulfed the painter. They did not even find remains that would indicate he’d been the victim of a large predator. Finally, they gave up the search. A new missionary disembarked with his family two and a half months later, and the wife and daughters of the previous one took the same boat back to civilization. On the fourth day at sea there was a terrible storm. The boat crashed into the rocks and many passengers drowned. All six members of the vanished painter’s family somehow managed to reach the shore, but they lost all their luggage. The missionary’s twelve paintings ended up at the bottom of the sea, along with everything else.”

  After he had finished, the lawyer looked at me for several moments without speaking, then reached for the empty glass on the coffee table. He picked it up, then put it back down on the coaster, gesturing dismissively with his other hand.

  “So, what do you say?” he asked me.

  I responded with a short, silent look before I answered. “Edifying and entertaining, as you said yourself.”

 
“Yes, quite so, isn’t it? I hope it will be of use to you.”

  “I’m sure it will.”

  He got up from the armchair and it squeaked again.

  “Well, there’s nothing more to be said. The time has come to say farewell.”

  He held out his hand. We shook hands firmly once again.

  “It was an honor and a privilege to defend you.”

  “And mine to be your client.”

  He bowed, and I did the same. Then he went up to the door and knocked. It opened the same moment and he went out without turning around. The lawyer’s large figure was replaced by the smiling guard.

  “There’s another visitor. Would you like to receive him right away?”

  “Let him in.”

  The guard nodded to someone who was hidden by the door. This time the visitor didn’t have to speak in order for me to recognize him. The bright light from the corridor created an aureole around a body so tall and thin that it could only be the prosecutor.

  “Good evening,” he said in a high-pitched voice that got terribly on my nerves.

  “Good evening,” I replied without much warmth in my voice.

  The door closed behind him, but he didn’t move from the threshold. We stood there for a while in tense silence, which I finally broke.

  “Have a seat,” I said, indicating the wobbly armchair.

  “Thank you,” replied the prosecutor. When he sat down, the chair rocked gently under him. He grabbed hold of the arms dis-concertedly but didn’t get up. He was carrying a briefcase similar to the lawyer’s, but he didn’t put it in his lap. Instead he placed it on the coffee table, pushing aside the lawyer’s empty juice glass.

  I had no recourse. “Would you like something to drink?” I asked.

  The grimace that appeared on his face was probably a smile. “Orange juice, please.”

  “I’m sorry, there isn’t any orange juice,” I lied without the slightest stab of guilt. “All the drinks I have are alcoholic.”

  The new grimace was probably meant to express repugnance. “I don’t drink alcohol. Not while I’m on duty, or otherwise. I had no idea that those on death row were allowed to drink.”

  He shook his head reprovingly.

  “Oh, yes,” I said as I sat on the couch. “The bar is quite well stocked. I could even make you an exotic cocktail.” I indicated the empty glass on the coffee table. “My lawyer was very pleased with what I fixed him.”

  The prosecutor picked up the glass, brought it to his nose, then put it back on the coaster.

  “Your displeasure with me,” he said after a brief pause, “is somewhat understandable. I would probably feel the same if I were in your shoes. But please believe that I have nothing against you personally.”

  “Your behavior in court didn’t exactly lead to that conclusion.”

  “My behavior was professional. A prosecutor is never expected to show any sympathy for the accused. That would be quite unseemly.”

  “I didn’t expect any sympathy, but nor did I expect such fiery antagonism. It was almost vehement.”

  “That wasn’t very spectacular. I can be far more brutal. You should have seen me at some of the other trials.”

  “So that means I was lucky?”

  He took off his thick glasses, retrieved a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his jacket and wiped them thoroughly.

  “You shouldn’t take things so much to heart,” he said after putting his glasses back on. “A trial is actually a stage play with strictly defined roles. The fact that we have to play-act has nothing to do with our true selves. Do you really think that prosecutors are insensitive sadists by nature who enjoy raging at another human being, even if they’ve committed a capital crime?”

  “That’s the impression I got,” I admitted.

  “Why, that’s terrible. Being a prosecutor is one of the most thankless professions. It’s no wonder that such a small number of us reach retirement age in that position. And we do all sorts of things to make amends for merely doing our duty conscientiously. Take your cell, for instance. Do you think you’d have all this comfort if it weren’t for our decades of persistent lobbying and self-sacrifice?”

  “I thought lawyers got the credit for that.”

  “Lawyers?” He seemed truly astounded. “He didn’t tell you that, did he?” He nodded toward the door.

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Really, now! Just when I thought their high-handed insolence had reached the limit, they manage to outdo themselves.

  Give lawyers credit for this?” His gesture swept around the cell.

  “That’s what I was told.”

  “Is that so? Well, let me tell you how things really stand. The lawyer chaps haven’t moved a finger to ease their clients’ lives, particularly those on death row. They don’t give a fig about the conditions in which you spend your last hours. The moment the trial ends and they pocket their fat fee, you cease to exist for them. Only we, the prosecutors, who are strictly speaking your opponents, are concerned for your welfare, so we can appease our guilty consciences. Fair enough, I can understand the lawyers’ apathy, they’re notorious for that, but not their propensity for posturing. Truly outrageous!”

  “Well, he did come to visit me.”

  “Don’t fool yourself. He certainly didn’t do it from altruistic motives. He must have gotten something out of the visit. Fellows like that never do anything unless they can turn it to their advantage.” He stopped for a moment. “What did he want, if I might ask?”

  We looked at each other briefly, without speaking.

  “To say goodbye,” I replied at last.

  “That’s all?”

  “And to tell me a story.”

  “Tell you a story!” The prosecutor jumped up out of the armchair, causing it to rock wildly.

  “Why don’t you move over here?” I proposed, indicating the other armchair.

  “Forget it,” he snapped. “This really beats all! There’s got to be a limit! I’m going to send a sharp complaint to the bar association!”

  With a nervous movement he snatched his briefcase off the coffee table, knocking over the lawyer’s juice glass in the process. With complete disregard, he took out a notebook and started writing something rapidly in it. I bent down and picked up the glass, thinking how lucky it was that it was empty. Otherwise it would have left an ugly stain on the carpet. Orange juice stains are hard to get out.

  When he had finished, he closed the notebook energetically and put it back in his briefcase.

  “There! That will teach him a thing or two. I hope he gets disbarred.”

  “Excuse me,” I said hesitantly, “but I’m afraid I don’t understand. What’s wrong with telling me a story?”

  “What’s wrong?” repeated the prosecutor in a voice whose intensified shrillness tore at my nerves. “How can you ask! What’s wrong is that everyone knows we alone do that! Only prosecutors tell stories to the condemned! That’s how it’s always been!”

  “So you’re going to tell me a story too?”

  “I was going to, that’s why I came, but how can I now in such a rattled state?”

  “How about if I double check to see if there’s a bit of orange juice left? It has a therapeutic effect on the nerves, it might help calm you down.”

  The prosecutor slowly nodded his head. I took a new glass off the refrigerator and filled it halfway. Before I put it on the coffee table, I removed his briefcase and put it on the floor. The prosecutor drained his juice before I even got back to the couch.

  “The story I’m about to tell you,” he began, “I heard in confidence from a fellow prosecutor who finally, on the seventh attempt, managed to kill himself, no longer able to bear the burden of the work we do. He took his life by closing himself hermetically in a large freezer. The autopsy established that he suffocated before he froze. I don’t think his intention was to end his life in such a terrible way. He counted on a gentle death from the cold, but had overlooked the fact that he wou
ld first run out of air. Isn’t it terrible how all the prosecutors are dropping like flies?”

  “Awful,” I agreed.

  “After his fourth failed suicide attempt they put him in a mental hospital where he spent two months and seventeen days. There he became friends with an orderly. Just before they let him out the orderly told him the strange story of a veterinarian who had been driven mad by a manuscript that later caused his death.”

  The prosecutor paused, and I repeated in bewilderment, “A manuscript?”

  “Yes. Believe it or not, manuscripts can be fatal. One of the veterinarian’s girlfriends secretly wrote a novel over more than three and a half years, and when she finally finished it, she took the sole copy of the manuscript to her friend for him to evaluate. He sat down immediately to read and spent the whole night at it. At dawn when he finished reading, he phoned her at once to tell her how delighted he was.

  “Although the telephone rang a long time, she didn’t answer. At first he thought she was a sound sleeper and didn’t hear the phone ringing. He waited for morning to come and then called her again, but still there was no answer. When his call later in the afternoon was still without success, he became worried. He drove to her apartment, hoping that her phone was just on the blink, and that was why she didn’t answer. He rang the front doorbell for a very long time, to no avail. Not even inquiries at the neighbors’ led anywhere. No one had seen her since the morning of the previous day.

  “Not knowing what else to do, the veterinarian went home. He continued calling his friend all that day, but had less and less hope of reaching her. Filled with foreboding, he finally went to bed, but sleep simply refused to close his eyes. Instead of tossing and turning restlessly in bed, he picked up the manuscript and started to read it again.

  “Towards the end of the second chapter he had a surprise in store that made him shudder. He came across a part that he was certain hadn’t been there the night before. In disbelief he read the episode about a woman whose description was very reminiscent of the novel’s author. She was carrying a large cage containing a sweetly singing bird with magnificent plumage.