I hear you’ve had a rough time of it, my dear: all those restless nights and jobless days, and that international miasma rolling against the windows. Not forgetting, naturally, the uncertain benevolence of relatives, the byzantine charity of rental assistance programs. And all for a studio apartment?
Well. You’ve told yourself that it isn’t Milan during the Black Death—and nothing is, dear, nothing is—but didn’t you sometimes hear, in the depths of your self-imposed sequestering, the bricklayers’ busy hands?
Fear not: I’ve heard your inner voice’s call. You’re ringing me off the hook, pet. I simply had to answer and offer you peace of mind—
You don’t remember how you arrived in my hall? Well, of course not. Nobody can recall the roads they travel to sleep. It’s unmapped, or else drawn in with dragons: a place cartographers fear to tread.
Now, ma poupette, as I said: I understand your desire to vacate your rented hellscape, and I believe I could lend a hand. I have a series of comforting rooms here upon my shelves, stretching wall to wall and floor to ceiling—yes, these many dioramas, which I fawn over with great dedication. I realize they may look small, even compared to the paced cell of your studio, but I assure you, I’d never dream of boxing you in. I’m sure you’ll find they’re the perfect size for an aspiring dreamer like yourself.
May I introduce you?
t. 9, c. 159: apricari
The first is here; I keep it directly center, since so many enjoy it. Let me fetch you a stepstool. Feel free to grasp my arm if you’re at all unsteady, or else just take my hand. I once had a habit of handing ladies up into carriages. Pay no mind to my scribblings on the notecard; it’s just rows and columns, a convenient system of classification, and a word or two to remind me of the general ambience. Apricari means “to bask in the sun.” Lovely, no? And, there. What do you think? Isn’t it delightful? Sunlight directly from Paris in June, washing in through wide balcony windows. I love the way it catches in the curtains. Rolling and glowing in waves. You’ll notice it’s lace-trimmed—
Oh, who are they? Don’t fret, we’ll get to your potential roommates.
You’ll notice it’s lace-trimmed, so when you lie in that great white bed on the dais, sleepy with sunbeams, you can watch the gold-gray shadows swim over the white tiles, up the white sheets, onto your soft arms. I’ve had tenants—pardon, guests—say they can actually feel that precious shade like a tracing fingertip. It’s one of the room’s many benefits: an acute sense of being.
And I haven’t neglected other senses. Scents float on the breeze, ribboning around wrists and ankles. Lounge with your cheek on the cool tile and you’ll get the heaviest perfumes, the lilies and the hyacinths and the earth itself. Arch onto your tiptoes, and you’ll catch the airiest, honeysuckle and jasmine. Open your mouth: you may be able to taste honey from here. Try it. Good.
Now, since you’ve been patient. Them. Who are they indeed, standing among the marble tiles and pillars as though they’re pillars themselves? Well, what do you notice first? The bodies like unpainted Grecian statuary, the long swooping curve from neck to back? The women’s smooth arms, the men’s hard calves? The pale breasts unmarked by veins, the tempting space unhidden by curls?
Ah? No? You notice that they have no heads? I see. I must protest. They do quite well for themselves sans crania. They’re pleased with their strong stalks and wide leaves. Look at her, for instance, with the cascade of philodendron rooting in her neck and tendriling down to her knees. See how it sweeps over her stomach as she joins those others in bed? Or him, the one whose strong shoulders are spangled with dew shaken from his full ferns. Or the two linking their legs in the corner, with their thick, glossy leaves and stems bursting with orchid blooms. Have you ever seen flowers hold the light like that?
Aren’t they lovely? And don’t you wonder what it would feel like to have their ivory hands pressed to the undersides of your knees? Lips, after all, are overrated appendages. Flora, by comparison, are only concerned with growing towards the light. You could be as well—half-asleep in the sunshine, your mind drifting into petals. The contract’s terms are more than reasonable, and I have the lease agreement on hand. Why don’t you have a closer look? I can tell by your gaze that I haven’t convinced you.
Oh, have I come on too strong? I beg your pardon—when you’ve been in the business as long as I, you tend to overestimate the tastes of your company. After so long tiptoeing around the tendencies of ill-considered roommates, I realize that you’d prefer something less communal. Don’t worry. I have many other vacancies.
Do take my hand as you step down. I’d hate for you to stumble.
t. 2, c. 317: despertare
It seems you have something on your mind. Please tell me what it is. Was the intimacy on display a bit much? I understand completely. It can be hard, can’t it, to be close to people? No need to fret. I’m not people.
I’m certain we can find you something you’ll love. You would be astounded at our guests’ various beloveds. Ladies’ shoes, the color yellow, the void. Yes, yes. L’appel du vide. It’s quite common, as you already know. Yes. Come down with me to the second row, to this little corner. Would you like a cushion for your knees? I know that this room is a fair bit darker—it’s by design—so allow me to take you on a tour. A purely verbal one, naturally. I’d never bring you anywhere you didn’t explicitly request.
Tell me, when did you last enjoy a full night’s sleep? I ask because the sun never rises here. You’ll never have to count down until you hear the pre-dawn birdsong. All you have to do is curl up in that little bed, that warm nest of quilts, and wait. It’s raining. Listen to the drops drumming, finger-like, against the pitched roof. Listen to the wind breathing through the trees.
No need to worry about the howling gale bursting in. The window is shuttered, the door is locked. Everything is stirred up outside, wild, but the only thing falling here is dust onto your lips.
Let your eyelashes kiss your cheeks. Trace your fingers over the starry patchwork in the dark, let your hands reassure your eyes while you wait. Close-knit wool, worn-thin cotton, velvet and silk and satin scraps. Soft, safe, already smelling of you. Search long enough, and you’ll find a few pajamas hiding in the pile. Clean and whole, of course—I know that you’ve only seen one of my rooms, but I am meticulous about details.
Ah! Did you hear that? The knock at the door, the melodious voice, like a gift from Perrault’s tales: “May I come in?” Never the same knocks—at turns strong or tentative or rhythmic—and never the same voice. Sometimes a growl, sometimes—
Well. I did say you were waiting for something, didn’t I? What did you think I meant? Sleep? Dreams? You can sleep and dream anywhere; your presence in my hall, while you slumber in that shoddy little studio, is proof enough of that. No, my rooms all provide something novel, something rare and necessary.
Besides, you merely have the option to welcome this rain-soaked pilgrim, not the obligation. Nobody will ever shame you for refusing a prospective bedfellow. You just have to wait until the voice that calls is one that…speaks to you.
Is it dangerous? Ma bichette, I have very few rules, but I never accept any guests more dangerous than myself. I am, after all, a mythical creature: a fair-minded landlord.
As I said, you never have to open the door — lonely as that would be. But if you were to ever rise from bed, your footsteps would fall silent on layered rugs. Sheep fleeces and thick furs would tickle your heels. You’d press your ear to the oak planks, grip the cold handle, hear the near-stranger’s breath catch as you swing the door wide. Not much to see. A cloaked visitor, cloaked a second time by night. A wide, shadowy hat, raindrops dripping from its brim onto your toes.
Breathe in, enjoy something so different from your safe scent, something like warm skin under winter fur, like fir needles beneath fingernails. Let your hands reassure your eyes again. Reach out. Run your thumbs across their wooly brows and up their silky ears. Stroke down their velvet snout to their curved canines—
Snout, yes. Canines, yes. No, I didn’t misspeak.
To be frank, my dear, I’m getting the feeling you don’t like any company. Am I correct? Don’t worry about disappointing me; after all, the best way to get to know someone is hearing them say “no.”
t. 26, c. 283: frangere
All right! I yield. I promise, no more roommates.
But it’s no obstacle. As you can tell by my wall, there are many lovely spaces just waiting, row-on-row, for someone to move in. You could make any of them your own. In fact, I have a special unit in mind for someone craving solitude. I saw you were soothed by the idea of sleep, your eyes glassy—or should I say “shining” for manners’ sake?—with the waking dream that is desire. Oh, please. Don’t insult my eternity of expertise. We’re getting closer, I can tell.
I’ll have to ask you to climb the ladder for this one. Don’t worry, I’ll hold it steady. Higher—a bit higher still—yes!
Do you like it? I thought you might prefer something open. I’m fond of windows myself (even if they’re closed, they still let a little bit of you inside), and with that in mind, I designed this space. Panels upon panels of leaded glass, rippled and bubbled and aged, iridescent and slick with misty condensation. Oscillating mandalas, tumbling triangles, fish-bowl marbles. See how they tesselate into a dream room? Open any of them, from the one the size and shape of a child’s hand to the gothic arch as tall as the room itself, for a salt-scented breeze and a glimpse of waves and clouds. Those hack glaziers of the Saint-Chapelle could never imagine it.
Pardon me. Ecclesiastical glass is an old wound.
Let’s speak of lighting. Living here is stepping inside a tumbled gem, at turns amethyst, rose quartz, topaz. Twilight’s last breath after the sun has slipped into the sea, before the first stars gasp as they surface in the sky.
I can feel your shoulders tightening from here. What troubles you? Listen to the waves rolling in. Let all your tension tumble down to me. Exhale, dear.
That’s better. Tell me, what’s on your mind?
I’m happy to hear that you think it’s beautiful. Yet you’re questioning a good thing: why doesn’t it have a tenant? My dear, I don’t have tenants. Guests. Visitors. Friends. You’ve heard me use these words, you know that I prefer them.
But I will answer you. I’m sure you’ve observed that there’s no bed, just a steaming bath ringed by black stones. Previous friends have enjoyed taking the waters, floating in a slow orbit (I’d be happy to provide a bathing costume if it puts you at ease). They watched their own faces fragmenting in the crystalline windows’ many reflections: A cheek here, a jawline there, a winking eye with Venus shining behind it. They dissolved into skyscapes, limbs cradled by clouds. They felt, if you’ll pardon the pun, stellar.
Other guests have been through horrible things. Tragedies, you know? I’m sure you do. They simply wanted an opportunity to introspect in their reflections, which are only almost endless (it is not for me to make infinity). They assumed those celestial selves were watching over them, that figures pinned with the diamonds and pearls of the night’s first stars had always been with them. They stayed until the light faded to full evening, until their pupils bloomed black and the lapping water cooled to match their skin. Who knew where they ended anymore, where they began? As for what happened after that—
Were they all right? Yes. Of course.
But to be perfectly transparent, allow me to answer your question with questions of my own. Exploration never hurt anyone. You’ll notice that you will remain perfectly unscathed throughout the thought experiment.
So, my dear, let me ask: Haven’t you woken with the rough taste of seawater at the back of your throat, or with salt tides stinging your inner eyelids? Haven’t you been tempted to turn your limbs to constellations, to disjoint yourself across the night sky, to whittle your ribs into— I have been very patient with your interruptions. It is my turn to speak.
You have thought of whittling your ribs into moonbeams. You’ve grown tired of hearing your veins’ whispers rushing through a seashell. You’ve wished that your half-sunken self would fall apart like salt in the waves, one eye to an empty heaven and one to the void. You’ve dreamed—I know that you have dreamed—that you breathed underwater, and I know that your air-filled lungs disappointed you. I can do better. Don’t you want that? Answer me.
t. ?, c. ?: obruere
I know you do. Answer me. Do you think I haven’t joined you in your midnight walks, pacing every dingy studio you pretended was your home? While you made coffee in the kitchenette, do you think I didn’t smell your sleepless pillow, that I can’t sniff out your desires? You’ve been calling me for years.
Say yes to me. Let me do what’s best for you. Climb down the ladder, give me your restless hand. I know where I’ll keep you, in an atrium shuddering with a million hands beating on the walls, the floors, the ceilings. I will squeeze you inside my own red heart, girl, until you swear the universe’s sole worthwhile sound is the thump-bump of my lifeblood ringing in time with my name. Asmodeus. Asmodeus. Come down, say yes.
Say yes. Say yes, and be with me. Say yes, and be joyful. The world will not give you what you want. It will only take more than you can give. I only ask for a little, a pittance, a kindness. So say yes, say— Oh. Still no? No. Hmm.
Then please, let me get the door for you. I’d never press a prospective guest, nor would I wish to lose my temper. I trust you’ll consider my offers? Sleep on them, even. We’ll speak again soon. It would delight me to see you situated, my dear, but it’s no matter. I have many rooms. We have many nights. And it is, after all, an endlessly pleasant thing to be tempted.
