Impossible Stories II

by Zoran Zivkovic

  “You aren’t thinking of . . . ?” he said, interrupting me.

  I just smiled without a word.

  His face lit up. “I can’t believe it. Tell me, tell me.”

  “While they sat in the trench for months, he passed the time by writing. He had just finished the epic poem when the order was given to attack. There wasn’t time to put it away. He just stuck it under his army coat and headed out. A grenade blew him up only a few steps from the trench. Luckily, under the cover of night, the remains of the dead were picked up and buried in a large mass grave. Not a trace was left of the manuscript, of course, but a tiny bit of him was nonetheless preserved. Two tiny pieces of his femur.”

  A worried look crossed his face. “Both of them are there?”

  “Both, of course.”

  He sighed with relief. “Oh, wonderful! Truly wonderful! And you say—he had finished the epic poem? Completely?”

  “Completely.”

  “Divine! Let’s see the next one.”

  I indicated the second little bag. “Mid-nineteenth century. A writer who was not understood in her time. She was mostly published under male pseudonyms.”

  “I know who you’re talking about! Is it possible? You have something of hers too? What? What?”

  “A novella. Perhaps the best one she ever wrote. It seems so modern. No wonder her contemporaries didn’t understand. She destroyed it in a bout of deep despondency brought on by the ridicule she was subjected to.”

  “But didn’t she end her life by jumping off the cliffs into the sea? Her body was never found. Or am I mistaken?”

  “You’re not mistaken. It wasn’t.”

  “But how then?”

  I smiled. “Right before she went to her death, she sent a farewell letter to her girlfriend and enclosed a lock of hair.”

  “Oh, what luck!” He pointed at the bag. “It’s all there, I hope?”

  “Do you have any doubts?”

  “No, no, none at all. What’s the third? I’m dying of curiosity.”

  “Late eighteenth century. A novelist. Very productive. Well known for his absent-mindedness . . . ”

  “Him? Amazing! You’re wonderful!”

  I bowed. “Once he forgot to put out the candle before falling asleep. It fell off the candlestick next to the bed somehow and started a fire. He barely got out alive, but two finished manuscripts disappeared in the flames. This didn’t bother him too much. He wrote one of them over again from memory. But for some reason, he didn’t rewrite the other.”

  “Didn’t he die in the turmoil at the end of the century? As far as I know, he has no grave.”

  “That’s right, he doesn’t. But he did have a barber.”

  “Another lock of hair? Or from his beard? He may have been balding, but he had quite a beard, if I remember well.”

  “None of that. In those days barbers were dentists too. He pulled out his wisdom tooth. But he didn’t throw it away. He probably thought it was something noteworthy. He couldn’t even imagine all that he saved along with that tooth.”

  “Magnificent!” Suddenly his face darkened. “You’re sure he didn’t pull out any others?”

  “If he did, he didn’t leave anything else behind. I checked it out thoroughly.”

  “Wonderful! And the fourth little bag? I suspect you’ve saved the most valuable item for last. You won’t disappoint me, will you?”

  “I hope I won’t. Early seventeenth century. A playwright. Many consider him the greatest . . . ”

  Forgetting his manners, he jumped up from the armchair and brought his hands to his cheeks.

  “Don’t tell me . . . ”

  I said nothing in return. All I did was smile.

  He sank back into the chair slowly, staring at me in disbelief.

  “But everything he wrote has been preserved. There’s not even a hint of a missing work.”

  “There isn’t. And yet it exists. His last play, written the same year he died. He was already feeble and it was stolen from him. That’s probably what finished him off. The manuscript never turned up and seems to have been destroyed. Envy is as strong a driving force as greed in human affairs.”

  “What do you have of his?”

  “A sliver of the frontal bone.”

  This time he put his hands over his mouth. When he lowered them and spoke, it was almost in a whisper.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “From his grave, of course,” I said in an even tone.

  “But how? You didn’t have the nerve to desecrate it, did you?” He eyed me suspiciously, then continued before I managed to say anything. “You didn’t, I’m sure. That would have hit all the headlines. So how did you do it?”

  “I have my ways. If you, however, think you’re running some sort of risk, I’ll have no trouble finding a more daring customer . . . ”

  “By no means!” he shouted with a squeak, then was immediately ashamed of his outburst. “Forgive me. I’m not the slightest bit afraid of any risk. It’s something else that troubles me. What if someone gets the idea of following in your footsteps? There must be more bones in the grave.”

  “Not anymore.”

  His mouth opened, but nothing emerged for several moments. “Ah,” he said at last. “So this is all of it?”

  “All of it.”

  I’d seen that expression before. Few human exaltations can be compared to the fierceness of the collector’s. Especially one who considers that he alone can have something. I was sensitive to this passion, of course. If it didn’t exist, would I be living so well?

  “May I?”

  He put his hands together unconsciously as though begging me. He knew I never unveiled anything on offer in advance. I only gave intimations. I also didn’t allow trials before the conclusion of the deal. Nothing raises the price as much as uncertainty combined with impatience. But I could make an exception here. It was obvious that he wouldn’t be able to resist, regardless of how much I asked.

  I pretended to hesitate briefly, then said, “All right.”

  “Thank you!”

  He quickly reached into the wide pocket of his smoking jacket and took out a pair of yellow rubber gloves. He pulled them on with feverish movements, then extended his right hand towards me. I untied the ribbon on the fourth little bag and slowly shook out the piece of frontal bone into his cupped hand.

  Holding his hand rigid, he stood up, went across the drawing-room and opened the double doors of a cabinet in the opposite corner. Behind them was something that certainly didn’t go with the rest of the drawing-room: high technology. Under an enormous screen was a device full of buttons, switches and colored lights. It had a very professional four-word name. I simply called it a player.

  I was not a fan of high technology. Luckily, I didn’t need it in my part of the job. It was required in the after-sale part, however, but that no longer concerned me. I had only a general idea of what the flashing device did.

  Someone very clever had discovered that memory is not located solely in the brain but, like DNA, is stored in every cell. It stays there even after death. As long as you have the tiniest part of the deceased, you can reconstruct everything they ever heard, saw, felt, experienced or suffered. All of this might have disappeared from their memory while they were alive, but the cells forget nothing.

  The polished customer cried out when the sight of a yellow sheet of paper appeared on the screen with a quill pen flying across it. He was looking at the same thing as the long-dead bard had done as he wrote his last play. Seemingly lost forever, it was now recovered but would still be registered as lost, since only one man would have it. It was clear why such a unique privilege could by no means be inexpensive.

  I cleared my throat.

  It was hard for him to tear his eyes from the screen. As he headed for the armchair, he carried the bone carefully in his cupped hand. While he took off his gloves, I put the little bag back in the briefcase and closed it.

  We sat there briefly in silence.
And then I surprised even myself at the figure I gave him.

  The client was less surprised, it seemed. His face showed no expression as he left the drawing-room. He came back several minutes later with a briefcase identical to mine. There was no need to open it and count the money, of course. My business is based on reciprocated trust. We merely exchanged briefcases.

  I had already risen to leave, when I remembered something.

  “Soon I will have something new to offer. What do you say to one of the living writers? I could get you the memory of a contemporary giant. A very unusual individual. I’m already in contact with his pedicurist. The price, of course, would be considerably lower . . . ”

  He didn’t hesitate a moment. “No, thank you. I’m not interested in the living. But as soon as a dead soul appears, I expect you to come to see me first.”

  6. Lost Illusions

  Even though the telephone hadn’t rung, the secretary picked up the receiver. Without a word, she listened to what was briefly said to her, then hung up the phone.

  “You may go in.” She motioned towards the padded door.

  I got up and went into the office of the memory agency owner. The prevailing color was green. Plants of varying shapes and sizes were placed everywhere. The owner’s large desk was covered with vegetation. When he stood up to greet me, holding a plastic sprayer, he looked like he’d just stepped out of a botanical garden.

  “Hello. Please sit down.”

  I settled into a ponderous dark-brown leather armchair facing his desk. Tall oleanders in brass pots were placed on either side. When the owner sat down, all I could see was his head above the plants.

  “So, you’d like to cash in your memory. Fine, fine. This is the first time you’ve put it up for sale, right?”

  Before entering his office I’d filled out a questionnaire that the secretary gave me. She’d entered my answers into the computer, so the owner could see them right away.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Many people find their first visit here quite a hardship. But please be assured that there is absolutely no reason to worry. First of all, the actual procedure of giving your memory is completely painless and not the least detrimental to your health. In addition, we don’t remove your memory, we only make a copy of it. And finally, the buyer doesn’t know whose memory he has purchased.”

  “It isn’t easy, though. My memory is the most intimate part of me. It’s like being without some part of my body.”

  “I agree it isn’t easy if you look at it like an amputation or donating an organ for transplant. But it’s not like that at all. Have you ever wondered what a memory actually is?”

  He waited briefly, then continued since my reply was not forthcoming.

  “Nothing real, tangible. Just an ordinary illusion whose loss is hardly felt. And why shouldn’t a man lose some of his illusions if he can benefit by it, particularly when he’s in trouble? Would you rather lose an organ?”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” I had to admit.

  “There, you see. And quite a profit can be made by selling illusions today. Some of our customers have really struck it rich. The market pays an excellent price, but is rather selective. I hope you have something interesting to offer us.”

  “I hope so, too.”

  “It would have been easy to find out if you’d let us scan your memory. Would you consider changing your mind?” I shook my head briskly. “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “I don’t blame you. Few of our clients agree to it. People don’t want to be an open book. That is something we understand and respect. Some things are kept even from the doctor. To tell you the truth, I myself wouldn’t let anyone have unlimited access to my memory. A person has to keep some secrets to himself, right?”

  “Indeed.”

  “The market, however, has the greatest demand for the very things we would most like to hide. That’s also understandable. The urge to peep behind the curtain exists in all of us, whether we admit it or not. We are all voyeurs to a greater or lesser extent, and some people are ready to really loosen the purse strings to find pleasure in that passion.”

  I sighed. “Voyeurs won’t be very attracted by what I have to offer.”

  “Ah, you never know. You can’t imagine what all attracts the aficionados of other people’s memories. Not long ago we sold the memory of a difficult childhood. You’d think that no one would be interested in it, yet it fetched an excellent price. Or, for example, the memory of days spent as a prisoner of war. Quite an unpleasant experience, but we found a rich buyer for that too. And what’s there to say about a man who would give his eyeteeth for the memory of a childbirth. The more difficult and painful the memory, the more he is prepared to pay for it.”

  “There’s nothing like that in my past.” I smiled. “Certainly no childbirths.”

  He raised the sprayer and started to spray the plants on the desk in front of him. Several drops made it all the way to me.

  “Of course. Perhaps there is something bizarre? Episodes with animals are in great demand right now. One customer received a pretty penny for the memory of eating a live snake. If it had been poisonous, she would have been set for life. The guy who sold his memory of falling off a horse didn’t fare badly either. Too bad he was only bruised and not seriously injured. He would have gotten at least three times more. But you can’t have everything. The highest price we ever received was for the memory of a night spent in a cage with a gorilla suffering from a toothache. We had to hold an auction.”

  “I don’t have anything to offer with animals either.”

  “Very well. Then what do you have to offer?”

  “I’ve read a lot of books.”

  He shook his head. “There’s not much demand for that. Even if we find a buyer, you won’t get hardly a thing. People are less and less interested in books. It doesn’t help that they don’t have to waste time reading anymore, since they can buy books already read. All they have to do is remember them. Such are the times, unfortunately.”

  “Unfortunately,” I agreed.

  “We might be able to raise the price if you’ve read a book that can’t be found anymore and is enmeshed in a dangerous secret. The best would be a conspiracy of mammoth proportions that includes secret services, secret societies and the church, to be sure. There will always be fans for that.”

  I gave it some thought.

  “There aren’t any books like that among those I’ve read.”

  “What else do you have to offer?”

  “I’ve been to a lot of celebrated classical music concerts.”

  The owner frowned. “There’s not much profit in that either. A very narrow circle of people is interested in classical music, and they aren’t very wealthy. We might attract one of the wealthier buyers if you have the memory of a concert that was involved in a scandal. An assassination attempt on the conductor, for example, or something like that.”

  “There weren’t any scandals surrounding the concerts I attended.”

  “That’s the downside of classical music. It’s so stuffy and sterile. The very opposite of popular music where everything is bubbling with life. Live concerts have it all: fights, drugs, rape, weapons are even drawn. If you were a fan of that kind of music, you’d certainly have salable memories in abundance.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m not.”

  “Yes, unfortunately. What else do you have?” I could tell by his voice that he was starting to lose patience.

  “I’ve visited famous museums and galleries.”

  The look he gave me was a mixture of reproach and pity. He raised the sprayer again, but didn’t use it. He held it pointed at me.

  “We won’t get very far this way. You clearly don’t know what’s in demand on the memory market. It would be better if I asked you questions.”

  “All right.”

  “Is there any trauma from your childhood? Preferably with lots of abuse. Violence is always popular, particularly against children.”

  I shook
my head. “There was no violence in my family.”

  “Too bad. Have you ever been in a traffic accident? Those with lots of casualties are highly prized. An airplane accident would be perfect.”

  “How could I be here now if I’d been in a plane crash?”

  “Sometimes there are survivors. Their memories fetch a fabulous price.”

  “The only fall I remember was off a bicycle when I was seven and a half. I was covered in blood.”

  He seemed to be hesitating over whether to activate the sprayer.

  “Have you witnessed an unusual event?”

  “Unusual event?”

  “Yes. The stranger the better. We got an excellent price for a chance bystander’s memory of a three-story building that collapsed. Unprompted, without an earthquake. Thirteen dead. The witness of a suicide by jumping into an enormous vat full of honey also did well. The man who watched a tornado funnel suck up a train like it was a feather turned a good profit too. If it had been transporting people instead of sheep, he could have gotten whatever price he asked.”

  “Once I watched a heavy safe being lifted up to a fifth-floor window. They’d almost reached it when one of the cables snapped.”

  “Did it fall? Were there any casualties?”

  “No. They somehow managed to get it inside.”

  “Tough luck. What about your sexual experience?”

  “Excuse me?” I asked in amazement.

  “Don’t be surprised. Other people’s sex life arouses voyeurs the most. Not just any, of course. No one’s interested in ordinary lovemaking anymore. Perversity of any kind is all the rage. From incest to sodomy. You can’t imagine the price that was paid for the memory of doing it with a giraffe. How about you?”

  “Did I ever do it with a giraffe?”

  “Not necessarily. Insects are currently in fashion. If you have any memory of intimate contact with termites, for example, or hornets, you’d be able to write your own check.”

  “My sex life is quite ordinary. No incest, giraffes or insects. And it’s not for sale.”

  “As you wish. There’s only one field left—crime. Traditionally it’s the most lucrative.”

  “What kind of crime?”