But why did he go in? Magda asked severely. Who made him go in? I don’t know, he mumbled, and he looked over at Valentin, who sat resting his head against the cupboard behind his desk. I don’t know, the gravel was gleaming seductively, the lion was still flying above the house, and then, it was probably then that he felt compelled to go in. But who compelled him? Magda was now sitting on his desk, on top of the files. Valentin laughed: what do you mean who? the film director. And he roared as loudly as he could — that is, falsely — much too happy with his joke, much too keen for the others to notice it. Magda paid him no attention, didn’t even look at him. She was now lying across his desk, propped up on one elbow. The gate was unlocked: it wasn’t even necessary to push it or to press on the handle. I don’t know how he found himself on the other side, in the garden, the gravel crunching beneath his feet, but he wasn’t afraid. He seemed to feel lighter. Then he saw the swords. They were glistening in the moonbeams, cold and merciless, and somewhere up above, no longer visible, must have been the lion or griffin or whatever it was. He weaved his way around the gray tombstones and climbed the few steps at the entrance. In fact there were two entrances: he went in by the larger one, the main entrance. Maybe it was a mistake, maybe the two entrances didn’t connect with each other.
He hurried inside the villa, because he was now — only now — beginning to feel afraid; the gate seemed to have closed behind him, he couldn’t go back, had nowhere to go back to. It was too late. .
He could see two or three statues at the rear of the entrance hall; they weren’t such a shiny white, as there was less light there. A marble staircase with a very broad base appeared before him, twisting up in a spiral that got narrower and narrower, although the stairs themselves became (or seemed to become?) taller. He went up for a long time, until he reached a landing. The staircase continued from there, but it was dangerously narrow: there were no banisters and the void yawning to his left and right terrified him, so he stopped. He felt a little disoriented and looked around him: everything was either a dazzling or a milky white; a passageway opened before him and he started down it with short, hesitant steps; he caught sight of a statue at the end, a lion embracing a swan, went up to it timidly but did not touch it; it seemed to be a plaster figure, cracked here and there, but the pedestal was made of marble, with barely visible little veins in the same bluish color as the corridor walls. Then came a door with a white enamel handle: I hesitated in front of it for a long time before I decided to turn it, first counterclockwise, wrongly, then clockwise; the door gave way, and I pushed some more and entered a white, fairly smallish, empty room; I turned a few times, feeling disoriented, and stumbled like a blind man in the milky darkness until I finally found another door. This led into another room, where a statue of a griffin stood right in the middle, on a white marble floor with little bluish veins like those in the pedestals supporting all the statues in all the blindingly white rooms, where everything was frozen and immobile except for the transparent voile curtains, which I pulled in order to look out the window, although on the other side there were only more white rooms or corridors, in which I sometimes saw the cheap plaster head of a lion.
Having climbed a narrower staircase with much taller steps, I came to another corridor and went into one room and then another, passed into the corridor again, a plaster griffin or lion embracing a swan, then into another corridor on the left, an enamel door handle, which I turned, then into and out of a room, another corridor, a bedroom, another corridor, walking faster and faster, up and down stairs, passing into dozens and dozens of rooms, corridors, hallways, the same or others, hundreds of stairs, and that landing, lit more brightly than before (or is it my imagination?), I turned right into a corridor narrower than the others (or is it my imagination?), broke into a run, it was deserted, no statues, but at the end was a tall door, also white, its handle shaped like a lion’s head with gaping mouth. Taking the lion’s head in both hands, I turned it as hard as I could, clockwise and counterclockwise, the door didn’t open, I tried again, clenching my teeth and using even more force than before, no effect, I banged on the door with my fists and feet, still it didn’t open, or even vibrate from the blows, I again took the lion’s head in my hands and twisted in both directions, I struggled with it, but it was too strong for me, the door didn’t open, I hit it with my palms, fists, knees, shoes, striking desperately until my forehead was covered with sweat from all the effort and all the running down endless corridors, and the door didn’t open, remained immobile, grave and unyielding.
Then I collapsed, exhausted, sliding along the door onto my knees. I remained like that for a long time, arms hanging from the lion’s enamel head, until I discovered the keyhole and glued one eye to it (what was I expecting?), and all I saw was a gray, milky whiteness, probably another room that someone kept locked for some reason. There was nothing to be done, so I got to my feet and started off again down the deserted corridors, here and there a plaster statue representing the same animals in various attitudes, I walked blindly (forward, backward?), and because my eyes hurt from all the white I tried keeping them closed and sometimes lost my balance, I pressed my hands and forehead against cold walls of plastered brick or even marble, and remained motionless for a while before moving on. At one point I saw cherry-colored carpet instead of white stone beneath my feet, and then I realize that I’m late again, stop to listen to the tapping of typewriters, the laughter of the typists, then take another ten steps, press down on the handle, and the door opens.
But it’s only a pause, a parenthesis, or how shall I put it? Perhaps it’s all a dream in which colors and human faces keep appearing, a dream that soon passes because it’s made up of scenes that keep repeating themselves, always monotonously alike, and evening comes and I get bored and afraid, I leave home in search of a movie with some other scenes, new or old, in color or black and white; the usherette is always surprised by the face I make, but then she takes pity on me or perhaps just understands much more than others do, giving me a complicit smile with her red, vulgar face; and I go in and out of the movie theater, wander the streets aimlessly, always wanting new ones to appear, like the houses and yards into which I boldly venture; some have little flower beds with petunias, flowering tobacco, or irises, on which I lie down hoping that the night will pass more quickly or, if possible, that I might fall asleep; but I know there’s no escape: the iron gate, black and majestic, rises up before me and it’s enough for me to stop a moment to find myself again on gravel paths, among gray tombstones that I weave around in a stupid fear; the swords glisten in the moonbeams, and then I go inside, cross the entrance hall, and begin hesitantly, though with the same automatic gestures, to walk up the white marble staircase, looking furtively toward the statues left there in shadowy corners, up and up, feeling the stairs become narrower and higher, until I reach the landing, sometimes not stopping there, but it makes no difference, because later I’ll have to come back down, the staircase is getting darker and narrower, and it suddenly ends in complete darkness, my head knocks against something hard — the ceiling? I make my way back, dazed by the white void yawning beside the staircase, come to the landing, the first corridor (or the same one?), then another, go into one room, a second room, corridor, room, room, corridor, until finally I recognize the door and its lion’s head that serves as a handle.
A huge white void. . Yet, from time to time, a blue stripe, a clear bright ribbon with another greenish one beneath it, compensates my eyes for all the exhausting whiteness. And I remain there on my knees, even though my steps meanwhile quicken on the cherry-colored carpet, moving toward a room with human faces and gestures of tenderness or rejection, where they sometimes speak, that is, lie, about films they’ve never seen. I wait, but not for the door to open: I now know it won’t open, I’ve become more modest in my expectations. I wait, patiently watching for those blue stripes and green ribbons, the sky and the fields out there, which only shine for a moment, and only if you remain kneeling, your forehead glued to the cold white wood of the last door.