DieterM
07-01-2010, 04:02 AM
Grey clouds were pushing across the lawn. The meagre early morning light was falling diagonally into the room, making the whirling dust dance in its gleam. The wooden edge was pushing upon my forearm. I was leaning against the window-frame, my face halfway in the dark of the shady room, halfway in the new day’s twilight, languid, with my eyes half-closed, gazing through the curtain of my lashes at the neat lawn outside. Far back, in the tightly packed mist, I could guess the sun being lifted little by little above the horizon and the woods surrounding the Manor.
I closed my eyes briefly and averted my thoughts from the Manor Park, thinking about nothing.
My mind was blank, my senses blunt, my lips numb and my heart cold. My face, warmed by the feeble first rays, remained motionless in those days, my tired glance never resting on any human being. My legs weren’t supporting a person; they were supporting nothing. For nobody saw me in those days. I was living for nobody. Nobody remembered me.
My restlessness forced me to open up my eyes again. The mist had vanished, revealing the whole, painfully groomed splendour of the Manor Park. In the distance, the trees were glittering, green and moist; that was where the woods began.
I sent my gaze downwards towards the brackish moat-water, a dirty-foul broth. On hot days, its stench could be smelled for miles in a round, or so they said. Frogs could be heard singing croaky songs.
The sound of a piano was ringing out from somewhere. Astounding… Softly, a melody commenced, reaching my ears as if coming from far away, reaching my senses and shining in my eyes. For a moment, it swelled to a hollow, vibrating fortissimo before evolving to a sedate, smooth largo. As softly as it had begun, the sound faded. I turned around and tried to pierce the room’s penumbra.
In its centre stood a heavy wooden table, coated by a thick layer of dust. Two chairs. One had no back, the other one lying on the floor, knocked over. On the table, a broken glass, its sharp and jagged edges refracting the dim light and reflecting it partly upon the walls. Above the table hung a glass chandelier that clinked with each soft motion of the air. Some of the glass icicles were missing. There were some hidden corners where the chandelier was completely destroyed. You could not see them but the discord whenever it clinked gave those ruined patches away.
A plump ancestor was drilling his slack but stinging stare into my back. His portrait, darkened with age, was set on the floor. I realized that there were two heavy cupboards, too, standing like two bulky spectres in the rearmost corner. I had never noticed them before. My curiosity was minimal; thus, I did not budge.
The other side of the room offered solely two other paintings facing the wall. Probably some more blank-eyed, fat ancestors. In the meantime, my eyes had got accustomed to the room’s twilight; when I turned back towards the sunlit exterior, it hurt as if a knife had been pushed into my sockets. I even felt tears running hot and salty over my pale cheeks like drops of blood. After a few seconds, though, I could see again and noticed a young man. He was standing in the Manor Park, near the moat. When he lifted his head towards me, he started to wave violently.
I even thought I saw him shout. But of course, the closed window prevented me from hearing his words. I gazed at him, mute, but a light smile started to spread around my mouth when I understood what he was asking for: he seemed to be looking for an entrance. I shook my head, still smiling. I think I even shrugged with regret. Yet the young man did not surrender, jumping around, yelling, raving, insisting to be let in.
Such pushy ways had always annoyed me; I showed him my raised fist. And I watched him, more and more angry, trying to detect a window in the ground-floor apartments.
Finally, he seemed to have found one right beneath my window. He took a run-up, jumped out just before the moat. And landed in the middle of the boggy-streaky moat water, where he perished without having attempted to regain the shore.
The moat cannot be crossed.
The windows cannot be reached.
There are no windows down there, to start with.
My scorn had already subsided when I had realized what he was searching for. Now, after having followed the last act of his misbehaviour, I leaned again leisurely against the window frame.
Soon, the sun’s heat became unbearable. I tried to open the window. Yet I could not find a handle to turn, there was only the cold, repellent window glass. I looked around desperately. Was there nothing I could use to break the glass? The destruction ahead seemed a sacrilege, though. That was, in the end, what discouraged me. Oh, the broken chair was already in my hands when my wisdom returned. Soaked in sweat, I checked the room for another way to shut out the blazing sun.
I was wiping my face with the shirt I had previously taken off when I noticed the unremarked curtain, to the right of the window. I threw my shirt towards the table, if I remember correctly, knocking over the glass, which fell from the surface and shattered on the floor.
I took it in listlessly, grabbing the curtain with both sweaty hands. One jerk, and the window’s flaming rectangle was covered. Faceless darkness surrounded me, the coolness of a crypt veiled my naked chest, the sweat seemed to freeze on my body.
My body was nearly frozen, my heart could not thaw anymore, was eternally icy, in those days.
Cautiously, half-blind, I went off in search of the table where my shirt should be lying. I groped around in the black room, tense and listening. But I did not hear anything, except my own, gasping breath and the throbbing of my pulse.
I bumped against a wall. Under my searching fingertips, I sensed the heavy coldness of dark wood. I thought I was standing in front of those cupboards in the rearmost corner of the room, but these were no cupboards, although the direction would be right. This was a door.
I opened it and stepped outside.
A vast hall with a regal staircase leading downstairs on each side. A candelabra with burning candles in the centre. Its glow illuminating the dark hall, reaching as far as my door, as far as the two stairs, too. I walked towards the candelabra, which seemed to be miles away from the door. I kept walking for quite a while, without returning, the fire reflected in my eyes. That fire, so unfamiliar in those days…
Before, oh yes, before, there had been fire! Armies of fire! My whole body had been a fire, had been ablaze, I was virtually extolling the purifying properties of fire. But in those days, the fire had been blown out, no spark had remained in my soul, no breeze was wafting through my mind, an inflexible rock was cordoning off everything, sand had been spread over the flames and into my eyes, water had been poured over the consuming heat, and I had frozen to ice.
The last few metres, I had to crawl on all fours. But then, I sat in the middle of the hall, surrounded by impenetrable, endless dark, in the sad and tired candelabra’s weak glow. Neither did I see the end of the hall nor the two stairs nor the door to the room where I had left my shirt. Exhausted from wandering around, I stretched out on the cold stone floor. I probably had fallen asleep because the sudden surge of an organ made me sit up with a start.
The candles had almost burned down to little stumps. Yet I lifted up the candelabra and set out in the direction where I thought I had heard the organ coming from. I reached the staircase and discovered, startled, that the stairs led up, not down. I nonetheless followed the steps and climbed upstairs.
At one moment, an air puff blew out what was left of the candles. I reached the end of the stairs, learning that I had arrived in a narrow little room. I wanted to go back to the hall, but apparently, I had closed a door behind me without wanting to. The door seemed to be locked from the other side. I turned and turned. A piercing pain in my left ankle made me realize that I must have hurt myself somewhere in the process. I sat down on the floor. The room was so small that I hardly had enough space to sit comfortably.
Another breeze opened a door in front of me. Why, the narrow room had been a corridor all along! I stood up and ran towards the door, reaching a room dimly lit by a tiny ray falling through a hole in some dark curtains.
I grabbed the curtain and pulled. It gave in and disintegrated between my fingers.
Broad sunshine fell on my chest, cut into my eyes, caressed my body.
I turned around, my face tear-streaked.
In the middle of this new room: the table again, that had somehow been transformed into a piano; in front of it the chair without back; on the floor, the fragments of the shattered glass; on the piano, my shirt.
I sat down and tried to play but only some hapless tunes came out of it.
I took up my place at the window.
I was standing much by the window, in those days.
The last thing I witnessed before the sun set was the young man running towards the woods in the distance.
I closed my eyes briefly and averted my thoughts from the Manor Park, thinking about nothing.
My mind was blank, my senses blunt, my lips numb and my heart cold. My face, warmed by the feeble first rays, remained motionless in those days, my tired glance never resting on any human being. My legs weren’t supporting a person; they were supporting nothing. For nobody saw me in those days. I was living for nobody. Nobody remembered me.
My restlessness forced me to open up my eyes again. The mist had vanished, revealing the whole, painfully groomed splendour of the Manor Park. In the distance, the trees were glittering, green and moist; that was where the woods began.
I sent my gaze downwards towards the brackish moat-water, a dirty-foul broth. On hot days, its stench could be smelled for miles in a round, or so they said. Frogs could be heard singing croaky songs.
The sound of a piano was ringing out from somewhere. Astounding… Softly, a melody commenced, reaching my ears as if coming from far away, reaching my senses and shining in my eyes. For a moment, it swelled to a hollow, vibrating fortissimo before evolving to a sedate, smooth largo. As softly as it had begun, the sound faded. I turned around and tried to pierce the room’s penumbra.
In its centre stood a heavy wooden table, coated by a thick layer of dust. Two chairs. One had no back, the other one lying on the floor, knocked over. On the table, a broken glass, its sharp and jagged edges refracting the dim light and reflecting it partly upon the walls. Above the table hung a glass chandelier that clinked with each soft motion of the air. Some of the glass icicles were missing. There were some hidden corners where the chandelier was completely destroyed. You could not see them but the discord whenever it clinked gave those ruined patches away.
A plump ancestor was drilling his slack but stinging stare into my back. His portrait, darkened with age, was set on the floor. I realized that there were two heavy cupboards, too, standing like two bulky spectres in the rearmost corner. I had never noticed them before. My curiosity was minimal; thus, I did not budge.
The other side of the room offered solely two other paintings facing the wall. Probably some more blank-eyed, fat ancestors. In the meantime, my eyes had got accustomed to the room’s twilight; when I turned back towards the sunlit exterior, it hurt as if a knife had been pushed into my sockets. I even felt tears running hot and salty over my pale cheeks like drops of blood. After a few seconds, though, I could see again and noticed a young man. He was standing in the Manor Park, near the moat. When he lifted his head towards me, he started to wave violently.
I even thought I saw him shout. But of course, the closed window prevented me from hearing his words. I gazed at him, mute, but a light smile started to spread around my mouth when I understood what he was asking for: he seemed to be looking for an entrance. I shook my head, still smiling. I think I even shrugged with regret. Yet the young man did not surrender, jumping around, yelling, raving, insisting to be let in.
Such pushy ways had always annoyed me; I showed him my raised fist. And I watched him, more and more angry, trying to detect a window in the ground-floor apartments.
Finally, he seemed to have found one right beneath my window. He took a run-up, jumped out just before the moat. And landed in the middle of the boggy-streaky moat water, where he perished without having attempted to regain the shore.
The moat cannot be crossed.
The windows cannot be reached.
There are no windows down there, to start with.
My scorn had already subsided when I had realized what he was searching for. Now, after having followed the last act of his misbehaviour, I leaned again leisurely against the window frame.
Soon, the sun’s heat became unbearable. I tried to open the window. Yet I could not find a handle to turn, there was only the cold, repellent window glass. I looked around desperately. Was there nothing I could use to break the glass? The destruction ahead seemed a sacrilege, though. That was, in the end, what discouraged me. Oh, the broken chair was already in my hands when my wisdom returned. Soaked in sweat, I checked the room for another way to shut out the blazing sun.
I was wiping my face with the shirt I had previously taken off when I noticed the unremarked curtain, to the right of the window. I threw my shirt towards the table, if I remember correctly, knocking over the glass, which fell from the surface and shattered on the floor.
I took it in listlessly, grabbing the curtain with both sweaty hands. One jerk, and the window’s flaming rectangle was covered. Faceless darkness surrounded me, the coolness of a crypt veiled my naked chest, the sweat seemed to freeze on my body.
My body was nearly frozen, my heart could not thaw anymore, was eternally icy, in those days.
Cautiously, half-blind, I went off in search of the table where my shirt should be lying. I groped around in the black room, tense and listening. But I did not hear anything, except my own, gasping breath and the throbbing of my pulse.
I bumped against a wall. Under my searching fingertips, I sensed the heavy coldness of dark wood. I thought I was standing in front of those cupboards in the rearmost corner of the room, but these were no cupboards, although the direction would be right. This was a door.
I opened it and stepped outside.
A vast hall with a regal staircase leading downstairs on each side. A candelabra with burning candles in the centre. Its glow illuminating the dark hall, reaching as far as my door, as far as the two stairs, too. I walked towards the candelabra, which seemed to be miles away from the door. I kept walking for quite a while, without returning, the fire reflected in my eyes. That fire, so unfamiliar in those days…
Before, oh yes, before, there had been fire! Armies of fire! My whole body had been a fire, had been ablaze, I was virtually extolling the purifying properties of fire. But in those days, the fire had been blown out, no spark had remained in my soul, no breeze was wafting through my mind, an inflexible rock was cordoning off everything, sand had been spread over the flames and into my eyes, water had been poured over the consuming heat, and I had frozen to ice.
The last few metres, I had to crawl on all fours. But then, I sat in the middle of the hall, surrounded by impenetrable, endless dark, in the sad and tired candelabra’s weak glow. Neither did I see the end of the hall nor the two stairs nor the door to the room where I had left my shirt. Exhausted from wandering around, I stretched out on the cold stone floor. I probably had fallen asleep because the sudden surge of an organ made me sit up with a start.
The candles had almost burned down to little stumps. Yet I lifted up the candelabra and set out in the direction where I thought I had heard the organ coming from. I reached the staircase and discovered, startled, that the stairs led up, not down. I nonetheless followed the steps and climbed upstairs.
At one moment, an air puff blew out what was left of the candles. I reached the end of the stairs, learning that I had arrived in a narrow little room. I wanted to go back to the hall, but apparently, I had closed a door behind me without wanting to. The door seemed to be locked from the other side. I turned and turned. A piercing pain in my left ankle made me realize that I must have hurt myself somewhere in the process. I sat down on the floor. The room was so small that I hardly had enough space to sit comfortably.
Another breeze opened a door in front of me. Why, the narrow room had been a corridor all along! I stood up and ran towards the door, reaching a room dimly lit by a tiny ray falling through a hole in some dark curtains.
I grabbed the curtain and pulled. It gave in and disintegrated between my fingers.
Broad sunshine fell on my chest, cut into my eyes, caressed my body.
I turned around, my face tear-streaked.
In the middle of this new room: the table again, that had somehow been transformed into a piano; in front of it the chair without back; on the floor, the fragments of the shattered glass; on the piano, my shirt.
I sat down and tried to play but only some hapless tunes came out of it.
I took up my place at the window.
I was standing much by the window, in those days.
The last thing I witnessed before the sun set was the young man running towards the woods in the distance.