Impossible Stories II

by Zoran Zivkovic

“Hello.”

  “Forgive me for disturbing you when you might be resting. Could you spare me a moment of your time? I have something to offer that will certainly be of interest to you.”

  “There aren’t many such offers at my age.”

  “I firmly believe this is one of them. It won’t cost you a thing to listen. I won’t take more than about ten minutes of your time. Is that very much?”

  It wasn’t very much. Actually, it was not enough, bearing in mind the fact that I hadn’t spoken a word to anyone in days. I was certain that whatever he was trying to sell wouldn’t be for me, but what did it matter? The conversation alone would do me good. And he could certainly do with a bit of refreshment. I didn’t have the heart to deprive him of a short break.

  “Please come in,” I said, stepping back a little so he could enter.

  His face lit up. “Thank you. You won’t regret it.”

  It wasn’t until we entered the living room that I realized how messy it was. When a man lives alone he stops noticing. I would have cleaned things up a bit had I known I would have a visitor. All I could do was quickly clear a space on the two-seater so my visitor had somewhere to sit.

  “Sorry,” I said apologetically.

  “Think nothing of it,” replied the traveling salesman politely.

  “Would you like a cold drink?” I asked after he had sat down and placed his briefcase on the floor. And then I remembered that the choice was quite limited. I sighed.

  “I’m afraid that all I can offer is a glass of water. But nice and cold.”

  “I would be most grateful.”

  I came back from the kitchen with a tray, put it on the end table between the two-seater and the armchair, then sat down. My visitor drained his glass at once.

  “It’s really hot today,” I said.

  “Unbearably so.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. New beads appeared immediately to replace the old ones.

  “You’ll be more comfortable if you take off your jacket.”

  He hesitated a moment. “No, thank you. I’m fine like this.”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t have air conditioning. But I can turn on the fan. I don’t use it very much because it’s noisy.”

  “Thank you, there’s no need. I’m used to the heat. Let me get straight to the point. I promised that I wouldn’t keep you very long.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “What expectations do you have out of life?” I smiled sourly. “What could they be given my position? I’ve almost reached the end of my life’s path.”

  “But your position is not at all bad. Quite the contrary. It’s far better than the position of someone who is only twenty, for example.”

  “Really? I never would have thought as much. Better in what way?”

  “A twenty-year-old has great expectations. He feels that his life has just begun. Such hopes do not necessarily have to come true, however. One never knows what the day or night will bring. Is the number so small of those who never reach middle age, let alone old age, like you?”

  “There are such cases, I agree. But I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”

  “I’m trying to say that the future, the object of everyone’s obsession in the modern world, is like a high-risk speculation. It can bring great profit, but much more often completely fails. Unlike the future, however, the past is solid capital not exposed to any danger. It cannot be lost. In that sense you are a very rich man. Compared to you, a twenty-year-old is a wretched pauper. All he can do is envy you.”

  This time my smile was bitter. “Nevertheless, I’d willingly exchange my wealth for his poverty. What kind of wealth is it, anyway? Although my past is long, it’s primarily filled with the tedious job I did that ate up most of my time. Sometimes I feel that I haven’t really lived at all.”

  The traveling salesman drew his handkerchief across his brow again. “Well, you see, that’s where we can help you.”

  I didn’t even try to hide my sarcasm. “How? Can you change my past?”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

  “Then how can you help me?”

  “Have you ever wondered what the past really is?”

  I gave it some thought. “Memories of it?”

  “That’s right. Your past exists only in your memory. And that is subject to change.”

  I nodded my head. “I know that quite well. Mine has changed a lot. I’ve been rubbing shoulders with senility for a long time. There’s so much I’ve already forgotten.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of senility. We can offer you a completely new memory, but not your own.”

  I looked at him for several moments without speaking.

  “Then whose?”

  “No one’s. It’s artificial.”

  “Artificial?” I repeated in bewilderment.

  “Yes. Fashioned to give you the greatest use. You receive a past that you remember vividly and with great joy. Never again will it seem that you haven’t lived. Quite the contrary. You will have a very full life behind you. Enormous capital.”

  I briefly fell silent again.

  “But it would be only an illusion . . . ”

  “Isn’t every memory only an illusion?”

  “That’s true. But mine is somehow less of an illusion than that artificial one. Regardless of all its defects, I wouldn’t like to be without it.”

  “You won’t. It will always return when the effect of the injection wears off after about twelve hours.”

  “What injection?”

  “Memory is given intravenously. It’s only a slight inconvenience. A nurse would come in the beginning, but soon you would learn how to give it to yourself whenever you want to feel good. And is there any better reason for a man to feel good than knowing he has a long and very prestigious life behind him?”

  “That sounds to me like drug addiction,” I said in a low voice.

  “I don’t deny that a certain addiction might appear. Once you’ve experienced a perfect memory, you won’t care that much about your own. But unlike drugs, the elixir of memory isn’t harmful to your health. Even if you were on it all the time, it wouldn’t shorten your life. Many of our customers have been taking it without interruption for years without any bad side effects.”

  I stood up and took the glass off the tray.

  “I’ll bring you some more water.” I went into the kitchen. I needed a little time by myself.

  I came back with a full glass and put it in front of him. Although he was still sweating profusely, this time he only drank half of it.

  “You know,” I said, “even if I wanted an artificial memory, I wouldn’t have the money for such a luxury. I have a small pension and barely make ends meet, and every drug addiction is expensive. Even such a harmless one is certainly no exception.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. You wouldn’t have to pay a thing for the memory elixir. At least not right away.”

  “Then when? I’ve never taken anything on credit in my life. And I won’t start now. In any case, how would I repay it, regardless of when it’s due?”

  “You wouldn’t repay it until after you die.”

  “How’s that, after I die?”

  “You own this house, don’t you? And you don’t have any heirs.”

  “I can see you came well prepared.”

  “No special preparations were needed. People buy houses in this neighborhood primarily to spend their last days here. Most of them have no relatives. After they die, the municipality acquires ownership. They get something for nothing that way. And that’s not fair, I’m sure you will agree. At least we give you an illusion. If you try the artificial memory just once, you’ll see for yourself that’s no small thing.”

  I got up from the armchair.

  “I’ll have to think it over.”

  My visitor got up too. “Certainly. Perhaps this will help you make up your mind.”

  He opened his briefcase, took out a colorful brochure o
n glossy paper and handed it to me.

  “Our catalogue. We have a splendid selection of memories. If none of the existing memories suits you, we also do tailor-made memories. You can give free rein to your expectations about your past.”

  We shook hands at the door. “I’ll drop by again in a few days to see what you’ve decided. And now it’s out into the sun again. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye.”

  I returned to the armchair and started to leaf through the catalogue. Its bright colors slowly supplanted the grayness of the disorder that surrounded me. Life does indeed become more cheerful when a man has some expectations.

  4. Sentimental Education

  I went out the back door of the sanatorium. Before me stretched a flat lawn bordered by a tall hedge. The early autumn sun had turned the tops of the linden trees more golden than green. Dressed in identical light robes, the patients standing or sitting on benches resembled blue statues dotted about an open-air exhibit. Nothing moved, like in a movie-still.

  Disrupting this tranquility, I headed across the lawn towards the farthest bench on the left. The patient I wanted to see was always sequestered there. But even if I didn’t know where he was, I could easily spot him by his shock of pure white, yet still luxuriant hair.

  He didn’t look at me right away when I stopped in front of the bench. He kept his eyes on the hedge, seeming to see through it to something that brought a smile to his lips. His hands were resting on an old-fashioned book in his lap.

  I stood there for some time in silence before addressing him.

  “What a beautiful day.”

  His head turned towards me slowly. The smile didn’t disappear, but it softened.

  “Yes, beautiful.”

  “How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you. How about you?”

  “I’m fine, too, thank you.”

  “Have you come out to the park for a bit of sun too?”

  “No. I’ve come to see you.”

  “Me? Do we know each other?”

  “Yes.” I indicated the space next to him on the bench. “May I?”

  “Certainly, please sit down. How strange. I can’t remember having met you before. How awkward to have to ask, but would you mind telling me where we met?”

  “Six-and-a-half years ago, when you came to our sanatorium. I am your doctor.”

  “Have I been in the sanatorium that long? Why? Is there something wrong with my health?”

  “You health is fine. But not your memory.” His smile evaporated.

  “Come again?”

  “You haven’t been able to remember anything for a long time. And even what you remembered before has been almost completely forgotten.”

  “Why, that’s terrible. Is there a cure? A person can’t live without memories.”

  “Yes they can. You’ve been doing it for years. And quite successfully, one might say. Actually, I know lots of people who’d give everything they have to be in your place. To be able to forget the past.”

  “But I have no reason to forget it.” He paused a moment. “At least I hope not. Do you happen to know any details about my past?” he asked hesitantly. “Is there something dreadful in it?”

  “Listen, we have this same conversation almost every day. For you it’s new every time, while I am like an actor who’s been playing in the same show for a very long time. When we get to this place, I shrug my shoulders helplessly and reply that I know even less about your past than you do. We haven’t been able to find a single one of your friends or relatives, someone who knew you before you came to the sanatorium. But today the show will take a new turn.”

  “Did you find someone from my past?”

  “No. But we found your past.”

  “Where?”

  “Where it had been mislaid.”

  “How can a past be mislaid?”

  “The human brain doesn’t always act like we expect it to. In your case, there isn’t anything where the memory is most often registered. To put it in computer terms, all the files there have been erased. But we accidentally found a backup copy in a totally unexpected place.”

  His face lit up again. “So that means I’ll get my memory back?”

  I didn’t answer right away. We looked at each other in silence as his smile started to fade.

  “It’s not quite that simple. If we were dealing with a computer, it would be an easy matter. Unfortunately, the mechanisms of remembering are damaged in your brain. We could bring back your memory, but it wouldn’t be permanent. The very next day you would have forgotten everything. It wouldn’t be worth the effort to do it every day, either, because the procedure is complex and not completely without risk.”

  “Well, then it’s like you didn’t even find my past,” he said dejectedly.

  “Not exactly. You won’t be able to have all of your memory any longer, but we think we can revive one part permanently. A very small part. Perhaps only one day.”

  We sank into silence again.

  “Something’s better than nothing, I suppose,” he said at last.

  Now I was the one who smiled. “I’m glad you think so. All that’s left is to choose the day you most want to remember. And this is where we run into a new obstacle.”

  He looked at me in bewilderment, and then he got it. “How can I know which day I most want to remember when I can’t remember any of them?”

  “That’s it. But that’s where I might be able to help.”

  “You? How?”

  “I saw your past all the way up to your arrival at the sanatorium. It’s clearly registered on the backup copy. I know you, actually, as well as you once used to know yourself.”

  “That’s . . . ” he started, but seemed at a loss for words, “ . . . very unusual. What kind of a man was I?”

  Before I had time to answer, he spoke again.

  “No, don’t say a word. What’s the use in finding out when I’ll soon forget it anyway. Which day would you recommend?”

  “That’s not a simple question. There are many days in your past that are worth remembering. I might make a mistake.”

  “That’s an unavoidable risk, I’m afraid.”

  “I suppose so. Well, all right. You know, there’s something in your case that’s intrigued me all these years. Something seemingly unimportant I haven’t been able to explain.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The book,” I said, pointing at it.

  He raised it a little from his lap. “Sentimental Education.”

  “Yes. That’s the only personal item you brought with you to the sanatorium. I tried to work out why it was so important to you, but kept running into a wall of oblivion. The most logical explanation was that you brought it because it was your favorite book, but not once have I seen you read it.”

  He put the book back on his lap. “I don’t remember having read it.”

  “You haven’t. I know that now. Not only here, but even before you joined us. You bought it just before you came to the sanatorium, when you already knew that your memory was failing irreparably.”

  “Why?”

  “I wondered the same thing. When we discovered your memory, I hoped for a moment that it would be easy to find out. But it wasn’t easy at all. Even after carefully examining the backup copy, there didn’t seem to be a trace of the book. I had already lost hope, when I finally found it in your memory. This same edition.”

  “Where?”

  “It’s no wonder it was hard to find. You had seen it only once before. Briefly. Very long ago. Just after you turned nineteen. It was a beautiful day just like this one. A girl was sitting on a bench in the park reading Sentimental Education. You walked past her and then sat on another bench nearby even though you were in a hurry. When she got up and walked away not long thereafter, you wanted to follow her with all your heart, but you couldn’t pluck up the courage.”

  His eyes glazed over.

  “Was she pretty?”

  “Very. There are many women in
your memory, but you found none more beautiful than her. She was wearing a summer dress.”

  I stopped because he’d mumbled something. I hadn’t caught it.

  “Excuse me?”

  His voice was softer than a whisper when he repeated, “Light blue.”

  He placed his hands on the book in his lap, then turned his head away from me towards the hedge. The smile returned to his lips and so did the look in his eyes that saw through the dense foliage. Through the sediments of time. Through his dead memory.

  I stood up and headed back across the lawn to the sanatorium. I had nothing more to do there. He’d given me the answer I wanted.

  5. Dead Souls

  He was my best customer. A polished gentleman in late middle age, rather short, a bit stout, with red cheeks, a soft voice, discreetly dyed hair and manicured nails. Before I put the merchandise on the market, I took it to him first. It was a pleasure doing business with him. He asked for nothing but the best, thus the most expensive. He paid whatever the price, without bargaining. In cash, of course.

  He received me in the drawing-room, as usual. The china cabinets were filled with little statues that could have been museum exhibits, the walls were almost completely covered with paintings that would have been the pride of any gallery, the carpet was as thick as a lush lawn, and the original owners of the furniture had certainly been bluebloods. He was wearing a long wine-colored smoking jacket with a matching bow tie and shoes that had been polished to a high lustre. His eyes glistened with eagerness.

  “What pleasure have you brought me this time?” he asked with a broad smile after we’d settled into the two armchairs in the corner. Between them was a small table with thin arched legs.

  “You will be delighted, I’m sure.”

  “Wonderful!” he said, clapping his hands with glee. “Please show me. I can hardly wait to see.”

  I placed my crocodile briefcase on the table and opened it. The dark-blue plush lining was particularly suited to the merchandise I sold. Four indentations held little leather bags tied with ribbon at the top.

  I showed him the first one.

  “Early twentieth century. A great poet. He died in the maelstrom of the Great War . . . ”