Impossible Stories II

by Zoran Zivkovic

  “I can’t remember anything,” I said at last in a soft voice. “What happened to me?”

  “You have complete loss of memory about yourself.”

  “Did I have an accident?”

  “No. Your memory has been artificially removed.”

  The voice said it as though telling me that my nails had trimmed. Dead silence filled the room.

  “Why?” I finally asked.

  “Because that is the sentence you’ve been given.”

  Once more I needed a little time before I spoke.

  “What have I been sentenced for?”

  “You committed a crime.”

  “What crime?”

  “That’s no longer important. Don’t let it weigh you down. The crime was erased along with your past.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. This made everything start to rock again.

  “Was whatever I did so bad that I had to give up my past?”

  “Yes. Actually, it could have been worse. If it weren’t for the mitigating circumstances, you would have been executed.”

  “What’s the difference? This is like being executed too. Without any memory of my past I’m no longer myself.”

  “You have no reason to complain. It’s true that you are no longer your former self, but it’s unlikely you would want to be if you knew what you’d done. It wouldn’t be at all easy to live with such a burden on your conscience. And you are not by nature a psychopath who would be unperturbed by your crimes. The remorse you showed at the trial tipped the scale in your favor and the judge handed down a lighter sentence. The expert’s opinion also helped. He said the chances of you repeating the crime under other circumstances were negligible.”

  “But how is it possible to live without a memory?”

  “You won’t live without a memory. You’ll get a new one without any stains. You will leave here as a completely rehabilitated man. Think of it as being part of a special witness protection program. The only difference is that protected witnesses are aware of their first identity, while you won’t be. For you, the new memory will be all you have.”

  “What new memory?”

  “One tailored just for you. Everything that could be was kept from your former life. You will have the same education, for example. You will remember—and even better than before—the things you learned, the books you read, the films you saw, the music you listened to. And everything else, except for actual people you were in touch with. Particularly friends and relatives. Your memories of them will be replaced by new ones.”

  “I’ll get new friends and relatives?”

  “No. That’s impossible. You won’t have any relatives. But there’s nothing unusual about that. Is the number of people without kin so small? You will be able to found a family, though, and get relatives that way. The same thing with new friends. When a person moves to a new town, which is what you will do, they quickly forget old friends and make new ones, isn’t that right?”

  I didn’t say anything for several moments, mulling this over.

  “But old friends and relatives will remember me. Their memory hasn’t been erased. What if one of them runs into me by accident and recognizes me?”

  “They won’t recognize you. A new face goes with your new memory. Actually, you already have it.” My hand moved automatically towards my head but was stopped by the belt.

  “What do I look like?” I asked hesitantly.

  There was a brief pause before the voice replied.

  “Different.”

  “Will I like myself?”

  “Everyone likes themselves. More or less. In any case, you won’t know about any other face.”

  Once again I thought this over.

  “There’s something I don’t understand. Why are you telling me all this? Won’t my memory of this conversation jeopardize my new life?”

  “No, it won’t. This conversation will also be erased before we implant a new memory.”

  “So why did we have to have it?”

  “We didn’t. We could have left your questions unanswered or made up something less drastic. But basically it’s all the same. We found out what we wanted to know. There wouldn’t be any conversation at all if the procedure of removing an old memory and implanting a new one could be done in one fell swoop. But we have to make sure that the old memory has been erased before we put in the new one. This doesn’t always happen. Some memories are really stubborn, and then there is nausea and vomiting. Luckily, everything went smoothly with yours. Dizziness is a guarantee that everything is all right.”

  “I won’t remember a single thing about my former self?” I asked in a soft voice again.

  “Nothing. You will soon wake up in your bed a new man. With a new memory.” The voice stopped suddenly. “Although the old one won’t be destroyed.”

  “How’s that?”

  “We keep memories that have been removed so we can study them. Your old self will come alive whenever an expert activates it from the data bank. It will stay that way even after your new self is gone. In a way, you will outlive yourself. The opposite would be fairer, of course, but it can’t be helped. You are only of interest to researchers as a murderer and not as a normal man. Well, then. We must get on with things. Please close your eyes and relax. Soon it will seem that you are falling asleep.”

  I thought of asking one more thing, but didn’t. What was the use of knowing something I would forget in just a few moments? When I lowered my eyelids I was not surrounded immediately by darkness. The lingering picture of milky whiteness evaporated slowly and unwillingly, like a stubborn memory.

  2. Vanity Fair

  I entered the “Little Shop of Memories” antique store. Its interior and exterior were exactly in keeping with the neighborhood: dilapidated, poorly lit and full of stale smells. Respectable people don’t go to places like that. I wouldn’t have had any reason to be there either if I could have found what I was looking for elsewhere.

  The antique dealer looked as though he had stepped out of one of the old novels on the dusty shelf to the left of the door. Tall and thin with tiny eyes behind round wire-framed glasses, a gaunt face that hadn’t see the sun in ages, unkempt greasy hair, wearing a shabby plaid jacket with elbow patches and a dark-red shawl even though it wasn’t cold.

  I didn’t go up to him right away. He was talking to a short elderly woman at the counter. He glanced at me briefly over her little black hat. I headed towards the open showcase on the right and pretended to be absorbed in looking at the objects in it stacked every which-way. There was a monocle without a lens, a snuff-box, a chipped medal, a marble ink blotter, a gilded tie pin, an ivory cigarette holder, a brass paper cutter, a jewelry box of inlaid wood, a graceful figurine of an egret made of jade, a gramophone record without a sleeve, a bundle of letters and postcards tied with a blue ribbon and several faded photographs. The dead past that no one needed anymore.

  Even though I was wearing gloves, I used just my thumb and index finger gingerly to pick up the creamer from a tea set on a tray in the upper part of the case. The silver must have gone unpolished for at least half a century. I took a small spoon with a coat of arms at the end and shook it in the creamer. It rang like a bell summoning a servant.

  The antique dealer looked at me again over the little hat. Then he came out from behind the counter, took the elderly lady by the arm and guided her towards the door. She didn’t feel quite like going yet, but he made relentless progress. He bowed several times before she went out.

  He repeated the bow when he came up to me, adding a deferential smile.

  “Good evening, sir. How may I help you?”

  I went straight to the point and gave the password. “Do you have a live past by any chance?”

  The smile disappeared from the antique dealer’s face. His tiny eyes scrutinized me several moments in silence. Then his smile returned, broader than before, followed by another bow.

  “Yes, indeed. We have a splendid selection of live pasts. You have
come to the right place, sir. If you will allow me.”

  He went back to the door and turned over the rectangular sign hanging on the glass. Now it said “Open” on the inside.

  “This way, please.” He indicated a door behind the counter and took the lead, moving sideways so as not to turn his back on me.

  He disappeared for a moment into the darkness of the side room. A click was heard and a dim light went on. A dirty bulb with a broad tin shade hanging from the ceiling cast a conical light on the uncovered table and two high wooden stools. The shelves that lined the walls were filled with objects but they were hidden in the gloom in that part of the little room.

  Mumbling an apology, the antique dealer quickly collected the food remains on the table in a paper bag. He turned around briefly, clearly not knowing what to do with it, then finally put it on the floor.

  He shrugged as though in apology before motioning to one of the stools. “Please sit down.”

  I removed my gloves, brushed off the stool with them, then put them back on. The second-hand dealer waited for me to sit down, then sat on the other stool.

  “Would you like something special, sir? As I said, we have . . . ”

  I motioned with my hand for him to stop. I took a photograph out of the inside pocket of my lightweight coat and showed it to him.

  “Ah, I see. A great painter. What am I saying? She’s one of the greatest. The greatest, actually. And such a tragic end. Taking her own life and she wasn’t even thirty-five. Terrible. But who can understand an artist? In any case, now her works will be even more valuable. And more expensive, of course. Artists only receive the recognition they deserve after they die. That is indeed a great injustice, but it can’t be helped. Such is the world in which we live . . . ”

  I raised my hand again. “Do you have it?”

  “Yes, indeed. Didn’t I tell you that we have an excellent supply? Although it’s harder and harder to come by the goods. Things aren’t like they used to be. Surveillance is very tight, the police are always sniffing around, and the suppliers have become extremely greedy. You can’t imagine how unscrupulous they are. Nothing is sacred to them, not even art. Especially when they sense there might be a great demand for something. Like in this case.”

  He pointed at the photograph I was still holding in front of him. I put it back in my pocket.

  “Show me.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  He got up and went towards the shelf, then rummaged around there for some time, rustling the objects he moved. When he sat down again he was holding a shabby wooden chess box. He put it on the table, opened it and picked up the white queen. He turned it upside down and pulled off the round felt pad. It was hollow underneath. He stuck two fingers into it and took out a blue oval pill in cellophane. He put the pad back in place, laid the piece in the box, then raised the pill slightly.

  “Do you have any experience with this, sir? It’s taken before sleeping on an empty stomach. That way it has the best effect. When you wake up, the new memory will be with you, sharper than your own. And there are almost no bad side effects. You might feel stomach cramps briefly, but that’s normal. Arrhythmia only appears in those with high blood pressure. Do you have such problems, sir?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Excellent! I’m sure you understand that this is not her entire memory. One pill would not be sufficient. But who knows, in a few years even that might be possible. Miniaturization is a true wonder. But the selection has been made to satisfy every predilection. I’m certain you will find what it is that attracts you.”

  “Perhaps. Let’s hear the contents.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  This time he took the black queen. He squeezed his thumb and index finger around the top and started to unscrew it. A small roll of paper was in the hollow space. He unrolled it on the palm of his hand, took off his glasses and placed them on the table, then brought the paper up close to his eyes.

  “This is the easiest way for me to read small print,” he said, as though excusing himself. “Let’s see. First, of course, the suicide itself. With lots of blood, although rather bungled. We were lucky, in fact, that she didn’t do a more professional job. She was still alive when they took her to the hospital, so they were able to record her memory. In any case, if you are attracted to dramatic suicides, sir, you’ll really enjoy this one.”

  “They don’t attract me.”

  “Very well. And what do you say about her erotic life? I’ve heard it was not only tumultuous but very imaginative. But that’s probably true of all painters. The most arousing events have been chosen. From her first sexual experience to wild orgies. Some are quite shocking even if you are completely open-minded. And she had an excellent memory for detail . . . ”

  “Go on.”

  “Of course. Then there are the diseases that afflicted her. She didn’t take very good care of her health. If she hadn’t killed herself, it’s unlikely she would have lived much longer. That’s also a typical artistic trait, I presume. Some ailments really tormented her. She had a vivid memory of vomiting and diarrhea . . . ”

  “Go on.”

  “To be sure. Perhaps you are interested in her remorse? There was lots of it, although she hid it behind a mask of arrogance. Her conscience pricked her the most because of the child. Almost no one knew she’d had one. She had her when she was quite young, and since she couldn’t keep her, gave her up for adoption. The little girl died in a traffic accident. If you are fond of the suffering of others, sir . . . ”

  I raised my hand more abruptly than before.

  “Forgive me.” He stopped for a moment. “At the end is something especially spicy. Her memories of other painters. Not at all complimentary, to put it mildly. It seems that she was full of herself and very vain. But aren’t all artists? They all think that they are the best. Even so, such disdain towards one’s colleagues is rarely seen.”

  “She was the best,” I said in a low voice.

  The antique dealer glanced at me quickly from under the little piece of paper.

  “Undeniably. I said so too. The greatest.”

  He wrapped up the piece of paper and set it on the table next to the pill, then put his glasses back on.

  “Did you find something to your liking in this selection, sir?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I see. And might I ask what would be to your liking, sir?”

  I didn’t answer immediately. We stared at each other in silence for several moments. When I finally spoke, my voice was soft again.

  “Her memory of the act of painting. Of what comes right before it. Her creative exaltation. Her inspiration. Can you get that for me?”

  He scrutinized me once again.

  “We can get whatever you want. The only question is whether you are willing to pay the price, sir.”

  “How much?”

  “It won’t be easy, of course. As I said, the suppliers have become ruthless. But we have to understand them too. They expose themselves to great danger.”

  “How much?”

  “If they were to get caught, they wouldn’t be the only ones to spend a long time in prison. Everyone involved in this would too. I’m afraid not even you would be spared, sir.”

  “How much?”

  Our eyes met silently again.

  “It’s free.”

  I stared at the antique dealer in confusion.

  “What’s that?”

  “You wouldn’t have to pay a cent, sir.”

  “Then how would I pay for it?”

  Before he answered, he ran the tip of his middle finger twice across the cellophane wrapped around the pill.

  “Your memory.”

  I almost jumped off the stool and hit my head on the tin shade. The bulb began to sway and the conical illumination along with it.

  “Have you taken leave of your senses?” I shouted.

  The antique dealer stood up as well and stopped the light-pendulum.

  �
��Please don’t get upset, sir. This is just an ordinary business proposal. I suggest you think it over. I certainly don’t expect an immediate answer.”

  “There’s nothing to think over! It’s out of the question.”

  I walked briskly out of the little room and headed for the exit. Almost running, the antique dealer caught up with me so he could open the door. He bowed as I passed by him.

  “You know where you can find me if you change your mind, sir,” he said as I left.

  I wanted to turn around and shout that I would never change my mind. How could I let some perverse stranger get his kicks out of my memory? Something that was so intimately mine? Never!

  And then I remembered that up until a moment before I myself had been ready to delve into someone else’s memory. Indeed, not to get any kicks, but was that any excuse? My motive was actually even more dishonorable.

  Although I walked away quickly, I knew that I would return to the “Little Shop of Memories”. And accept the offer. Regardless of the price. What other choice did a hopelessly minor painter have than to steal the secret of inspiration of a great one?

  3. Great Expectations

  The doorbell woke me from my doze.

  Still groggy, I couldn’t remember what time of day it was. I lowered my glasses to the tip of my nose and brought my watch up to my eyes. The large numbers showed 15:32. Who could it be? I wasn’t expecting anyone. I hadn’t been expecting anyone or anything for a long time. The mailman would drop by periodically, but only in the morning.

  The bell rang a second time.

  “Coming,” I said in a raised voice. I struggled out of the armchair and shuffled towards the door.

  The face of the short middle-aged man standing on the doorstep holding a briefcase was beaded with sweat. It was no wonder, considering everything he was wearing in such heat: a dark-blue suit, white shirt, tie and hat. But what kind of success could a traveling salesman hope to have unless he was perfectly dressed for all occasions?

  “Hello,” he said with a smile, taking off his hat.