Max Blecher - Adventures In Immediate Irreality

When, thinking back on the adventure, I recalled this detail, the women’s words no longer appeared so simple: they perhaps heralded the tribulations to come, an augury from the mouth of a washerwoman that the very site of the adventure was predestined and I had no choice but to fall into it the way one falls into a skillfully laid trap. “So you’ve come,” said the voice of destiny, “you’ve come because you had to, because there was no way out.”

I soon reached a long corridor, stifling hot from the sun streaming in from the courtyard through the windows. The doors to the rooms were shut, and not a sound was to be heard but the incessant drip of a tap in a corner, the drain absorbing each drop as if sipping a drink too cold for it.

At the far end of the corridor a door opened onto a loft, where I found some laundry hung up to dry. Passing through it, I came to a series of small rooms, clean and newly whitewashed, each with a trunk and a mirror. They were obviously the performers’ dressing rooms. I also found a staircase, and following it down I ended up on the stage.

There I was, standing on an empty stage facing an empty hall, my every step producing a strange resonance. All was ready for the next performance. The set behind me was of a forest. I felt the need to open my mouth, to say something out loud, yet could not bring myself to break the silence.

It was then I noticed the prompter’s box. I bent and peered into it. At first I could discern nothing, but little by little I made out a few broken-down chairs and some props. I lowered myself into the box as prudently as I could.

Everything was covered by a deep layer of dust. In one corner I saw a pile of stars and crowns made of gold-backed paper, the remains of some extravaganza; in another, a set of rococo furniture: a table and some chairs with broken backs; and in the middle of the room, a majestic armchair, more throne than chair. Exhausted, I sank deep into it. I had finally found a neutral space where no one could know a thing about me. Resting my arms on the arms of the chair, I plunged into the blissful state of solitude.

The darkness around me had dissipated somewhat, giving way to a dusty, dirty daylight that filtered through a series of double windows. I was remote from the world, from the hot, exasperating streets, in a cool and secret cell in the center of the earth. An ancient, musty silence hovered above me. No one could conceive of me in that place, the most curious place in the city, and I felt a calm joy at the thought of my presence here. The crooked seats, the dusty beams, the abandoned props — it was the space of my every dream. I remained there for several hours in a state of perfect bliss.

It was late in the day when I finally abandoned my hideaway and left by the route I had come. Oddly enough, I met no one this time either. The corridor seemed ablaze with the flames of the setting sun. The drain was still ingesting water, sip by regular sip.

Once outside I had the momentary impression that none of it had happened. Yet my trousers were covered with dust, and I did not brush it off, leaving it there as proof of the wonderful intimacy I had now left far behind.

The next day at the same hour of the afternoon I was suddenly overcome with a nostalgia for my subterranean hiding place, but I was nearly certain I would meet someone this time either in the corridor or in the hall. For a time I tried to resist the temptation to sally forth again, but I was so tired and too inflamed by the heat to be frightened at the prospect of the risk. Come what may, I had to return.

I entered from the courtyard by the same door and climbed the same staircase. The corridor was just as deserted, and no one was in the attic or downstairs in the hall. Thus in no time I was back at my place, in my armchair, in my delicious solitude. My heart was pounding: I was terribly excited by the extraordinary success of my escapade. In my ecstasy I began stroking the arms of the chair. I wanted the state in which I found myself to course through every fiber of my body, penetrate my depths, crush me with its weight, and thereby impress its truth upon me. I remained thus for quite some time, then left without meeting anyone. .

I started visiting my hideaway on a regular basis. As if nothing could be more natural, the corridors were invariably empty. I would fall into my armchair, overwhelmed with rapture. And always the same blue, cellar-cool light filtering through the dirty windows, the same covert atmosphere of perfect solitude reigning. I could not get enough of it.

Then, one day, these daily excursions to the bowels of the theater came to an end in as strange a manner as they had begun.

As I entered the corridor from the attic at twilight, I found a woman taking water from the tap. I passed her quietly, fearing she would ask me what I was doing there. But she went on with her task with that air of indifference and self-defense a woman will assume when she suspects a stranger wishes to accost her. I paused at the top of the stairs, desirous by now of entering into conversation with her: I had hesitated too long, and the pouting woman clearly seemed to expect it. The murmur of the water from the tap divided the cold silence into two highly distinct domains.

I turned and went up to her. On a whim I asked her whether she knew of anyone willing to pose as model for some sketches. I pronounced the word “anyone” as jauntily as I could, not wanting to give the impression I simply wanted an excuse to see a naked woman; no, all I cared about was the purely artistic desire to draw.

A few days earlier a student — hoping to shock me, no doubt — had told me that in Bucharest he would invite young girls to his house under the pretext of drawing them and would then sleep with them. I was certain there was no truth to the matter, having detected in his tale the unnatural quality that comes of retelling an adventure one has heard rather than experienced. Yet it had remained imprinted in my mind, and I now had the perfect opportunity to make use of it. Thus did an adventure experienced by a remote stranger prove fruitful enough, by passing through the seemingly barren field of another, to return to reality.

The woman failed to understand or pretended not to, so I was forced to explain the matter in plain terms. While I was doing so, a door opened and out came another woman. The two deliberated in whispers.

“Why don’t we introduce him to Elvira,” said one of them. “She’s got nothing to do.”

They took me to a small, dark, low-ceilinged room next to the attic. I had not noticed it before. For windows it had two holes in the wall, and a current of cold air was blowing in. It was the projection box used in summer to show films in the theater’s garden. The cement stand on which the projector had stood was barely disguised. In one corner I saw a woman lying in bed, a blanket pulled up to her chin. Her teeth were chattering. The other women departed, leaving me standing in the middle of the room.

I went up to the bed. The woman took a hand out from under the blanket and held it out to me. It was shapely, delicate, and ice-cold. I mumbled an apology, told her in few words that there had been a misunderstanding, I had been sent to her by mistake, I had needed help with a competition I was entering. All she seemed to grasp was the word “help,” and in a feeble voice she replied, “Yes. . Fine. . I’ll be glad to help you. . as soon as I’m well. . I have nothing now. .”

She had assumed I was in need of financial assistance. I gave up trying to explain things to her and simply stood there embarrassed, not knowing how to take my leave. She for her part launched into an unpretentious lament, an attempt to apologize for being unable to come to my aid.

“As you can see, I have ice on my stomach. . I’m hot. . oh so hot. . I feel terribly ill.”