“Here’s the goose soup!” said the liftboy, smiling.
He put it on the table, and then his face darkened. He indicated the oval plate.
“Didn’t you like the appetizer?”
“Yes, yes. It was excellent.”
“But you barely touched it.”
“Inadvertently . . . ” I started, but couldn’t find the right words to continue.
“I understand. It makes no difference. I hope you find the soup to your liking. It’s first rate.”
He moved the plate with the fork and two olive pits to a corner of the table. Then he took the lid off the tureen, releasing a cloud of steam, scooped a ladle full of soup, and poured it into the soup plate that was under the plate for the appetizer. Then he did it again. Soup filled the plate. He put the ladle back in the tureen and covered it.
“There! Enjoy your soup.”
“Thank you.”
The liftboy picked up first the oval plate and then the one with the olive pits, placing them along his left forearm. Then he bowed and went out, and the two sections of the door quickly joined together in the middle.
I picked up the spoon and stirred the soup for a few moments to cool it a bit. It was dark yellow and thick, with pieces of white meat. It looked very tasty. I took a spoonful, raised it to my lips and started to blow on it. I was just about to put it in my mouth when there came another knock. A feeling of defeat went through me. Inside me a brief battle was waged between my craving for food and good manners. The latter, of course, prevailed in the end, but I wasn’t exactly proud of the fact.
“Come in!” I said, more stridently than courtesy demanded.
An elderly man appeared at the door wearing a brown bathrobe of the kind usually worn in hospitals. Beneath it were striped pajamas, and he had slippers on his feet. His hands were full. He was holding three goose quills, a brass inkpot, a blotter and a bundle of yellow paper resembling parchment.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said as he entered. The door closed after him.
“Not at all,” I replied, the spoon still at my lips.
“Please continue with your meal. I’m only going to the second floor.”
I had to return his kindness. I indicated the chair across the table. “Please sit down.”
“Thank you very much,” he said, sitting down and placing the objects he was carrying on the table in front of him. “It’s hard for me to stand.”
His face suddenly darkened. He leaned forward a little towards the steaming plate and sniffed.
“Goose soup?”
I nodded.
The face he made articulated his disgust.
“You don’t like goose soup?” I asked judiciously.
“It would be a veritable sacrilege if I took even one spoonful.”
I hesitated a bit before asking, “Why?”
Instead of replying, the man picked up the three goose quills from the table.
“Ah,” I said, with another nod. And then I did what couldn’t be avoided. I put the spoon back into the plate and took off the napkin once again. I was rewarded with a broad smile of gratitude.
“You surely know what they call the second floor?”
“No, I don’t.”
“The critically ill floor.”
“Really?”
“Really. The name does indeed correspond to the truth, but what hurts us is the derisive tone that goes with it. As though we were a lower caste that doesn’t even deserve to be here. And that is quite offensive, because we aren’t your ordinary critically ill. Far from it. Each of us fell ill because of one of the arts. Did you know that the arts can be very detrimental to your health?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“They certainly can. Nothing triggers disease more insidiously, although medicine for some reason doesn’t recognize this fact. It’s enough to hear the experiences of those residing on the second floor to realize the true state of affairs. What do you think, which of the arts is the most lethal?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I replied after pondering for a moment.
“Music.”
“Music?”
“Yes. There are more victims of music on the second floor than all the others combined.”
“I never would have suspected. How can music have a harmful effect?”
“There are different ways. Each case is a story in itself. Take, for example, what happened to the spinster from apartment number two. She was a very prominent piano teacher. Some of her students became world renowned pianists. She had a unique pedagogical method and even though many disapproved of it, no one could deny its effectiveness. She regularly beat her students.”
“Beat them?”
“Quite so. Don’t be surprised. It turned out that nothing was better at removing piano students’ inherent lethargy, slackness, inattention and disobedience than a nice little beating. Although small and slight of build, she was very skilled at handling a switch. No one was unresponsive to her blows. Have you ever been beaten with a switch?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“You’ve missed a lot. It awakens the best in you, particularly in the artistic sense. The students came to her classes terrified and went home tear-streaked, but in the end they were all grateful to her. And why wouldn’t they be, when she turned the most untalented into real virtuosos? What are a few scars from a thin switch on a place where they normally aren’t seen compared to a brilliant career in music? In any case it’s a well-known fact that the road to the summit of the arts is strewn with thorns. You didn’t expect it to be covered with rose petals, did you?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Well, she was already thinking of taking her well-earned retirement when a young girl came to study with her who finally was her ruin. It was clear from the very first glance that she wouldn’t have an easy time of it. The girl’s fingers were short and fat, she was extremely clumsy, and she gave no sign of having any ear for music. These drawbacks, however, did not discourage the teacher. She’d come across worse cases, and she trusted the power of her switch. The most important thing in life is to have a reliable method, isn’t that so?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Unfortunately, that method, which had never let her down, failed for the first time. Not one of her former students had received as many beatings as this little girl, but to no avail. Under her fingers the piano produced nothing but offensive noise. What the teacher found even more exasperating, however, was the way the girl took her blows. She didn’t let out even the tiniest whimper nor did a single tear roll down her cheek. She seemed to be defying her. You can imagine the effect this had on the teacher’s pedagogical authority and particularly on her ego.”
“I can.”
“But even worse humiliation was to come. After letting loose a powerful and unbridled blow, the switch that had faithfully served her for years snapped in two. Owing to its great merits, it was to have ended up in the elegant display window of a museum of music, with the same status as a prized violin. Ghastly, don’t you think?”
I nodded my head.
“The teacher was dazed, of course. And as she stared in helpless disbelief at the two halves of the broken switch, her student, affected not in the slightest by what had happened, calmly pulled up her lowered underpants, put on her skirt and sat at the piano. And that’s when a miracle happened.”
The gentleman with his writing supplies paused dramatically and gave me a knowing look.
“What miracle?” I asked, right on cue.
“When the little girl’s fingers started flying over the keyboard, her astonished teacher let go of the now useless halves of the switch, turned all ears, and her mouth dropped open. In all her long years working in the world of music she had never heard a piano yield to someone so submissively. Sitting before her was not an unpromising beginner but a prodigy without equal. But that’s not all.”
There was another pause.
“Not all?” I repeated.
“No, it’s not. Her performance was only part of the surprise. The composition that the little girl played was the very quintessence of perfection. The teacher, of course, was highly knowledgeable about the history of music, yet she simply could not identify the magical work. Enraptured, she closed her eyes and surrendered to the pure joy of listening. Would you have done otherwise if you’d been in her place, in spite of the exasperation of a moment before?”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“She was so enthralled that she didn’t open her eyes at the end of the music. When she finally did, there was no one sitting at the piano. She hadn’t heard the girl get up and leave. The teacher lunged for the front door, but the stairwell was empty. She returned to the practice room in a woebegone state, longing with all her heart to talk with the girl. Her head was filled with so many questions and she had to find out the answers. She would have given anything for them. She would even have agreed to do what had seemed utterly impossible just ten minutes earlier—apologize for the furious beating she’d given the girl.”
“Even that?”
“Yes. But the girl never reappeared, and the teacher didn’t know where to look for her. As she waited in vain, her feelings grew worse and worse, and she fell prey to listlessness and depression. She started canceling her classes and withdrew into a shell. She hardly ever left her apartment anymore, lost her appetite and suffered from insomnia. Things didn’t end with just these problems, however. I’m sure you’ve heard that mental exhaustion facilitates the onset of physical ailments?”
“So I’ve heard.”
“This is exactly what happened to the teacher. Soon thereafter she had to be hospitalized. All the doctors could do was conclude with regret that nothing could save her. They, of course, couldn’t have imagined that the real cause of her critical illness was music. Particularly since the teacher never confided in anyone to the very end. Sad, isn’t it?”
“Very.”
“Now the situation is much better. Ever since the teacher came to our floor she’s been able to devote herself entirely to finding that perfect composition.”
“But how can she when she knows nothing about it?”
“When you have time on your hands, many possibilities open up. She simply sits at the piano and tries every possible combination of notes. When she hits the right thing, she will have no trouble recognizing it.”
“But such combinations are infinite!”
“That’s right, but infinity isn’t all that much here. There’s another problem, though. After every unsuccessful composition the professor beats herself viciously. She acquired a new switch for this purpose. This one is guaranteed to be unbreakable.”
“How cruel!”
“Yes, but as an honorable and punctilious individual, how could she spare herself such reproach? Would you be soft on yourself and fail to punish yourself properly for the sins you had committed?”
Before I had a chance to reply, the elevator door opened.
“Ah, here’s the second floor. I hope I wasn’t too much of a bother.”
I looked at the plate of soup before me that was no longer steaming.
“You weren’t in the slightest.”
“Perhaps you’d care to visit us? The teacher would be very pleased, and there are plenty of other interesting people I didn’t have time to tell you about. There’s only one condition for coming to our floor. You have to have been terminally ill.”
“Unfortunately I haven’t.”
“Well, maybe it doesn’t have to be terminal. It would be enough to have been just critically ill.”
“I was never critically ill either.”
“How about something not so critical?”
I shook my head.
“At least measles or mumps? Everyone’s had them.”
“I haven’t.”
The elderly man in the hospital robe shrugged his shoulders. “More’s the pity. Well, all right. I guess you can’t harmonize everything in life. So it’s farewell.”
He stood up, collected his writing supplies and held out his hand.
“Farewell,” I replied, rising to shake it.
We shook hands briefly, and then he went out into the darkness. The door to the elevator quickly closed behind him.
I sat down again, then picked up the soup spoon from the plate. I lifted it a little but didn’t bring it to my mouth. As I looked at it in distaste, there was a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
The liftboy was carrying a large plate with a dome-shaped cover. He frowned when he reached the table.
“The soup wasn’t to your liking?”
“Yes, it was, but the circumstances, you know . . . ” I said, returning the spoon to the plate.
“I know, I know, you don’t have to explain anything. I hope you have better luck with this.”
He put the new plate on the table, removed the soup plate that was in front of me, then took off the cover. Underneath was a rather large breaded cutlet, puréed potatoes and steamed carrots. He put the plate in front of me. My mouth started to water.
Seeing my expression, the liftboy smiled.
“Don’t let anything interfere this time.”
“I won’t,” was my reply as I firmly took hold of the knife and fork. I didn’t bother to tuck in the napkin again.
The liftboy took the cover and the plate full of soup.
“Enjoy your meal,” he said with a bow and headed out.
“Thank you,” I replied after him, as the door started to close.
I’d just cut a large piece of meat when the inevitable took place. Someone knocked on the elevator door again. I hesitated for a moment and then put the piece in my mouth. I started chewing happily, paying no attention to the repeated knock. It was not until the sound came a third time that I finally replied, my mouth still full.
“Come in!”
The door split open silently in the middle and a middle-aged man carrying a basketful of apples stepped in.
“I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “I’m only going to the third floor. Pay no attention to me.”
“Come now,” I replied, struggling with the bite in my mouth. I stood up and indicated the chair across from me. “Please take a seat.”
“Thank you, but I don’t want to disturb you while you’re eating.”
“Don’t worry, I’m used to it already.”
The man hesitated a moment longer and then sat down, placing the basket on a corner of the table.
“Please continue. Enjoy your meal.”
“Thank you.” I pushed a bit of purée and a carrot onto the fork with my knife.
“It looks very tasty.”
“Yes, it is. The cutlet is excellent.” The potatoes and carrot were so soft that I swallowed them without chewing. “I used to love cutlets too, but I stopped eating them after what happened to me in a hotel.”
“What happened to you?” I asked, starting to cut a new piece of meat. “There was a packing plant in the hotel.”
I stopped cutting.
“A packing plant?”
“Yes. I didn’t actually visit it, but what I learned about it was enough to put me off meat for good, even though I’m not a vegetarian. Would you like me to tell you about it?”
I put down the knife and fork and pushed the plate away a bit.
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“I understand you completely. I shouldn’t even have mentioned it.”
I looked with regret at the barely eaten meal. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not hungry, anyway.”
As I drank a little mineral water, the man looked at me apologetically.
“I hope you don’t have any prejudice with regard to the third floor,” he said after I’d set down the glass.
“Why would I?”
“Because that’s the suicide floor.”
“Really? I didn’t know.”
“But not your ordinary suicides, to be sure. There are none of the simple folk who kill themselves
for such banalities as unrequited love, financial difficulties, or disappointment with life in general.”
“Then why do they commit suicide?”
“Exclusively for artistic reasons.”
“Artistic?”
“That’s right. You might not be aware of it, but art offers a profusion of first-class reasons to do away with oneself. The residents of the third floor are the best confirmation of that. The stories there are extraordinary! Each one is more exciting than the last. They would make a wonderful anthology. Take, for example, what happened to the man from apartment number three. Would you be interested in hearing his case?”
I glanced at the cutlet once again, then nodded my head.
“Certainly.”
The man’s face broadened into a smile, erasing his apologetic expression.
“He’s an excellent sculptor. His works are the pride and joy of the best museums in the world, and his monuments decorate the most beautiful parks. He was particularly noted for his busts. He not only depicted his models to perfection, but seemed to endow the marble with a soul. And even more than that. Has anyone ever carved your bust?”
“No, they haven’t.”
“If the man from apartment number three had done it, you might have suffered the same fate as many of his models. Each seemed to become hypnotized by their stone replica. They would sit there and stare at it, unable to tear their eyes away. The bust had to be covered in order for them to snap out of this enchantment. Some of them turned aggressive when they weren’t allowed to look at their busts. Force had to be used, for their own good, to tear them away from the bewitched marble looking-glass. Not even that did the trick for some of the models and they ended up in an insane asylum.”
“I never suspected that sculpture could be so dangerous.”
“That’s nothing. Wait until you hear the whole story. When he was just about to retire, the sculptor decided to make a bust of himself, something he’d never done before. It’s not clear what led him to do it. Perhaps a guilty conscience for the fact that his art had brought misfortune to the people he’d immortalized in stone, even though he’d had only the best intentions. Did he want to punish himself, hoping that he would suffer the same fate as most of his models? All we can do is surmise.”
Impossible Stories II Page 15