The House of a Thousand Floors (CEU Press Classics)

by Jan Weiss

  "And he'll fall with us." "Shhhh!"

  "Gentlemen, I know the name of that terrible energy that could annihilate us!" "What is it?" "Petr Brok!"

  "Of course, that's what it called itself when Great Muller asked at the stock exchange with whom he had the pleasure!"

  "And today, the two of them will apparently meet at number 99 Alice Moore Street!"

  "Muller and Brok!"

  "Number 99 — that's the hall of hollow mirrors!"

  "It has an electric floor with a trap door!"

  "That's where Werner, the very first leader of the rebellion, went mad."

  "That's where Anders, the defiant editor of Top Floors, was lost!"

  "And where the traitor Olim never returned from!" "What if the voice doesn't arrive at number 99? What then?"

  "He will!"

  "What if he can't find the way?"

  "He's everywhere!"

  "Does that mean he is omnipresent?"

  "Just like God Muller!"

  "Then he is a second God!"

  "And he's present even under this ceiling — among us!" "Try calling him! He'll respond, you'll see!" "No! Better not! Why play with the devil?" "Muller is above us, what are you afraid of?" "Dora O'Brien is dancing now, the most beautiful woman in Paris!"

  "Cowards! Fools! — I'll call him!" "Quiet! — By all suns, keep quiet!" "PETR BROK!"

  "Don't!"

  "Petr Brok! — If you are among us, show yourself, you old bogeyman!"

  "Be quiet! Be quiet!"

  "If you can, perform a miracle and then I'll believe in you!"

  "Enough!"

  "Petr Brok! — I am the banker Salmon and this is my hand! Well, if you are as powerful as you make out — he lifts his hand — bite off my middle finger!"

  At that moment, the banker Salmon gave an inhuman scream. The short, sharp pain of a severed nerve — a spurt of blood — and the middle finger, complete with a wide black ring, is lying in a bowl, spraying the white salad of edible hyacinths with red."

  Sheer terror changed the colour of the faces of everyone present. White faces turned red, red ones turned blue, and blue ones turned black with dread.

  But what did Brok care about the grimaces of that lecherous bunch under the transparent ceiling? — In the mayhem that ensued among the worshippers of goddess Andradia, he saw the princess being carried away in Achorgen's arms in the opposite direction to where everyone else was running.

  He rushed after her.

  They had just disappeared behind a heavy bead curtain in the corner of the chamber. Brok parted the bead fringe and found a white door.

  When he opened it, he could see nothing.

  XXVIII

  White darkness · Scent and memories · Again it ends with the little lamp · "This is my pasti"

  A milky-white opalescent fog stands in his way. Brok falters, rubs his eyes and fumbles around him.

  Three steps before him, two figures melt into the fog, one white, one black: Achorgen and the princess. Brok stepped into the fog with his arms outstretched — but all he could touch was emptiness. The white darkness blinded him. The opalescent silence deafened him.

  He ran in the direction where the princess had disappeared. He called out and waved his arms like broken wings. The fog began to choke him; it sang a strange song into his ears. No, it was not the fog that sang like this; it was his own blood gurgling though his arteries!

  Every step forward filled him with anxiety. His body refused to move towards the traps lurking in the mist. It was terrible. He moved forward slowly, in the same direction, for a long, long time...

  Then he stops short. He is afraid to go either forward or back. He is stranded. Mired in the middle of the white darkness, abandoned by people and things, he had dissolved in an interminable fog. He is lost, swallowed by the white darkness that permeates and fills him. He will lie here, dead, for a long time, and one day, when the white nothing melts away, people will come here, trample over his dead body and no-one will see him.

  He could go no further. His legs dissolved under him into the heavy fog. He collapsed crying.

  And then — he sniffed. A strange scent flashed through his nostrils; a scent so abrupt that he almost fainted. It rose into his brain like alcohol, half sedative, half stimulant; it painted strange landscapes of the world in front of his eyes. —But what is this quiet soothing smell? — A freshly cut meadow on the edge of a forest. The smell rises from small piles of hay towards the sun like smoke from sacrificial altars. I, too, am lying here in the meadow, hay under my head, hay in my hair, my whole body fragrant with drying mountain herbs. — This is thyme, this here is sage and that is chamo-mile. When I open my eyes, I see fog dense as cream. I am beginning to remember now. — The princess ran away and there's music playing in the centre of the universe... But the scent, where is it coming from and what does it mean? It's an enchanting melody of scents that soothes and lacerates even more acutely than that sad lovemaking between the cello and the violin playing in the distance.

  The smell of the forest reaches him, the smell of moss and pine needles, strawberries and resin. Through the lace of ferns, he can see a spring. Forest birds come to drink here, the deer and the poachers.

  But now even this scent has dissolved in the white fog. And another smell wafts over from somewhere. Like a blustery wind that rises and blows into sails. The cold scent of the sea. The smell of salt and fish scales. The scent of a thawing iceberg floating in the ocean. The mysterious aroma of an unknown island being passed by a ship. There are people there because I can smell sweat and smouldering fires. But then even this smell slowly fades away.

  Now, an entirely new smell drifts by, a smell that awakens an old, long-forgotten dream. The heat of a kitchen stove, thick steam rising from pots heralding the midday meal. — Suddenly, a door opens abruptly and lets in a draught. Someone's mouth explodes: war! And everything disappears again, irretrievably.

  And now — lily of the valley — no, that's not what it is; it's a drop of perfume on the bosom of my beloved. She bends over me and I take in the smell of her hair to discover a new fragrance.

  Now there's the smell of the night. Even the moon has a scent, my god — this is a farewell. this is the green scent of the lake — no, these are tears: the tears of my beloved.

  The scents rapidly follow one another:

  The smell of a breathless locomotive and of soot;

  The smell coming out of open carriages: six horses and thirty men.

  The murderous atmosphere of dirt, liquor, foul-smelling feet and latrines; Distance;

  Freshly dug up soil; Gun powder; Smouldering camp fires;

  Blood;

  The rank smell of refuse, tins, festering wounds, disinfectant, crushed bedbugs, decaying flesh, frostbite wounds blackly rotting under dirty bandages;

  The smell of a yellow oil lamp under the ceiling.

  Petr Brok starts. This — this is my past! These are the memories I'd lost. Quickly! Quickly! He stretched out his hands.—Nothing! White fog. A black princess.

  There is no other past than Mullerdom.

  Brok pulls himself together again and starts running.

  Then — his outstretched hand touches soft silky fabric. He pulls it aside — and is astonished at what he sees.

  XXIX

  About the star Achorgeneterramolistergen Princess Tamara prepares for lovemaking with Prince Achorgen · "... our bed is ready" · Petr Brok uses his invisibility again

  Petr Brok was standing in the doorway of a young girl's blue lounge — the princess's chamber. Muller's round eye in the ceiling is once again covered with a bluish membrane. But the lamp underneath had burned out long ago. The princess is sitting on a blue divan. She is no longer black. She is wearing a sky-blue dress the colour of the drapes in her lounge. She is smoking a cigarette, a tall goblet full of wine at her lips which emanate cascades of bold, provocative, trilling laughter. The ember at the tip of her cigarette draws bold arcs in the air. The crystal go
blet and her throat become connected vessels.

  And the most terrible sight: Prince Achorgen's impossibly long arm is coiled around the princess's fragile hip. And she's laughing! Mindlessly laughing at something, her face tuned up to the ceiling. Achorgen's arm grows longer, stretching around her waist like a reptile smothering its prey. His whispering mouth is touching her hair: "My lovely star, my silver bell — drink some more. This drink is made from the intoxicating iceberg of my native star. Now you know — I come from planet Achorgeneterramolistergen. Remember it well! You must remember it because that's what I want! Or do you doubt what I am saying?

  "Oh, not at all...!"

  "You do believe in stars then?"

  "I believe whatever you say!"

  At the bottom of the goblet is the image of my star. You'll see it every time you empty it. Now finish your drink!"

  The princess obediently drained her glass and started laughing again.

  "Enough of this laughter! Spit out that jingle bell in your throat! — My child, I am going to love you the way we love on the star Achorgeneterramolistergen. I'll teach you a new way of loving, and you can teach me yours."

  The long snake-like arm around the princess's waist slithers upwards across her breasts up to her throat.

  "Do you want that?"

  "I do!"

  "First of all, give me your hand so I can cover it with kisses. you may suffer for me but your love will cure your suffering. My earthly female, do you really love me?"

  The princess rests her head affectionately on his shoulder. The long arm constricts her hips tighter and tighter.

  "Kiss me, Tamara! Press your lips against mine; this is how you start lovemaking on this star, isn't it?"

  The princess put her arms passionately around his neck.

  Brok covered his face with his hands and turned away with horror. — Is it possible? Princess Tamara — his princess cast under the spell of this Tower of Babel and waiting to be rescued, is now shamelessly kissing a monster with her unsullied virginal lips.

  "Look, our bed is ready, my darling!"

  The princess gets up and moves.

  Of course, he's a prince and what am I? Nothing so far, an invisible nothing! But this is why I infiltrated Mullerdom. This is why I had undergone this metamorphosis, so that I could find her, protect her and rescue her. Didn't I whisper in her ear that I would protect her? She felt my hand on her arm — and her mysterious smiles — were they not a response to my words?

  What betrayal! What shamelessness!

  The only ray of light in the whole Mullerdom has been extinguished! Ah — but how can I expect her to love me? How could she if she can't see me?

  Away, away from here!

  One last look to say goodbye to her. With her hands on her hips that resemble an alabaster vase, she's standing in front of the mirror, laughing. My god, can't she see? Her eyes are closed, her lids heavy. She's laughing with her eyes closed. Her mouth is full of laughter but her eyes are — asleep...

  And then Petr Brok understood!

  Hypnosis!

  He saw Achorgen's burning eyes guarding the princess in the mirror.

  Brok lost patience. Angrily he went up to Achorgen and planted a blow between the prince's nose and mouth with his fist. It was as if that spot offered itself to him, the most vulnerable and sensitive in that face. The monster collapsed without the slightest sound. Brok tore one of the drapes into pieces and bound Achorgen's hands and legs, gagged him and stuffed his unconscious body under the bed. When he was finished, he turned to the princess, curious to see her expression.

  But she saw nothing, heard nothing. She was still under the spell of the eyes that were now hidden. Her fingers quivered in the silky folds as if they were hiding keys that unlock secret gates among white clouds. The princess began to undress. .Brok wanted to call out, warn her, wake her up — when, all of a sudden —

  XXX

  Princess Tamara provokes the darkness All that's missing here is a stream... · Beware, Petr Brok! · A hand can only be held by another hand

  he saw her eyes, as they opened against the mirror. She could see her own strange awakening there and, with amazement, she observed her own surprised expression in the silver surface. A heavy, forgotten dream swept across her forehead. Confused, she looks around, rubbing her eyes. But when she wants to grasp the dream, it dissolves in the palm of her hand; under the light blue skies, where blankets and pillows beckon her to sleep. Brok anxiously looks on as she undresses slowly and with the confidence of being entirely alone in the room where she and the mirror are the only living things.

  What should I do, what should I do? — No, I can't let her know I'm here. It's too late for that! But I'll guard her in her sleep. She's got no idea that the repulsive Achorgen is lying gagged under her bed. But what if he manages to free himself?

  That's why I have to stay here and keep guard!

  He curled up in a corner, took his heart in his hand and held his breath. But suddenly he was overwhelmed with a vision: a narrow pink ribbon runs through lace like a sweet promise that is being fulfilled under the sleepy camisole. Away, away with such awful thoughts! Oh, but to approach these lips — what happiness that would be, what happiness!

  Her hair, lips, nose, eyes — what a strange and beautiful flower blossomed on the stem of her white neck, what exquisite colours and fragrance! — The face is the most beautiful and precious part of a woman's body which seduces and excites with the naked eye! Look, she's smiling and this makes her even more beautiful because the smile reveals a new colour hitherto hidden among the petals: the colour of snow, milk and porcelain!

  For a moment, her dainty shoes dangle on the tips of her toes before they fall off. And before Brok knows it, there is a glimmer of knees and calves, as the gossamer stockings slip on the floor like shed snakeskin. The astonished gleaming surface reflects her beauty, her hands that he yearned for and her breasts rising from the white snowdrifts of lace.

  Brok watches this magical performance. How she arches her back and stretches with a tired smile in her triumphant solitude. As if the long hours of having to dissemble in front of people had exhausted her, and only now can she finally cast aside the mask of pretence. With delight she allows her face to relax and she becomes herself again!

  Now she's standing here only in a camisole and she continues to tempt her solitude. She cups her small breast in her palm, lowers her head and kisses the nipple. "This is a little boy," she says to the mirror with a smile. Then she kisses the other one. "And this is a little girl. Don't worry little boy. Don't worry little girl. I love you both ." Her caressing words flutter like white butterflies and return to her mouth.

  "I am a princess. I am not a princess.," her lowered lips whisper. The words bounce off the cold smooth surface and condense into a misty veil. She wipes the mist off and looks at her reflection up close. Two surprised pairs of eyes marvel at themselves as if they are seeing each other for the first time.

  Meanwhile, Petr Brok's patience exults and pulls at its harness, love drums in his blood and roars in his innards. But trepidation gags him. How could he make the princess aware of his presence, his desire, his love? — A single word would make this enchanting vision vanish. How could I embrace her? If I touch her for the first time, her body will not even shiver; perhaps only her hand will move to feel the itching skin. What then? She will become alarmed, frightened — then she will scream with terror!

  But Petr Brok has a thousand words ready on his tongue with which to shower her, to weave a net around her, beg her until she is convinced. And yet, will not all the words of love be powerless if she doesn't find eyes to drown in, a body made of flesh and blood that she could possess with all her senses?

  The princess approaches her bed, pulls away the blanket, caresses the pillow one last time. and then she collapses, overcome with sudden, bittersweet fatigue. She places her white hands under her head. Her eyes rise to the ceiling, but her thoughts are stronger than the golden stars
woven into the blue canopy. They pass across her face, blind her eyes, make her forehead billow, extend and shrink again. Her mouth lies on her face like a bloody heart.

  Brok tiptoes to the bed like a thief, barely touching the furs. It's clear that something's bound to happen next — but what?

  Brok's face moves close above her mouth. She stares at him fixedly with her eyes wide open and yet she can't see him. Slowly but inevitably, the distance between their lips grows shorter. One last moment and his burning lips fall on her half-open, moist mouth.

  Surprisingly, the princess's face remains motionless. Only her eyes wake up and focus as if they have returned from a long journey. Her pouting lips resemble a blood-red rose. But now Brok quickly steps back to avoid the arcs of her raised arms. When the danger had passed and her sad hands fall empty into her lap, he dares to make another move. Lips pressed to her throat, he descends the staircase of kisses to the clearing of her breast, touches the little chapel on its peak, then continues down to the mysterious valley in between, darkened with velvety shadows. Only a little stream is missing here, with forget-me-nots. This is how I would like to spend the rest of my life. falling quietly asleep on this velvety pillow.

  The princess is lying silent and motionless, as if dazed in glorious stupor; she's afraid to let her breath out, she wants her heart to stop so as not to frighten this strange dream, this miracle and drive it away; she wants it to continue until its conclusion. — She is being visited by a young, strong god. She can feel his lips, his hands wandering all over her body which is boundlessly open, welcoming, responsive. And all these paths, whether you like it or not, lead directly or in a roundabout way to the very centre of life! Yet his hand appears to be afraid of the end of this vertiginous nakedness. As if confused, it keeps losing its way, it approaches and retreats, travels to faraway regions only to come back again.

  But the princess also has hands, don't forget that, Petr Brok, and now you're not going to escape them. Here is your hair, your face — we will come back to that later — and here, these are your hands that betray you with every inch of my body! And a hand can only be held by another hand.