Zoran Zivkovic - First Contact and Time Travel

by Selected Essays

  you this body one bit. It’s extremely unsuited for movement, in particular.”

  “Surely there must have been some reason why you couldn’t appear here in

  your own body?”

  The Bookshop

  71

  “Of course. I would die within moments. This is an extremely poisonous

  atmosphere for me, and the pressure is very high. Rarely have I come across

  such a dangerous environment, and I am acquainted with a very large number

  of worlds. But even if the conditions on Earth were perfect, I would still have

  to take human form. Because of you.”

  “Because of me?”

  A smile played on the visitor’s lips again. “Yes, because of you. How do you

  think you would have reacted if I had appeared in your bookshop in my

  natural form? Would you be conversing so casually with a ball?”

  “A ball?” I repeated. A bell rang softly somewhere in the back of my mind.

  “Yes, a ball, perfectly round and soft. What shape is more suitable than a

  ball in a world completely devoid of uneven spots and obstacles, and covered

  with dense vegetation? It’s almost as if the entire planet were enveloped in a

  gigantic plant carpet. There is nothing lovelier than rolling on it.”

  I tried to swallow the lump in my throat, but my throat had suddenly

  tightened. I could feel my pulse start to pound dully in my ears.

  “And what a captivating smell it has! That’s what is actually the worst thing

  about Earth. I could somehow become accustomed to all the rest, but never

  this foul odor.” He sniffed the heated air of the bookshop with disgust. “If you

  ever had the chance to smell the fragrances of my world, you would never be

  able to stand it here again.”

  I feverishly started to think. This wasn’t really happening. It could not be

  happening! There must be some simple explanation. But none that crossed my

  mind made any sense.

  “Smells,” the visitor continued inexorably, “that emanate from the diversity

  of grasses that do not exist on any other of the multitude of worlds I have

  encountered to date. Lomus, rochum, mirrana, hoon, ameya, oolg, vorona...”

  “...pigeya, gorola, olam,” I continued with a voice deadened almost to a

  whisper.

  The visitor’s face lit up. “So that means you recognize the work!” he cried.

  I recognized it, of course. It was truly a new story. So new that it had not yet

  been published, and thus could not possibly be found on the shelf over there

  with the recently published works. It was a story that no one but its author

  should or could know about at this moment. A story that resided, saved several

  times too many, in the virtual space of my computer.

  I nodded briefly, wordlessly.

  “Please give it to me. Quickly! If I don’t hurry it might be too late.”

  As I slipped a diskette into the computer with automatic movements and

  pressed the keys to copy it, questions teemed furiously in my head. But I knew

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  Z. Živkovic

  I would not ask any of them. Not only because there was no time left for him

  to reply, but also because I was not really prepared for the answers.

  The visitor took the diskette that I handed him, examined it carefully as

  though his eyes could see into its contents, then glanced at me and smiled

  again. He didn’t say a word. I tried to smile, too, but it looked more like a

  grimace.

  He turned around and headed hurriedly for the door. A moment later he

  was swallowed up by the thick wall of fog.

  I stood there for a long time, motionless, staring at the impenetrable

  greyness that had engulfed him. And then my fingers hit the keyboard again.

  The tangle of letters disappeared from the screen in an instant, leaving behind

  a yellow void. The story that I had almost finished faded into nothingness. It

  left no trace behind it, just as the visitor had left no trace behind him. I could

  pretend to myself that I had never even written it, and that, as on so many

  other evenings, no one had entered the bookshop once the wispy spirits had

  made their sluggish ascent from the riverbed.

  But I was deprived of this privilege to delude myself. The story had, in fact,

  been removed—just one erasure had destroyed all earlier saves—but the visitor

  had left a trace behind him after all. It was very faint, yet undeniable. I noticed

  it the first time I breathed in deeply through my nose. A tangle of delicate

  vegetable smells of unknown origin hovered faintly all around me. It might be

  impalpable to other people, but as long as I could smell it I knew I must

  restrain myself from writing science fiction.

  7

  The Puzzle

  Mr. Adam only started to paint late in life, after his retirement. It happened

  quite unexpectedly. For the first sixty-five years of his life he had never shown

  any predisposition towards painting, for which he had neither talent nor

  interest. The arts in general attracted him very little.

  The only exception might have been music, although he didn’t really enjoy

  it. Sometimes he would find a radio station devoted mainly to music and leave

  it on low, just enough to dispel the silence that surrounded him during his

  long, dreary hours at work. It didn’t matter what sort of music was being

  played; almost any would serve his purpose equally well, although he preferred

  instrumentals since singing distracted him. All he did at home was sleep, and

  often not even that, so there was little opportunity for anything else.

  Retirement brought Mr. Adam an abundance of empty hours which he

  must fill. Experience gained at work had taught him that whenever he had to

  wait an indeterminate time for something, he had to impose obligations upon

  himself, and then discharge them doggedly, regardless of how unusual they

  might seem. This at least gave a semblance of meaning to everything. And one

  could not live without some meaning, however illusory.

  He set himself one obligation for every day of the week. On Sunday he

  cooked, something he had never done before. He bought the biggest cookbook

  he could find in the bookstore and set himself to prepare every dish in it, in

  alphabetical order. The uncertainty of how far he dared hope to get at this

  “The Puzzle.” Written in 2001. Originally published in Serbian in 2000 as “Slagalica” in Sedam dodira muzike/Seven Touches of Music, Polaris, Belgrade, Serbia.

  © Springer International Publishing AG, part of Springer Nature 2018

  73

  Z. Živković, First Contact and Time Travel, Science and Fiction,

  https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-90551-8_7

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  Z. Živkovic

  tempo did not disturb him. He was aware that he would require extreme

  longevity to reach the end of the book, but that was of no importance to him.

  He followed the instructions for each recipe to the letter, and the only

  trouble he encountered was when they were not specific enough, but allowed

  the cook to use his own judgment or taste. He did not like everything he

  cooked, but that did not bother him greatly. He ate his culinary creations

  down to the last spoonful, throwing nothing away. This was almost a matter of

  honor to him. Sometimes, when the recipe was i
ntended for several people, he

  ate the same food the whole week through.

  On Monday Mr. Adam rode his bicycle. This was also a new departure. He

  learned how to ride easily and quite rapidly, despite his advanced age. He was

  not deterred by bad weather, though he would dress accordingly. The only

  trouble he had was when the rain spattered his glasses, unpleasantly fogging his

  vision. He preferred to ride without glasses in a downpour, though that

  rendered his vision equally foggy.

  He always took the same route, each time increasing the distance a little. He

  tried to conserve his energy so he had enough left to go back by bike. He was

  only forced to return by other means of transport on the few occasions when

  there was a sudden turn in the weather, or he was overcome by fatigue. His

  conscience always plagued him when he gave up like that.

  Unlike cooking, cycling had its limits. The route he took never actually

  ended, since it connected to many others, but even if he were to ride the whole

  day without stopping, which was not very likely, at midnight he would be

  required to stop. Tuesday was not for bike riding, but imposed its own

  obligation.

  While still employed, he had read very little except professional journals.

  Not because there was no opportunity—many of his colleagues read for

  pleasure to pass the time at work—but because it seemed to him a sign of

  insufficient dedication to the job. Of course, his work would not have suffered

  for it, particularly since computers had taken over the bulk of his responsibil-

  ities. Now he decided to make up at least partially for this lapse. He became a

  member of the town library and went there every Tuesday. He entered as soon

  as it opened and stayed until it closed, only taking a short break early in the

  afternoon to eat something.

  His initial subject was science fiction. This was a natural choice, but

  Mr. Adam soon gave it up. What he read about first contact seemed unso-

  phisticated for the most part, often to the point of inanity—pulled out of thin

  air, at best. The number of writers demonstrating any knowledge of the real

  state of things was quite small, though such knowledge was easy enough to

  obtain. Disappointed, he was briefly tempted to abandon reading entirely. But

  The Puzzle

  75

  giving up in the face of adversity was not in his nature, and besides, he had paid

  his dues a year in advance. Finally, were he to stop going to the library he

  would have to think up a new obligation for Tuesday, and that prospect did

  not please him at all.

  He found a solution to this problem, using the same means he had often

  resorted to at work. Whenever his search in one area drew a blank, he simply

  broadened his field of vision. Not knowing what else to choose, this time he

  broadened the field to the farthest limit, like suddenly taking the whole sky

  instead of one small sector. Instead of science fiction he chose literature in its

  entirety, but as this turned out to be far greater even than the cookbook, he

  had no idea at first where to begin.

  The main catalogue was indexed by author, and he briefly considered

  adhering to that order. But then he thought again, and concluded that this

  would not be a satisfactory approach. He spent some time at the library

  computer, classifying titles by publication date, and finally obtained a list of

  books from the oldest to the most recent. The scale of this list did not

  discourage him at all—he had become accustomed to such challenges long

  ago. He started to read steadily, without rushing, as if all the time in the world

  lay before him.

  On Wednesdays Mr. Adam went to the zoo. The middle of the week was

  the right time to visit, when there were far fewer visitors than at weekends.

  Moreover, if the weather was bad, he would often see no one in the vicinity for

  long periods. That suited him best. Ideally he would have liked to be

  completely alone at the zoo, but of course, he was never able to count on that.

  Mr. Adam did not behave like the ordinary sort of visitor, who just wanders

  around enjoying himself. First he found out which animals were housed in the

  zoo, then he drew up a schedule of visits. Each animal was allotted a whole day.

  Few of the zoo’s inhabitants were worthy of such dedication, but the system-

  atic patience with which Mr. Adam approached everything did not allow him

  to act otherwise.

  He would arrive in the morning at the chosen cage and sit in front of

  it. When there was no bench he brought a small folding chair from home. He

  would stay in that spot until nightfall, doing nothing but observe the animal

  carefully through the bars. He did not know exactly what to expect. Certainly

  nothing special. What he hoped for was at least a certain reaction to his

  presence, just an awareness that he was there, perhaps a glance that deliberately

  crossed his own. Anything short of complete disregard.

  It was actually quite easy to attract the animals’ attention by offering them

  food, but Mr. Adam never did. It would be a form of cheating, and he would

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  Z. Živkovic

  brook no cheating. Therefore he took no food with him, not even for himself.

  When he left the zoo on a Wednesday evening, he was often faint with hunger.

  On Thursdays Mr. Adam visited churches. Not being religious, he had

  never been to such places before, and was surprised to learn that the town held

  sixteen of them. Sometimes he had to walk the whole day in order to take them

  all in. He could have used public transport, of course, which would have sped

  things up considerably, but that would have run contrary to Mr. Adam’s basic

  intention. His Monday bike ride was by no means sufficient to keep him in

  shape, and his need for additional exercise was the more acute after spending

  all Wednesday sitting still at the zoo. What could be more appropriate than a

  seriously long walk?

  In order to avoid the tedium of repeating the same walk every time,

  Mr. Adam took a different route every Thursday. This was not done at

  random; he had worked out a precise plan. He approached it as a simple

  problem in combinatorial mathematics. There were far more ways of ordering

  the sixteen points than he imagined he would ever need. The itineraries greatly

  varied in length, because the algorithm he had chosen took no account of the

  distance between the churches. He bore up stoically under this inconsiderate

  mathematical dictate, consoling himself with the reflection that he found

  longer walks more enjoyable.

  Mr. Adam could have visited points other than churches. In principle, the

  direction of his walks was immaterial to him, so he could not have explained

  why he had made churches his choice. Luckily, no one ever asked him, which

  saved him from embarrassment. On reaching a church he began by walking all

  the way round it, examining it inquisitively, as if seeing it for the first time.

  Then he would take a little rest, sitting in the churchyard if there was one,

  before continuing on his way.

  In time he got to know the exteriors of all sixteen churches quite well, and

  came to regar
d himself as a real expert in this field. He believed that he alone

  had noted some of the details. For example, there was always an even number

  of birds’ nests under the eaves. Who knows why? He rarely felt any urge to

  examine the churches’ interiors. He was only tempted to enter on two or three

  occasions, but he always refrained, and here again he was unable to say what it

  was that had dissuaded him.

  Friday was his day to go to the movies. Mr. Adam would always watch four

  films in a row, from mid-afternoon to late in the evening. This was by any

  standard too much. After the second film his impressions were already becom-

  ing confused, and by the end of the fourth he would feel truly exhausted, as

  though he had been working at some strenuous task, rather than sitting in a

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  77

  comfortable seat the whole time. But this did not prompt him to decrease the

  number of films.

  Mr. Adam was not the least bit selective regarding the repertoire. He did not

  have a favorite film genre, although he felt most relaxed watching romantic

  comedies. Action films left him rather indifferent, and although they were loud

  as a rule, he even managed to doze off to them, particularly if they were the last

  of that day’s four. He found thrillers unconvincing, although not as much as

  most science fiction films. Those sometimes appeared outrageously idiotic; he

  could never understand why filmgoers got so excited about them. Overly erotic

  scenes embarrassed him, but fortunately that was not noticeable in the dark.

  Although it might have appeared that Mr. Adam chose his films at random,

  this was not at all the case. He bought his tickets with great care, concentrating

  on films that were expected to sell out. Just before the lights dimmed,

  Mr. Adam would stand up for a moment and look all around. He would

  feel annoyed should he spot any empty seats. Those empty places would

  bother him until the end of the show. He only felt at ease in a full house.

  That alone could temporarily lighten the burden of solitude which, like some

  sinister inheritance, hung over from his former work.

  Mr. Adam passed Saturday in the park. He needed to spend time outside in

  the fresh air after so many hours indoors the previous day. Late in the morning