Impossible Stories

  INTRODUCTION

  “Accidents Don’t Exist”

  The Short Fiction of Zoran Živković

  Paul Di Filippo

  Very seldom have I been disappointed with the flexibility and fecundity of the English language.

  Until now.

  When I’m faced with the task of coming up with a terse description of the short stories of Zoran Živković, in order to entice and enlighten readers who have not yet been fortunate enough to encounter this modern master and his tantalizing tales.

  Common terms used to classify fiction fail me utterly.

  Fantasy is the word that immediately springs to mind. But while it’s true that Zoran’s fictions are predicated on beings and events outside the narrow pale of consensus reality, the term itself has been so debauched of late that I hesitate to apply it here. Lumping Zoran’s delicate yet steel-cored fictions into a genre which in the mind of the vast unwashed is typified by the stale shapes of elves and unicorns and wizards would certainly be doing these tales an injustice.

  And, it occurs to me, Zoran’s focus is just as often on the mundane, instantly recognizable, impeccably delineated and incontrovertible details of everyday life. So should his work be deemed naturalistic or mimetic? Hardly, or not entirely.

  Perhaps urban fantasy is the designation I’m seeking. After all, that term is supposed to apply to works which blend the bizarre with the contemporary quotidian. And most of Zoran’s stories do take place in cities. But when I think of masters of this sub-genre, such as Tim Powers or Fritz Leiber, I see some affinities, but no overall identicalness.

  Fabulism springs to mind, but is instantly rejected, as reeking too much of academia and precious experimentalism. There’s none of that here.

  Are Zoran’s stories surreal? To some extent. But they possess none of the self-conscious, strained derangement of that school. In many respects, they exemplify the essence of logic.

  Maybe magical realism is the way to go. But that term seems forever attached to the Latino writers, and to exude a certain air of primitivism not in line with Zoran’s sophistication.

  Which is not to say that his fictional excursions do not possess a certain archaic feel, reminiscent of parables, folk tales or fables. Yet at the same time the consciousness behind them is defiantly postmodern.

  Many of the protagonists of Zoran’s stories come to unsettling ends. Does this make them horror? Again, I’d hate to tar him with the same brush applied to the myriad imitators of Stephen King.

  The offerings in this omnibus might be deemed gothic or new weird. But again, the lineage we see on display is not pure, but rather hybrid.

  So: no single piece of literary taxonomy suffices to label the work of Zoran Živković.

  Are we disappointed?

  In the end, not at all.

  This failure simply indicates that we are dealing with a living, breathing entity which, like all such, is irreducibly complex, and which can only be known by intimate encounters, not by secondhand representations.

  Does this mean we can say nothing at all about the stories in this volume?

  Certainly not!

  “Accidents Don’t Exist” xiii

  The first and easiest tactic, which I’ll not belabor, is to cite some equally unclassifiable fellow travelers, to establish the story-space/ mind-space which Zoran shares.

  First of course is Poe, godfather of both the modern short story and the macabre outlook on life.

  Second and third are Borges and Kafka, those quintessential touchstones for any writer interested in ironical and strange and absurd effects.

  Fourth is Italo Calvino, whose gentle whimsy always masked a deep and uncompromising vision of the strangeness of life.

  I’d name these four authors as Zoran’s “teachers,” whom, like all good students, he’s outpaced on his own singular path.

  Among his contemporaries, I’d invite Jeff VanderMeer, Jeffrey Ford, Jonathan Carroll, the aforementioned Tim Powers, and Haruki Murakami to share a cordial drink with Zoran. I think they’d all enjoy each other’s company very much.

  The second strategy for attempting to convey a little of the flavor of Zoran’s work to you, the hypothetical but very real inquisitive reader, is to mention a few consistent traits of his fiction, and then to examine a story or two in detail.

  You should note, right off the bat, one important aspect of these tales: they are grouped into families. This arrangement reflects the original publication of these stories as five separate English-language collections from the Serbian publisher Polaris. (And very handsome volumes these were, with gorgeous covers and a unique trim size. I presume that the collectibility of these volumes will only rise with the publication of the current omnibus.)

  All these collections organized their stories around a central theme. Without sharing characters or settings (this principled refusal to repeat himself or indulge in gross serialism is further testimony to Zoran’s uniqueness in the current literary landscape), the individual stories resonated and interpenetrated and bled into each other, the whole collection acquiring greater meaning than any single story. For instance, each story in Steps through the Mist very specifically features a different kind of fog, whether real or metaphysical. In The Library, the culminating story ties up the previous ones into a literal banquet. Readers of this omnibus should thus remain alert for the symbolic and thematic and linguistic hooks among each set of tales—and even between collections. This playful agglomeration of effect via parallel constructions is typical of Zoran’s methodology.

  Stepping down to the level of individual stories, I’d like to point out that Zoran is a master both of the omniscient pointof-view, and the first-person. Whether immersed in a particular consciousness or viewing from above, Zoran maintains the perfect voice for whatever tale he’s conveying. Impossible Encounters presents us with a good mix of both types.

  Zoran’s plots always unfold with lucid meticulousness. There’s nary a word wasted in his stories, and all incidents are meaningful. As the narrator of “Geese in the Mist” learns, “Accidents don’t exist.”

  Another aspect of his fiction that cannot help but strike the reader is its universality or timelessness. Although occasionally a specific place-name is mentioned, and although the accoutrements of modern society are frequently invoked, even pivotally so (the computer in “Virtual Library” for instance), these stories are instantly apprehendable by any First World reader around the globe. They speak to the base verities of existence that underpin all cultures, and will doubtlessly be enjoyed one hundred years from now, just as they could, for the most part, have been relished one hundred years ago. A story such as “Disorder in the Head” could be of Victorian vintage, yet retains its applicability in this day when children’s imaginations remain a battleground.

  Zoran’s cast of characters deserves comment as well. Admirable in range, from children to the elderly, male or female, his protagonists are instantly recognizable as people we know from our own lives.

  Lastly, I’d like to point out Zoran’s sharp sense of when to remain ambiguous and when to issue definitive pronouncements and delineate clear yet unfathomable actions. He’s able to convey the mystery of life while also promoting an acceptance of the inexplicable and uncertain, and also a sense that, even if we can’t put our wisdom into words, it’s still possible to emerge from our trials with hard-won knowledge.

  Two favorite stories of mine, that seem to me to capture the essence of Zoran’s art, are “Home Library” and “The Puzzle.”

  In “Home Library” a man visits his mailbox and finds an unsolicited book awaiting him. He takes it out, closes the mailbox door, then reopens the box on a whim. A second book has instantly materialized. Within a short time,
he learns the phenomenon is open-ended. As fast as he can remove each book, another one appears. Does he call the authorities or even a ghost-buster? Far from it. He simply takes on the task of carting these books endlessly up to his apartment, which soon fills to the rafters with this set of “World Literature.” Eventually, the Sisyphean task brings its own reward: “The enormous effort had been worth it in the end.” Our hero’s last concern? Not to be late for work.

  This exaltation of the common man swept up in absurd events is so powerful in its understated, elegant way that it invigorates the life of anyone who reads it.

  “Home Library” was told in the first-person, while “The Puzzle” needs and receives the distancing of an omniscient narrator. Mr Adam, a retired gentleman, decides to fill his days with a rigid set of hobbies. He carries his scheme to the utmost limits of precision and tender ridiculousness (Zoran hardly ever disparages his characters, even when they’re flawed), until the day that one of his hobbies—painting—turns the tables on him and begins to master Mr Adam. This parable of the power of art to upset routine and blinkered existence can stand as a symbol of Zoran’s own accomplishments.

  Reaching the end of this introduction, I find my faith in the English language restored. The tongue does indeed offer a single word to encapsulate Zoran Živković and his fiction (all of which has been expertly translated by the skilled Alice Copple-Tošić).

  Genius.

  PART ONE

  TIME GIFTS

  1. The Astronomer

  I

  He had to escape from the monastery.

  He should not have been there at all; he had never wanted to become a monk. He’d said so to his father, but his father had been unrelenting, as usual, and his mother did not have the audacity to oppose him, even though she knew that her son’s inclinations and talents lay elsewhere. The monks had treated him badly from the beginning. They had abused and humiliated him, forced him to do the dirtiest jobs, and when their nocturnal visits commenced he could stand it no longer.

  He set off in flight, and a whole throng of pudgy, unruly brothers started after him, screaming hideously, torches and mantles raised, certain he could not get away. His legs became heavier and heavier as he attempted to reach the monastery gate, but it seemed to be deliberately withdrawing, becoming more distant at every step.

  And then, when they had just about reached him, the monks suddenly stopped in their tracks. Their obscene shouts all at once turned into frightened screams of distress. They began to cross themselves feverishly, pointing to something in front of him, but all he could see there was the wide open gate and the clear night sky stretching beyond it. The gate no longer retreated before him, and once again he felt light and fast.

  He was filled with tremendous relief when he reached the arched vault of the great gate. He knew they could no longer reach him, that he had gotten away. He stepped outside to meet the stars, but his foot did not alight on solid ground as it should have done. It landed on something soft and spongy, and he started to sink as though he’d stepped in quicksand. He flailed his arms but could find no support.

  He realized what he had fallen into by the terrible stench. It was the deep pit at the bottom of the monastery walls; the cooks threw the unusable entrails of slaughtered animals into it every day through a small, decayed wooden door. The cruel priests often threatened the terrified boy that he, too, would end up there if he did not satisfy their aberrant desires. The pit certainly should not have been located at the entrance to the holy edifice, but this utmost sacrilege for some reason seemed neither strange nor unfitting.

  He began to sink rapidly into the thick tangle of bloated intestines, and when they almost reached his shoulders he became terror-stricken. Just a few more moments and he would founder completely in this slimy morass. Unable to do anything else, he raised his desperate eyes, and there, illuminated by the reflection of the distant torches, he saw the silhouette of a naked, bony creature squatting on the edge of the pit, looking at him maliciously and snickering.

  He did not discern the horns and tail, but even without these features he had no trouble understanding who it was; now that it was too late, he realized whom the terrified monks had seen. He froze instinctively at this pernicious stare, wishing suddenly to disappear as soon as possible under the slimy surface and hide there. All at once the blood and stench no longer made him nauseous; now they seemed precious, like the last refuge before the most terrible of all fates.

  And truly, when he had plunged completely into that watery substance, it turned out that it was not, after all, the discarded entrails of pigs, sheep, and goats, as it had seemed to be, but was a mother’s womb, comfortable and warm. He curled up in it, knees under his chin, as endless bliss filled his being. No one could touch him here; he was safe, protected.

  The illusion of paradise was not allowed to last very long, however. Demonic eyes, like a sharp awl, quickly pierced through the layers of extraneous flesh and reached his tiny crouched being. He tried to withdraw before them, to retreat deeper into the womb, to the very bottom, but his persecutor did not give up. The thin membrane that surrounded his refuge burst the moment he leaned his back against it, having nowhere else to go, and he fell out—into reality.

  And with him, out of his dream, came the eyes that persisted in their piercing stare.

  He could not see them in the almost total darkness, but their immaterial touch was nearly palpable. Suddenly awake, he realized that someone else was with him in the cell. He had not heard him come in, even though the door squeaked terribly, since probably no one had thought to oil it in years. How strange for him to fall into such a deep sleep; the night before their execution, only the toughest criminals managed to do that. They were not burdened by their conscience or the thought of impending death, and he certainly was not one of them.

  He raised his head a bit and looked around, confused. Although he felt he was not alone, his heart started racing when he really did see the shape of a large man sitting on the bare boards of the empty bed across from him. If not for the light from the weakly burning torch in the hall that slanted into the cell through a narrow slit in the iron-plated door, he would not have been able to see him at all. As it was, all he could make out clearly were the pale hands folded in his lap, while his head was completely in shadow, as though missing.

  He asked himself in wonder who it could be. A priest, most likely. They were the only ones allowed to visit prisoners before they were taken to be executed. Had the hour struck already? He quickly looked up at the high window with its rusty bars, but there was no sign of daybreak. The night was pitch black, moonless, so that the opening appeared only as a slightly paler rectangle of darkness against the interior of the cell.

  He knew they would not take him to the stake before dawn, so he stared at the immobile figure uncertainly. Why had he come already? Would they be burning him earlier, perhaps, before the rabble gathered? But that made no sense. It was for this senseless multitude that they organized the public execution of heretics, to show in the most impressive manner what awaited those who dared come into conflict with the catechism. The sight of the condemned, his body tied or nailed to the stake, writhing in terrible agony while around him darted fiery tongues of flame, had a truly discouraging effect on even the boldest and most rebellious souls.

  Or maybe this was a final effort to get him to renounce his discovery. That would be the best outcome for the Church, of course, but he did not have the slightest intention of helping it; on the contrary, had he come this far just to give up now? If that was what was going on, their efforts were in vain.

  “You had a bad dream,” said the unseen head.

  The voice was unfamiliar. It was not someone he had already met during the investigation and trial. It sounded gentle, but this might easily be a trick. He was well acquainted with the hypocrisy of priests. His worst problems had been with those who seemed understanding and helpful and then suddenly showed their pitiless faces.

  �
��Why do you think that?” asked the prisoner, stretching numbly on the dirty, worn blanket that was his only bedding.

  “I watched you twitch restlessly in your sleep.”

  “You watched me in the total darkness?”

  “Eyes get accustomed to the dark if they are in it long enough, and can see quite well there.”

  “There are eyes and eyes. Some get accustomed to it, others don’t. I ended up here because I refused to get accustomed to the dark.”

  The fingers in the lap slowly interlaced, and the prisoner suddenly realized that they looked ghostly pale because he was wearing white gloves. They were part of the church dignitaries’ vestments, which meant that the man in the cell with him was not an ordinary priest who had been sent to escort him to the stake. So, it was not time yet.

  “Do you think that you will dispel the darkness with the brilliance of your fiery stake?” The tone was not cynical; it sounded more compassionate.

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t think of any other way.”

  “It is also the most painful way. You have had the opportunity to witness death by burning at the stake, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, of course. While I was at the monastery they took us several times to watch the execution of poor women accused of being witches. It is a compulsory part of the training of young monks, as you know. There is nothing like fear to inspire blind loyalty to the faith.”

  “Yes, fear is a powerful tool in the work of the Church. But you, it seems, have remained unaffected by its influence?”

  The prisoner rubbed his stiff neck. He could still somehow put up with the swill they fed him, the stale air and the humidity that surrounded him, and the constant squealing and scratching of hungry rodents that he’d been told were able to bite the ears and noses of heedless prisoners. But nothing had been so hard in this moldy prison as the fact that he did not have a pillow.