Twelve Collections and the Teashop Page 2

I licked my lips. “I agree with you completely.”

  “Not only in that sense. It creates an addiction.”

  “Addiction?”

  “Yes. The more you eat, the more you want.”

  “Doesn’t everyone with a sweet tooth dream of finding a pastry like that? If you think I’ll overdo it, there’s no need to worry. I’ve had a sweet tooth my whole life, even to the point of overindulging, and I’m as fit as a fiddle.”

  “The stuffed monkey won’t harm your health.”

  “Then how can it be bad for me?”

  Before he answered, the pastry chef put the vial in the wide pocket of his apron.

  “You would have fewer and fewer days from your past.”

  “So what? What do I need those days for, anyway?” I laughed. “This way at least they’ll be good for something. I will thoroughly enjoy eating my past.”

  The pastry chef didn’t find my witticism amusing. “That wouldn’t be very wise,” he said in a stern voice.

  “It wouldn’t?”

  “It’s not a good idea to be without a past.”

  “Why not?”

  The pastry chef looked at me for a few moments without speaking.

  “I told you I didn’t have any experience when I began to collect days. I thought, just like you right now, that there was nothing to lose by paying with the past. I let my first customers eat the stuffed monkey to their heart’s content, happy to enlarge my collection. Until they started to disappear.”

  “Disappear?”

  “Yes. Gradually. every new pastry increased the empty space inside them, like they’d become invisible in that spot. The spaces were quite small in the beginning. They went unnoticed. Now you too have one somewhere.”

  I looked at my hands, then felt my face. “Where?”

  “I don’t know. It’s no use looking for it. You wouldn’t even find it under a magnifying glass. That’s why there’s no harm in trying the stuffed monkey. It hardly leaves a trace. But after just a few pieces the empty space becomes visible and quickly spreads with each new day from the past that is consumed. The first customers hid this from me, fearing that I would refuse to give them the stuffed monkey. And they simply couldn’t live without it anymore.”

  “So what happened?”

  “In the end I found out what was happening. The empty spaces became so big that they could no longer be hidden.”

  “Did you stop giving them the cake?”

  “No. It was impossible. They’d become completely addicted. I had to do the exact opposite to keep the whole thing from surfacing. I kept on giving them the stuffed monkey until there was nothing left of them.”

  “So, that’s how you got rid of them?”

  “Only partially. They became invisible, but they’re still here.”

  “Here where?’

  “In the pastry shop. even though they’re disembodied they are still drawn irresistibly to the stuffed monkey. So they hang around here all the time. It’s because of them that everything is purple. For some reason that color does them the most good. That was the least I could do for them.”

  I looked around the empty room.

  “You can’t see them, of course. But it’s not hard to guess where they are right now. They have all flocked around us. Poor things.

  Their invisible mouths are certainly watering. You can’t imagine how much they envy you.”

  I pushed the empty plate to the middle of the table.

  “Why don’t you remove the stuffed monkey from your selection?”

  “But it isn’t part of the selection.”

  “You offered it to me.”

  “You asked for something special.”

  “I didn’t mean something that special.”

  “You have no reason to be dissatisfied. Both of us, actually, fared well. You tasted an exceptional pastry without any evil consequences, and I added another day to my collection.” He patted the pocket of his apron.

  I made a vague circular motion with my finger. “What about the empty space?”

  “You won’t ever notice it. In any case, it will only do you good. It will remind you of the past and how precious it is. You’d been willing to give it up so easily.”

  I didn’t know what to say in response. We sank into silence.

  “Would you like to try something less special, from the menu?” said the pastry chef at last. “even though they can’t be compared to the stuffed monkey, they are excellent pastries nonetheless.”

  “No, thank you,” I hastened to reply as I got up. “Perhaps another time. Until then, good-bye.”

  “Until the next time,” said the pastry chef, getting up as well.

  As I headed for the door with large strides, putting on my coat as I went, I was struck by the duplicity of this farewell.

  2. FINGERNAILS

  MR. PROHASKA COLLECTED HIS FINGERNAIL CLIPPINGS. He’d been doing it since the age of eight, when he cut them by himself for the first time. He was so proud of the fact that he’d managed to cut them without his mother’s help and without doing himself any harm that he decided to save the ten little sickles as proof of this feat. He’d had to do it in secrecy because his mother certainly wouldn’t have let him keep them. He put them in a little plastic bag and stuck a label on it with the date. Letters were still giving him trouble, but at that early age he was already skilled with numbers. He then put the bag in a hidden place. Approximately two weeks later, when the time came to cut his nails again, he hesitated but a moment before putting the new little sickles in a bag with the date on it. There was no long-term decision behind this; that would only be formed later. He simply felt it was a shame to throw the nails away. it suddenly seemed that doing so would be throwing away part of his body. True, he was no longer physically connected to the nails, but this did nothing to lessen his attachment to them. They might have separated from him, but he could still keep them close by. Sadness filled him at the thought of the many nails his mother had cut off before he turned eight and which were now lost forever.

  He continued to collect his nails in an orderly fashion, but the passage of time brought the problem of where to put the little bags. Every year there were twenty-five to thirty more of them. The shoebox where he kept them was not easy to hide; his mother almost found it two or three times. He felt no relief until his early twenties, when he left his parents’ home. His fingernail collection at that time contained more than four hundred little bags that filled all of three shoeboxes. That’s when he was finally able to put it in order and go through it without the constant fear of being caught doing something unseemly, although he wasn’t the slightest bit ashamed of his secret.

  He did feel ashamed, however, of keeping something he cared about so much in such an unsuitable place as a shoebox. it seemed like sacrilege to him; he had to find a more dignified repository for his unique collection. although he still wasn’t earning very much money, he nonetheless managed to set aside enough to order five hundred specially fitted cigarette cases. Had he been richer, they certainly would have been made of solid silver, but under the circumstances he had to be satisfied with silver plating. Every cigarette case had a date engraved on the lid and the inside was lined in purple plush with two curved rows, each containing five sickle-shaped indentations.

  It took several months to transfer the nails from the little bags to the cigarette cases. it was a tedious and exacting job. He did it with great patience, meticulously, consumed by the constant fear of getting it wrong. it was extremely difficult to ascertain the finger from which each nail had been cut. He finally got the hang of it and then all he needed was a quick touch to place a given sickle accurately in the proper indentation. He proudly considered himself a genuine expert in this type of identification.

  The collection was finally lodged in a suitable repository, but one day as he gazed at it with pride an uneasy thought spoiled his pleasure. what if a burglar broke into his apartment? He would certainly head straight for the cigarette cases, parti
cularly since there was nothing else of any value. Perhaps, in his haste, he wouldn’t even check what was inside them. Later he would certainly throw away the nails because for him they had no value. This possibility horrified Mr. Prohaska; he had to prevent it at any cost. He rushed to the bank, rented a safe-deposit box and without a moment’s notice started transferring the cigarette cases. He felt no relief until the last one was secure.

  He went to the bank once a month to deposit two new cigarette cases. He always spent a considerable amount of time in the safe-deposit vault, enjoying the sight of the neatly stacked little cases. it was on one such occasion that an unexpected thought yet again shattered his moment of pleasure. it all started with an innocuous reflection as to whether the safe-deposit box he had rented was large enough to accommodate all his future nails.

  Naturally, he could not know how many more nails there would be, but as a good mathematician it was not difficult to calculate that if he lived to the age of eighty-seven and a half years, the safe-deposit box would be filled to the top with cigarette cases. if he were to live longer than that he would have to rent either a larger box or an additional one if there were no larger boxes. This particular problem had a solution. But not the ultimate problem, one that hadn’t crossed his mind before and suddenly struck with all its might. what would happen to the collection after his death?

  He needed to prepare for this eventuality as soon as possible. True, there was no reason to worry, he was in excellent shape for his age, but disease is not the only cause of death. various calamities are lying in wait, beyond our control. The worst thing possible would be for him to die a sudden death, before he was able to arrange for the permanent care of his collection. The safe-deposit box would be opened as part of his estate, necessarily divulging his secret.

  This had to be prevented by all means. Yes, but how? Perhaps he could rent another safe-deposit box, not under his own name this time, but anonymously, so that his death would not result in its being opened? The box would still be opened at the end of the rental period. all right, then he would rent a box for a very long period. He wasn’t quite sure how long that really long period should be—various durations crossed his mind, from one century to an entire millennium—but they told him at the bank that safe-deposit boxes were rented for a maximum of twenty-five years.

  This certainly did not seem sufficient to him. He left the bank depressed, and this dismal mood never left him. The situation only worsened when he remembered another undesirable fact that had slipped by unnoticed. The nails on a corpse continue to grow for some time. He couldn’t do anything about retrieving the lost fingernails of his childhood, so he simply had to make sure he got these. Should his collection be missing what might be its most important specimens? So, what should he do? He’d be dead and unable to cut his nails in the grave. whom could he count on to cut them in his place?

  Although this problem never left his mind, he couldn’t find a solution—until one rainy afternoon when he least expected it. The solution struck him in a moment of profound enlightenment. It was magnificently elegant in its simplicity, like a mathematical formula. He felt like dancing with joy. He refrained, of course, as a man accustomed to well-mannered behavior, although no one would have seen him vent his exultation.

  If death was the main obstacle standing in his way, then there was only one way to overcome it, once and for all. Mr. Prohaska firmly decided that he would never die.

  3. AUTOGRAPHS

  “GOOD AFTERNOON. Is this seat free?” I raised my eyes from the newspaper I was reading on the park bench. The diminutive old man who had stopped in front of me took off his hat, revealing a shock of white hair. His thin moustache was also white, and under it stretched a wide smile.

  “Yes. You’re welcome to take it.” I stood up slightly and indicated the empty part of the bench.

  “Thank you.” The old man sat down on the opposite end and placed his hat in his lap. He was wearing a double-breasted dark blue suit of an old-fashioned cut. The large, purple, slightly askew bow tie around his thin neck seemed ready to flutter off at any moment.

  I went back to reading my paper, but not for long.

  “Wonderful day,” said the old man.

  “Wonderful,” I concurred, keeping my eyes on the paper to let him know I didn’t feel like talking. But the old man ignored this signal.

  “It’s a real shame to die on such a day as this.”

  I closed the newspaper and looked at him inquisitively. “Die?”

  “Yes. More than eighty people are supposed to die today in this large city.” “How do you know how many people are supposed to die?”

  “That’s what the statistics say. around thirty thousand die every

  year. That’s about eighty a day, or one person every eighteen minutes.”

  “Interesting,” I replied and opened the paper again. But I didn’t have a chance to continue reading, because the old man spoke again.

  “Those are only averages, of course. on some days quite a few more people die than on other days. Can you guess the largest number of people to die on the same day in the last quarter century?”

  “No, I can’t.” I looked at the paper, but didn’t read.

  “Two hundred and sixteen!”

  “That many?” I said in an even voice, turning the page.

  “Yes,” affirmed the old man brightly. “It was a true pandemic. The day was as beautiful as this one, but that was just an illusion. Weather is able to generate very nasty surprises. Most of those who died were heart patients. Just imagine—not even seven minutes would pass and someone new would die.”

  “How awful.”

  “But then there are other days, of course. The sky descends almost to the earth, it rains without letup, the cheeriest people turn sullen and listless, those with a melancholic side fall into deep depression and are on the verge of committing suicide. even so, almost no one dies. on one such day the number of people who died was a record low—only twenty-six. Just think.”

  “Unbelievable.” I opened the newspaper up very wide and lowered my head a bit so I couldn’t see the old man anymore and he couldn’t see me.

  “People die for a wide variety of reasons,” soon came the old man’s voice from the other side of my flimsy shelter. “When you read that someone’s died of natural causes, that can mean any of a number of diseases. With some of them you’d never think they could be fatal. For example, just last year there were two cases of death from water on the knee. Didn’t you hear of them?”

  “No, I didn’t,” I replied crossly.

  “And what do you say to death from hair-loss, from bunions or from tennis elbow?”

  “Tennis elbow?” I asked in disbelief, peeking at the old man with one eye around the side of the newspaper.

  “Yes, believe it or not. a very unusual case. I can tell you the story if you like.”

  “No, thank you,” I hastened to reply, plunging into the newspaper again.

  “Lots of deaths aren’t natural,” continued the old man unrelentingly. “Do you know, for example, the annual average number of people who die in this town just from being struck by lightning?”

  I shook my head, although he couldn’t see it.

  “Five and a half, in spite of the fact that the area is well protected by lightning rods. But that isn’t the only affliction that comes from the sky. Infrequently, people die from objects that fall to earth. Most come from the upper floors of buildings or from various aircraft, but there are actual heavenly bodies as well. Almost every year someone dies from a meteorite impact. Did you ever wonder what the chances are of being hit by a cosmic pebble no larger than a pea?”

  I didn’t reply or make any movement. My nose was pressed against the newspaper, so I couldn’t even read.

  The old man paid no attention to my silence. “Almost nonexistent. The probability of winning the lottery is far greater. Even so, such misfortune does happen.”

  Silence reigned. My hopes that the old ma
n had abandoned this one-sided conversation were nonetheless in vain.

  “Something much larger might fall on your head too. One poor man met his maker under a piano that crashed down from the ninth floor.”

  I should have pretended I wasn’t listening, but curiosity got the better of me. “Piano from the ninth floor?” I asked behind the newspaper.

  “Yes, the ninth floor. They were moving it through the window down to the seventh floor when the cable snapped. This accident at least makes some sense. The man who died was a retired piano tuner. What can you say, though, about a barber who was squashed by an elephant in the middle of the town square?”

  I lowered the newspaper and stared at the old man.

  “You didn’t hear about that one?”

  I shook my head.

  “A circus was passing through. In order to drum up interest, they decorated the animals with banners and balloons, fitted them with parachutes and dropped them on the town. The rope on the elephant’s parachute got tangled and an innocent barber paid the price. The elephant died too, of course.”

  I couldn’t resist saying, “really?”

  The old man disregarded my scorn. “Yes. But there are happier outcomes too. recently a reckless suicide jumped off an overpass right onto the head of an off-duty fireman who happened to be passing by. The fireman was killed on the spot and the suicide got off with minor injuries.”

  I closed the newspaper and folded it twice.

  “All of that is interesting, but don’t you think that on such a lovely day as this there are nicer things to talk about than dying?”

  “Yes, there are, but as I said, people die on such days as this too.”

  That’s when it dawned on me.

  “Do you …feel all right?” It was an awkward way to phrase the question, but I couldn’t think of anything else in my alarm. “I feel great,” replied the old man cheerfully. “and I’ll feel even better if you give me your autograph.”

  He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a purple notebook and a metal pen. He opened it, leafed through it a bit, and then handed it to me along with the pen.