Led by a well-guided premonition I asked for some information concerning the tenant who had lodged in the room immediately before me. One can imagine my surprise when I was given the name of Lancuta. It was the same man who had also rented my previous lodgings. Some strange coincidence had made me his successor twice in a row. Apart from that there was no other connection between us, I didn't even know who he was or what he looked like.
In fact, I was unable to learn anything more about him than his name - Kazimierz Lancuta - and that he had lived here for several months. Questioned as to how long ago he moved out and where to, the concierge mumbled something vague, apparently unwilling to go into greater detail. Nevertheless, judging from the expression on his face, I surmised that he could have told me more about my predecessor but preferred to remain silent - either he was naturally taciturn or was following the landlord's orders; perhaps he did not want to give information on principle.
Only later did I understand his careful tactics; indeed, from the landlord's point of view it was the only possible approach: one shouldn't put off prospective tenants. The mystery was explained only after my own experiences threw more light on the character of the ex-lodger and his deliberately concealed fate.
At any rate, the similar atmosphere of both rooms, so strangely parallel with the identity of the previous lodger, gave me a lot to think about.
As the time passed I was growing more and more convinced that the soul - if I may put it this way - of the two rooms was permeated with Lancuta's being. And that something like this is possible I do not doubt. In fact I think that the expression - "To leave behind somewhere a part of one's soul" - should be taken as more than just a metaphor. Our everyday existence when shared with a given place, a long stay in some environment, even if devoid of human presence, or limited to the sphere of inanimate objects, has, after a time, to result in mutual influence and interaction. Slowly, a kind of elusive symbiosis evolves, the signs of which can be preserved long after the termination of direct contact. We leave behind us a psychic energy which clings to the things and places it has grown used to. Those remnants, a subtle residue of past relationships, linger on for years, who knows, perhaps for hundreds of years, invisible to those who are insensitive to them but nevertheless present, showing themselves on occasions through a more definite gesture.
Hence the strange fear and at the same time respect we have for old castles, ruined houses, the venerable monuments of the past. Nothing is lost and nothing goes to waste; among the barren walls and deserted cloisters languish persistent echoes of years gone by ...
But in this case there was one important detail which caught my attention and which I had to take into account from the start. According to the concierge, Lancuta had lived in the house just for a few months before moving somewhere else. Thus, the time in which he could influence the room's interior and impregnate it with his presence was relatively shorter than the time he had spent in the previous room. And yet, his imprint was stronger here than there, where he had more than two years to make his mark on the surroundings. It must have been, then, that the power which his psyche radiated in later days was much stronger and so produced more definite results in a much shorter time. The only question was - to what should we put down this disproportional increase of psychic potential?
Considering the kind of mood permeating my present lodgings the explanation for this phenomenon lay not in an amplification of the life energies of its previous inhabitant. To the contrary, on the basis of various observations I came to the conclusion that the more likely cause was some inner decomposition, a sort of spiritual disorder - and a powerful one at that - which infected the surrounding atmosphere. Most probably, at that time Lancuta was a sick man. This seemed to be confirmed by a basic, all-pervasive tone, present in the room. It was a quiet, hopelessly sad melancholy. It oozed from the ashen wall coverings, from the metallic sheen of velvet upholstery and gleamed from the silver frames of the paintings. One could sense it in the air diffused into thousands of imperceptible particles, one could feel, almost touch the soft, delicate fabric it spun throughout the interior. A sad, grey room ...
Even the flowers in the pots by the window, and those bigger ones in the vases near the bookcase, seemed to conform to the pervading style: leaning strangely to one side the stems and flowers were bent sadly in a limp meditation.
Even the voice - though the room was big and sparsely furnished - seemed to be hiding shyly in its corners and niches, like an intruder startled by his own boldness. The sound of my steps fell on the floor without an echo; I passed like a shadow.
I was overcome by a longing to sit down in a corner, in a plush armchair, and having lit a cigarette to spend hours ruminating, letting my eyes run aimlessly after the little spiral clouds of smoke as they slowly formed themselves into rings and clung to the ceiling in floating ribbons ... I was drawn to the rosewood piano to play gentle melodies in soft and sorrowful tones like autumnal sobs ...
After the first week of my stay a strange dreamy pattern started to embroider itself upon this grey malaise, visiting me in my sleep every night.
The content of the dreams would be more or less the same. It seemed they had a fixed theme which would be subtly modified with slight variations, like adaptations of the same story.
The background for their monotonous action was my room. At a certain point in the night it would appear like a film on the screen, its furniture sleeping in the corners and its melancholy reflected by the bored mirrors, staying there through the long hours of my sleep. Near the window, resting on his elbow, sat a man with a long pale face, gazing sadly onto the street. Sometimes he stayed there for hours. Then he would get up and cross the room a few times in slow, automatic strides, his eyes fixed on the floor, as if rapt in thought. Sometimes he would stop, rub his brow and raise his large clear eyes full of quiet melancholy. When tired of walking he would sit down again, but this time at the desk by the left wall, and with his face hidden in his hands he would stay motionless for a long while. Occasionally he wrote something in a small, restless hand. When he had finished he would throw away the pen, straighten his slender frame and start walking again. Wanting to gain more space he would walk in a circle; in which he was encouraged by the general layout of the room's furniture. I noticed however that the circle caved in unevenly near the wardrobe standing in the right corner by the door. Here the curve of his path would swerve away from it, as if he was trying to avoid that corner.
This constituted the entire content of my dreams. After a few hours of monotonous perambulations interspersed with longer and shorter rests by the window, at the table, or in one of the armchairs, the sad man, and with him the vision of the room, would melt away and sink into the depths of sleep; I would usually wake up before dawn. This pattern would be repeated without change night after night.
The persistence of returning images and their characteristic style soon led me to an unshakeable conviction that the actor in this nightly pantomime was no one else but f,ancuta himself. Those dreams full of melancholy monotony were, so to speak, a visual realisation of the room's soul felt so depressingly during daytime, a practical materialisation of things too subtle for the light of day.
I suspect that the same was still going on uninterrupted through the day but its direct perception was made impossible by the misleading senses and the intellect, all too clever in its arrogance.
For the stars exist in daytime too, though, outshone by the mighty rays of the sun, they become visible only after its setting. One is reminded of letters written with so-called "invisible ink" which disappears when dry, leaving the paper seemingly blank. In order to read such a letter one has to hold it near a fire to warm it; then the invisible letters will re-emerge, drawn out by the heat.
At first I found it interesting to watch the dreams and observe the connections which undoubtedly existed between them and the daily atmosphere of the room. But then I began to realise that slowly but surely I was giving in to the harmful
influence of my surroundings, that my dreams and the interior in which I spent my days had a very negative effect on me, poisoning my mind with invisible venom.
I decided to defend myself, to wage war against my invisible predecessor, to confront him and oust his memory which had permeated everything around me.
The first thing to do was to replace the furnishings of the room. For it was these, as I rightly suspected, that constituted the points of attraction for the poisonous remnants of Lancuta's psyche. I hoped that removing them from the roorn would strip it of its allure and sever important bonds sustaining this dangerous relationship.
This I carried out systematically, almost like an experiment, using a method whereby I made slight, hardly perceptible changes.
To start with, I ordered the removal of a big, plush armchair which stood by the window and had it replaced with an ordinary chair. Even this slight modification of the furnishings had a clear impact on the dream's progress, which became somewhat simplified. It lost one of its features - the image of f,ancuta sitting by the window; not once throughout the night did the melancholy figure occupy the new chair.
Next day I removed the desk and put in its place a small card table, not omitting to change the writing accessories at the same time. Although the next night Lancuta did sit at the new table he was not leaning on it now, he did not touch the pen and generally tried to avoid any contact with the new object.
When I finally changed the remaining old chair for an elegant, recently acquired stool, he did not even come close to it. This part of the room became for him a strange, and therefore hostile, terrain which was obviously to be avoided.
And thus, gradually, I got rid of one piece after another, introducing completely new furniture, the style of which contrasted violently with the old, the colours of the upholstery bright and full of deliberate loudness. After two weeks there remained only the wardrobe and a mirror hanging next to it. These two objects I decided to leave unchanged for an - as it seemed to me - obvious reason: Laficuta apparently felt no affinity with this part of the room and avoided it ostentatiously. Why then waste the effort?
The changes had a salutary effect on my everyday environment. The room cheered up somehow, the stifling atmosphere of melancholy weakened, giving way to a sunnier mood. At the same time my dreams also moved into a new phase. Along with the continuing metamorphosis of the room f.ancuta seemed to be literally losing ground from under his feet. First I cut him off from the window, then barred his access to that part of the room where the desk had stood, limiting him to a couple of armchairs. Finally, when I removed even those, he was left only with a narrow space between the new pieces of furniture. Evidently, the change in atmosphere began to affect him too. I noticed that the contours of his until now distinctly drawn figure were becoming more and more hazy, and with every night his image grew fainter, more evanescent; I saw him as if through a fog. In the end he stopped walking among the chairs and moved like a shadow across the walls. Sometimes his whole frame would be torn apart, with only fragments of his body or the outline of his face still visible. I had no doubts whatsoever - the defeated Lancuta was in retreat. Delighted with the now certain victory and rubbing my hands with pleasure I set out to deliver the final blow: I had the steely grey wallpaper torn off and replaced by red.
The result did not disappoint me: the shadow of my persistent bete noire stopped flitting about my walls.
Yet, I could still feel his presence in the air. It was elusive, greatly rarefied, but nevertheless there. I had to make the atmosphere utterly repugnant to him.
To this end, for two nights running, I threw a wild, Bacchic party. I myself provoked the debauchery of the drunken guests, fuelling a fire which raged with healthy, young and rampant lust. We went mad. After these hellish, all night revelries, which brought a lot of complaints from my neighbours, at the end of the third night I threw myself on the bed fully dressed and, utterly exhausted, immediately fell asleep.
At first the exhaustion was stronger than dreams and I slept without visions. But after several hours of rest I saw, as usual, my room emerging out of the dreamy mists of my sleep. I looked at it calmly, smiling triumphantly: there was nobody in my room, absolutely nobody.
Just to be sure I let my victorious eyes scan all the corners and starting with the window I went over most of the room. I checked the armchairs, examined the ceiling, carefully passed over the walls - not a trace of the suspicious presence, nowhere even the slightest sign. Suddenly, turning my eyes into the dark recess by the door - the only part of the room he always so carefully avoided - I saw him. He stood there: a clearly visible figure, a little stooped as usual, with his back turned to me.
He had just stretched his hand towards the wardrobe, turned the key and opened it. Standing motionless he stared at its emptiness, at the rows of wooden pegs like bared teeth. Slowly, with calm deliberation, he pulled out of his pocket a kind of tape or a leather strap and tied it to one of the pegs and knotted the loose end into a noose. Before I knew what was happening he was already hanging. The body, wrung by a mortal convulsion, swung sideways and into the light of the mirror's reflection. In its perspective I saw the hanging man's face: it was twisted into a sneering grin and was looking straight at me . . .
I tore out of bed screaming and, shaking feverishly, I jumped through the window onto the street. Without looking back I ran into the night, along the empty streets, until I reached a tavern. Here I was immediately surrounded by a bunch of roughs whose merry-making sobered me up; I needed them desperately. They took me to another, even more sordid drinking hole, and then to a third, and to a fourth; I went with them everywhere until dawn. Then I staggered into some hotel where I slept like a stone.
Next day I moved into a cheerful, sunny little place on the outskirts of town. I never returned to my old room.
Was it only a dream, a terrible dream, or reality, a hundred times more terrifying reality? If it was only a dream - then let its cursed memory vanish for ever, let it no longer poison the life of my soul with its venom! .. .
Sleep and waking! Dream and reality! In what utter confusion they merge, with what fury they collide on the crossroads of thought! ... Someone malicious beyond human measure has removed all the border signs and obliterated the boundaries, gone without a trace are all the sign-posts, and delusion - the mad queen of stray paths and highways - reigns supreme ...
What is a dream? What's being awake? What is reality? ... Tell me! Have mercy on my torment and tell me! Speak, resolve the terrible doubt! ...
In vain I plead, in vain ... No one will give me an answer. No one in the whole wide world ...
Is there another reality beyond this one? Can one, sometimes, in some exceptional circumstances, cross over to the other side? Can one bring back a "souvenir" - ha, ha, ha! - a "keepsake"? Can one return from the land of dreams with a memento - yes, ha, ha, ha, that's right - a memento, a token of remembrance?
Tell me, I beseech you by all that is sacred, tell me - is something like that possible? .. .
You deny it, don't you? ... It's impossible, it's madness, isn't it? ... It's obviously madness, the chimera of a sick mind?
And yet, yet, I have proof, fatal proof. There are reminders, you see, cursed reminders which bear witness. If, after some time, there appear other hideous reminders, a hundredfold more frightful, for which I wait, plunged in this inhu man torment, then I am doomed. Hopelessly, hopelessly-. . .
Oh, if I could only find in this reality that surrounds me some equivalent of my "memento"! Just one point of contact with the carefree, innocent sunshine of awakening! .. .
But I search in vain. With this key one can unlock no door on earth. For a week I've been telling my friends and strangers what's happened to me, but everywhere I have met with incredulity, indifference or laughter. Some consider me mad and get out of my way. But maybe soon, perhaps in a matter of days, even hours, you will start avoiding me for a different,a completely different reason ... And then, yes, I shall
say you are right and avoid the thresholds of your peaceful homes ...
And all this happened in a matter of ten minutes! Within ten minutes I lived through one of the maddest adventures, strange and ghastly like a madman's nightmare.
Lived through, or dreamed? ... I do not know, I do not know.
In the time which earthly clocks need to swing their pendulums six hundred times I visited a strange place, beheld a land not of this world, and with the passage of the tenth minute I found myself back in my own room. For a short while, which must have spilt into another, less constricted dimension, I fell out of the folds of the mundane and having travelled in some unknown direction I returned to the back door of reality ..
The strangest thing is that I do not know what was happening to me during this time - was I there as a man of flesh and blood, or was it only in my mind that I journeyed there for those few short moments? Was it an abnormal, pathological state, or was it an experience in the true sense of the word, only in a different reality?
I cannot in any way throw a bridge between that world in which I found myself, following I know not what road, and the world I have grown used to since childhood. I cannot find a path to that other, nightmarish side which weighs upon my memory with its overwhelming gloom. Somebody must treacherously have removed the connecting passage, mined the bridges. And then an abyss opened up beneath me, dark, unfathomable, bottomless ...
It happened a week ago, on the 31st of May, between five and ten past five p.m. That fatal date hangs, to this day, above my desk, a sinister reminder.
That day I came back home about three o'clock, rather upset about some unpleasant event whose details are irrelevant. I hardly touched my dinner and, having lit a cigarette, threw myself on the sofa. Soon, I fell into a nervous, restless sleep; what I dreamed I cannot remember. I woke up about half past four with a nasty taste in my mouth and with great difficulty dragged myself off the sofa. I had another cigarette and sat at the desk leafing through my encyclopaedia.
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