Twelve Collections and the Teashop

by Zoran Zivkovic

  INTRODUCTION

  LIKE OTHER WRITERS first taken up by the science fiction and fantasy community, such as Mervyn Peake or J.G. Ballard, Zoran Živković is essentially sui generis, working in a broad tradition of symbolist, fabulous and satirical fiction which finds enthusiastic publication today in periodicals such as Postscripts. Most of Živković’s translated stories have appeared in Interzone in recent years, where they have routinely come high in reader polls in spite of his idiosyncratic style and subject matter, far more familiar to Eastern European readers who are perhaps more used to the wry, bitter-sweet philosophical questioning of human perception and the nature of reality found in fabulists like Grin, Bunin, the Čapeks, Nesvadba, and even Kafka in his less angsty moods. In some ways this form is an inheritance from years of foreign, most recently Soviet, domination. its writers worked in code, burying their subject matter within layers of abstraction, irony and faux näiveté which gave it an almost painterly quality. Just as a painter applies different colours and coats of paint designed to control light in a variety of ways, getting refraction, defraction and reflection depending on which angle you view the work from, so writers like Živković bring a distinctly painterly eye to their writing. What might seem at first a simple landscape or portrait gradually reveals a sequence of angles and ultimately narratives giving the subject almost endless perspectives.

  When Britain and other parts of Western Europe and America were creating modernism, the burgeoning nationalist movements in Eastern Europe and, to a degree, South America were linking their arts to a rediscovery of their cultural roots. These roots, of course, lay in the fabulous past and were exemplified by folktales, myths and epic poetry. out of them developed a tradition which began to take recognisable form at roughly the same time as modernism. it was linked to nationalism, so it self-consciously examined its local origins for inspiration. This examination produced not only great music, plays and poetry, but a kind of fiction owing at least as much to folk literature as to Pushkin, Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky or Chekhov. The narratives often took place, like fairy tales, in a timeless and unnamed world.

  These writers frequently made their protagonists nameless, their locations vague, giving the events they experienced a dreamlike quality. it is only a relatively short step from those tales to the modern sophisticated fable, at which Živković excels. in Middle and Eastern Europe it became natural to work in such a tradition, which ultimately produced more and more refined forms. Such forms have reached their zenith, in my view, in a writer like Živković, who has adapted the influences of Serbia’s past to his own private uses, while drawing on a wide reading of contemporary imaginative literature, including science fiction. I believe his work is now on a par with some of his greatest contemporaries, such as Borges, Milorad Pavić, italic Calvino or Danilo Kiš.

  For many years Živković’s enthusiasts, like me, had to look for his work in relatively obscure publications, often produced in his native Serbia. only recently has it been possible to find his books published in the US and UK by the likes of the present publisher, who has done so much to produce the shorter work of our best imaginative writers. in the US, Živković’s most recent novel, Hidden Camera, has received excellent reviews in some very prestigious publications, including The New Yorker, whose critics have at last recognised a talent previously only acclaimed by readers of sf magazines, or in webzines such as Fantastic Metropolis. Živković’s work, rooted as it is in a specific tradition, is not a reaction against modernism. His fabulations incorporate modernism’s lessons. His characters are most typically urban, swiftly sketched but well-rounded, their qualities hinted at as much by their actions and obsessions as by conventional description. Though typically the stories take place in unnamed locations these are usually contemporary, familiar to those of us who live in postindustrial cultures. Because they occur in what is clearly the here and now, his narratives have immediate relevance. if the country or the city is not named, this serves to emphasise the substance of the tale. it is almost the opposite of the English and American tradition of story-telling which owes so much to Defoe, who was a master of verisimilitude, making us believe in the actuality of his narratives. in France, Balzac and Zola aimed for similar effects until they were challenged by existentialists like Camus. In America the traditions created by Dreiser, Lewis, Sinclair and Dos Passos, as well as Fitzgerald and Hemingway, were already being countered by Faulkner and then by Pynchon, Burroughs and others. The English modernists, from Joyce to Henry Green, lost influence to the likes of Ballard, Carter, Rushdie and Sinclair. Russian literature, for so long imposed upon by socialist realism, again looked to its folk roots, to conventions developed in the 19th century, to imaginative experimenters like Bely or Zamyatin who began to emerge in the early 20th century.

  Modernist fiction pays close attention to suspending disbelief, producing a semblance of actuality, even if that fiction is sf or fantasy, and was the form until recently most admired and accepted in the West. This led in turn to work which was almost too weighed down with details as it attempted to bring authenticity and credibility to its literary inventions. Western fiction abandoned even those devices of the 19th century which might begin a story “in a certain European capital, in the year 19—,” where “a curious event took place…” instead we had to know that the capital was Berlin and that the specific event, perhaps in the form of a police report, took place at exactly 8.51am, on Monday, 17th December 2002 at number 17 Lindenstrasse. We were almost expected to provide map references. But in the fabulist tradition we might not even be told the exact nature of the curious event, let alone be given details of time and place. instead different details were offered, many of them borrowing from the sensibilities of Proust, Chekhov or Colette while avoiding their habits of specificity.

  Like several of his brilliant Eastern European and Latin contemporaries Živković has learned to make the most of this technique, producing some of its most sophisticated examples. Writing under tyrannical political conditions, where fiction is taken seriously enough to get you arrested for saying the wrong thing or referencing the wrong character, writers became cautious of specificity. Živković, no supporter of Milošević and the communists, probably instinctively learned the trick of creating substantial fiction which avoided antagonistic interpretation. His characters are frequently (though not in this book) anonymous, citizens of an unnamed metropolis. To the advantage of the story’s atmosphere, the number of the tram they board, the name of the street they enter, the sell-by date on the food they buy is never revealed to us. This can be irritating to the anglophone reader, if the writer is not very good. But in the hands of a fine writer, like Živković, the technique is used to superb effect. Far from obscuring meaning it offers many meanings in one narrative. and this is why I enjoy and admire him so much. There is no one way of interpreting him on a simple linear level, which is what links him with the best authors of what came to be called post-modernism.

  This novel, with its twelve sections and a coda, is one of Živković’s most sophisticated to date. To link his observations and his themes he adapts techniques from the cinema, such as his use of colour. as you will quickly discover, the sequence is about collections, about acquisition, about our attempts to keep death at bay and preserve the past, however trivial, about our habits of confusing our own identities with material things around us. We associate ourselves with the goods we accumulate and catalogue. Our very spirits become confused with the things we buy. The inanimate objects we accumulate can subtly take the place of our most valued human qualities.

  Among other things, this book is a sardonic and clever satire on trainspotters, anoraks, those of us with obsessive acqui
sitiveness, often addicted to collecting material which is valueless to others. as Živković shows, this hoarding instinct is most usually an attempt to hold death at arms length, to slow time, to retain the moment, to resist decay and, probably far less frequently than we admit, to make money through speculation. an autograph collector seeks signatures on the expectation that they might one day belong to someone famous. Mr. Palivec collects photographs of himself. a dream collector reveals that dreams with purple details are amongst the very rarest. Mr. Plushal collects words. Who is collecting stories? and what kind of stories are they? What happens if you eat your collection? Deaths, emails, hopes? Do all stories end up in the teashop? The denouement of one story hints at a thousand others, a million fresh consequences. We reflect, as it were, on all these resonances and frequently Živković forces us to draw our own interpretations and resolutions. in the 1960s, when I was editing New Worlds, our stated ambition was to find ways of concentrating stories so that they carried as many narratives as possible in the shortest possible space. My one regret in reading Živković’s work is that he wasn’t around back then. I envy the editors who publish him today. He is amongst the few writers I read regularly who has discovered an idiosyncratic way, without any pyrotechnics or large claims, of packing an enormous number of stories into the smallest possible volume. I guarantee you one thing: This book will stay with you far longer than it will take you to read.

  Michael Moorcock

  Lost Pines,

  Texas, January 2006

  12 COLLECTIONS& The Teashop

  1. DAYS

  WHEN I ENTERED THE PASTRY SHOP, a purple wave swept over me. Almost every surface was in some shade of this color: the wallpaper, curtains, rugs, tablecloths, chair covers. So were the shades on the lighted table lamps. The muted light gave even the air a purple tint. I squinted and took a look around. Not a single one of the six small round tables with three chairs each was occupied. The pastry chef was standing behind the display counter, wiping a glass with a purple napkin. His apron was inevitably of the same tone as everything else. He seemed more stocky than stout, and a thick, cropped beard and mustache compensated for his shiny bald head.

  He smiled and nodded, putting down the glass and napkin.

  “Good evening,” he said cordially. “Sit wherever you like.”

  “Good evening,” I replied, returning his smile, and took off my hat.

  I hesitated a moment, then headed for the table farthest from the door. I put my coat and hat on the coat rack in the corner and sat in the chair next to the wall. The pastry chef hastened to my table with the napkin draped over his arm, smiling all the while.

  “What would you like?” he asked solicitously.

  “I’d like to have something sweet.”

  “You’re in the right place. We have a fine selection of pastries.” He indicated the menu in the purple cover before me on the table.

  I picked it up and opened it. The pages were a somewhat lighter shade of purple, while the words were written in orange. The pastry chef had not overstated the selection. The list of different pastries filled an entire eight pages.

  My eyes skimmed the pages, making their way down the list. The farther I went from the beginning, the less familiar were the names. What, for example, could be hiding behind “livid lightning rod”, “shambling violin” or “absent-minded bumblebee”? The “enamored water lily” brought a smile to my lips. Items on the fifth page had names that seemed intended to repel those with a sweet tooth. Indeed, who would order a “stinky grater”, “putrid acrobat” or “cheerful carcass” without being in the know?

  I closed the menu and put it back on the table.

  “It’s hard to decide with such a selection,” I said. “Might you have something to recommend? I would like something special.”

  The smile that had seemed glued to the pastry chef ‘s face abruptly vanished. I couldn’t properly read the look he gave me. It seemed inquisitive and reproving at the same time.

  “Special?” he repeated in a voice that had lost its warmth.

  “Yes, something out of the ordinary. I like to try new things.”

  “We have something special, but it’s not on the menu.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “It isn’t. Have you ever tried stuffed monkey?”

  If I hadn’t just read the menu, this name would certainly have been a surprise. As it was, compared to some of them it seemed rather unassuming.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t even heard of it.”

  “Would you like to try it?”

  “Is it some kind of cake?” I questioned in return.

  “Yes, it is. cake with a unique flavor. It’s made according to a remarkable secret recipe. This is the only place it can be ordered.”

  “Then why isn’t it on the menu?”

  “Because of the price.”

  Now I was the one to eye him inquisitively. “It’s that expensive?”

  “It depends on how you look at it. For some it is. For others it isn’t.”

  “All right, tell me how much it costs and I’ll decide whether it’s for me.”

  The pastry chef sighed, then looked around the empty room as though checking for eavesdroppers on our conversation.

  “May I?” He indicated the chair across from me.

  “Of course. Please sit down,” I said, rising politely in my seat.

  The pastry chef sat down and rested his folded hands on the table. He stared at them for several moments, then raised his eyes towards me. When he spoke again, his voice was softer.

  “The stuffed monkey is not on the menu because it’s not paid for with money.”

  “What is it paid for with?”

  “Days.”

  “With what?” I asked, even though I’d heard him quite well.

  “Days from the past of whoever orders it.”

  Silence followed.

  “Oh, I see,” I said at last. “But how can you pay with days from the past?”

  “It’s possible. The day you use to pay disappears from your memory. It’s as though you never lived it. It becomes part of my collection.”

  “You collect days?”

  “Yes. You shouldn’t be surprised. Stranger things than the days of other people’s lives are collected.”

  “I’m not surprised, I just didn’t know anything about it.”

  “My collection is already quite large.” He turned around and pointed above the display counter. “It’s over there.”

  I had to strain my eyes. If the lighting hadn’t been so soft, I might have already noticed the four long rows of vials, one above the other, resembling some sort of frieze extending the whole length of the display counter. There were lots of them, certainly hundreds: deep purple and spherical, with glass stoppers, like fancy perfume bottles.

  “That’s where you keep the days?”

  “Yes. They must be kept tightly closed, in a dark and dry place.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Days evaporate instantly if you expose them to the sun. Humidity is also harmful to them. I have to maintain a stable temperature in the pastry shop the whole year round.”

  “Who would have thought?”

  “Quite so. regrettably, since I don’t know anyone else who collects days, there was no one to show me how to maintain such a collection. I had to learn by experience. Many days were lost until I got the hang of it.”

  “Do you collect any days in particular?”

  “No. I’m not choosy. I let the customers decide which day to give me. Some see a good chance to get rid of an unpleasant past and taste an exceptional dessert in return. everyone has bad days in their lives that they would happily forget. You undoubtedly have such days as well?”

  I gave it some thought. “I do.”

  “Would you give up one of them to try the stuffed monkey?

  Once again several moments passed before I replied. “I would.”

  The smile returned to the pastry chef ‘s face.
“very well. I’ll bring it at once.”

  He got up and hastened towards the display counter. He went behind it, bent down and briefly disappeared from sight. When he stood up he was holding a purple tray. carrying it with one hand, he came back to my table.

  He put a small purple plate in front of me along with a knife, fork and napkin. The cylindrical cake also looked purple, but that might have been because of the light. The pastry chef sat down, placed the tray at the end of the table, then took from it the last thing he’d brought: an empty vial. He had a bit of trouble removing the glass stopper.

  “Think of the day you will pay with before you put the cake in your mouth. As soon as you taste it, the day will disappear. If you don’t think of a particular day, one will be removed at random, and it might be one you’d really hate to lose.”

  I nodded my head, then slowly picked up the knife and fork. I cut a small piece. The inside of the pastry was a different shade of purple. I brought the bite carefully to my mouth.

  The pastry chef swiftly closed the vial as soon as I took the fork out of my mouth. He lifted it up towards the table lamp. What he saw inside made his smile broaden.

  “Well?” he asked after I had swallowed the first bite.

  I took another, larger piece.

  “Divine,” I mumbled, my mouth full.

  Soon there wasn’t a crumb on the plate. I picked up the napkin and wiped my mouth.

  “I knew you would be delighted. So far not a single person has been anything but pleased.”

  “I had no idea something that delicious ever existed. could I have another stuffed monkey?”

  “No.”

  I looked at him in bewilderment. “Why not?”

  “It’s for your own good. I’m an avid collector, it’s true, but I’m not a dishonorable man.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “In order to understand, you need to know something more about the stuffed monkey. It’s not an ordinary cake.”