Steven Millhauser - The Barnum Museum - Stories

I turned on a switch that illuminated a faint amber night-light and began to climb. The walls were studs separated by vertical, rippling strips of insulation from which pink twists of fibers escaped at the sides. On a nail hung a leather glove with burst fingertips. At the top of the stairs I came to a crude wooden door fastened by a hook. I unlatched the hook and stepped over the steep doorsill into a pile of wood shavings at the bottom of a narrow stairway. Four steps led to a landing, four more steps to another, four steps to a third landing, and in this manner the stairway turned at landing after landing until it abandoned all pretense and became a rickety circular stairway with a creaking rail. My thighs ached, my breath came sharp, far away I heard the dim sound of a piano, and all at once I came to a low door no higher than my neck. I turned the knob and the door opened easily.

“So there you are,” I said and bowed my way beneath the low lintel into the tower room.

Six of the eight walls were lined with bookshelves from top to bottom. The seventh wall contained a casement window, beneath which sat a reading chair; against the eighth wall stood a dressing table with a large oval mirror. Olivia sat at the dressing table with her back to me and her mirrored face looking directly at me. A green mask covered her eyes. She wore a black dress, black stockings, a pearl necklace, and a pink-and-green party hat. She was leaning forward and appeared to be studying her face in the mirror, which reflected part of the open door, my hand on the knob, and part of my shirt and pants. Still holding the door I bent over to see myself in the mirror, startled at the black mask over my eyes, which I had forgotten.

“You’re just in time,” Olivia said, reaching behind her neck to unclasp the pearl necklace. On the dressing table stood an open jewelbox, a row of faceted glass vials, and a bald wig stand that disturbed me for some reason.

“Are you going to the party?”

“I’ve already been.” She placed the necklace in the blue velvet tray of the jewelbox and leaned forward again. The black window reflected a wall of books. I closed the door behind me and stood uneasily in the large octagonal room. Olivia reached through an eye-slit of her mask, removed something small and dark, and placed it carefully on the dressing table. As she reached into the other eye-slit I took a step forward and saw her remove a pair of false eyelashes, which she placed beside the first pair. A feeling of anxiety came over me and I said, “Olivia, let’s leave this place, let’s go for a walk, it’s hard to breathe in here, Olivia.” And indeed I felt that something wrong was happening, that things were beginning to get out of hand. “Don’t be absurd,” Olivia said, slipping off her long blood-red fingernails one by one and placing all ten of them side by side on the dressing table, where they resembled the visible tips of invisible hands. Slowly she removed a glittering earring hidden by her hair. She placed the second earring beside the first in the velvety jewelbox. Then she reached behind her neck to unclasp a glossy black cluster of hanging hair. She held it up for a moment, examining it with her head tipped to one side before laying it on the table. It looked like a black squirrel. Then she swung halfway around in her chair, drew her silky black dress up to her thighs, and unclasped her garters one by one. Swiftly she rolled down each black stocking in turn, and gave them a little kick. “There,” she said, wriggling her toes, “that’s a relief!” In the lamplight her bare legs looked glossy and smooth. She reached an arm behind her neck. With a sharp ripping sound she pulled a black zipper partway down. She reached her other arm behind her back and pulled the zipper down to her waist. “Olivia,” I said. She gave a little yawn, stretched out her arms, and looked vaguely about. She slipped off her pink-and-green party hat and placed it next to the wig stand. She slipped off a chain bracelet and dropped it on the table with a sharp little rattle. She slipped off her watch, slipped off a glittering ring, and raising her hands to the sides of her head she slipped off her hair and mask, placing them carefully over the wig stand.

The top of her head was smooth and blank. In the mirror I saw her faded eyes, her flat, painted eyebrows. Her nose was little and hard. With a sigh she stood up. Wearily she drew the black dress over her head, revealing a black half-slip and a black bra. “Olivia,” I said, “that’s enough now, enough, enough now,” and somewhere I heard a footstep creaking on a stair. “Olivia,” I said, but already she was removing her half-slip, already she was stepping out of her underpants, unhooking her black bra. Her breasts were smooth and flattish and without nipples. Wearily she slipped out of her cluster of pubic curls, leaving herself smooth and hard. “ Tn ,” she said, and stood stiffly there. “What,” I said, “what did you say.” Her limbs shimmered in the lamplight. One arm was held out as if to be offered to someone crossing the street. The masked wig stand looked at me.

“Olivia?” I said, reaching out a hand but not moving. I felt that if only I could return to the meandering hallways then perhaps I might begin all over again, but behind me I heard a clattering, the door began to shake, all at once it sprang open.

Huffing and puffing, taking deep exaggerated breaths, holding one hand over his chest, Orville entered. “So there”—pause for gasping—“you”—pause for gasping—“are!” His running shoes were covered with wood shavings. He strode over to Olivia, picked her up by the elbows, and laid her against the reading chair like an old lamp. And indeed she had begun to resemble an old standing lamp, with a dull brass base and three light sockets with burned-out bulbs. “That’s all, then,” he said. “We won’t be needing this anymore.” He went over to the table and removed the oval mirror, leaning it against a wall of books. He went to the casement window and slipped off one of the hinged frames. A brisk wind blew into the room, fluttering the hair of the wig stand, knocking over a glass vial. Orville laid the hinged frame against the mirror. He looked about, strode up to a wall, and began pushing against the shelves. The walls began to move back and forth, I could feel the tower trembling. “Stop that!” I said. In rage he turned to me and stamped his foot, which plunged through the floor. Splinters flew; puffs of dust rose up. “I hope you’re satisfied!” he cried. He looked at me with hatred as I turned to the door. It seemed to have grown smaller — I could barely squeeze my way through.

I hurried down the turning wooden stairs, which seemed to be swaying under my footsteps. Above me I heard sounds as of ripping and muffled thumping. I came to a landing, I flung myself down the steps to another landing — and as I descended, the landings seemed to rise faster and faster to meet me. I stepped into a pile of shavings, climbed over a threshold that came up to my knees, clattered down a flimsy flight of splintery steps, emerged in a hall. As I hurried along I could hear bits of plaster falling with the delicate sound of spilled sugar. Other hallways branched from the hall, and I must have made a wrong turn somehow, for I could not find the carpeted stairway going down. Ahead of me in the darkness I saw a line of light under a door. I felt a sudden need to say farewell to her room, and when I came up to it I pushed lightly against the door. It swung briskly inward and clattered against the wall. In a big bed an old woman with streaming white hair stared at me over the tops of her reading glasses. Her mouth was large and brightly lipsticked. Her hand gripped the top of her nightdress and her mouth was opening wider and wider as I shut the door and rushed on. The floor was trembling slightly, bits of plaster struck my arms, and I noticed that the corridor was lined with pieces of furniture: a small table, a wing chair, a grandfather clock. The furniture began to collect more thickly and jut into the hall, so that it was necessary for me to squeeze between sharp edges and climb over the arms of old stuffed chairs, as in certain dreams, terrible dreams, where you — Somewhere I heard a sound of shattering glass. I was wondering whether to turn back when the hall ended in a small door no higher than my knees. I knelt down and tried to peer through the tiny keyhole, then pushed the door open and scraped my way through.