Waiting

(a fairytale)

Once upon a time there was a warm city. In that city there was a bright street. On that bright street workmen built a beautiful building. On the fourth floor of that building an empty one-room flat lived. To tell the truth, it was not a flat, but simply one big room with an entrance door and a wide window overlooking the street. Nevertheless her full name was A One-room Flat On The Fourth Floor Of A Beautiful Building On A Bright Street In A Warm City.

The only thing that the room was able to do was to wait. She was waiting for a desired hour when the key turned, the door opened creaking and her owner entered. The room kept waiting. At first the room waited with trepidation, then – more philosophically, then – accustomed to her waiting.

One fall evening she waited with particular impatience. In the street, in the bright street hidden in the twilight memories, the heaven was pouring with the rain, fine and bright rain. The tarnished neon sign placed on the pavement opposite was trembling with agitation on the wet asphalt. All those images were telling her that right now the key would turn, the door would open and her owner would enter accompanied by a girl with wet hair. And they would kiss and whisper words of love right on the floor, as there was no any furniture in the room. The waiting petrified and the happiness of the world rolled up within the room’s walls.

She looked outside with trepidation and noticed that the street was deserted. Tears ran down the bright window of the room. Perhaps because of  unresolved adrenaline the parquet began to creak, and the room felt a prisoner inside her walls.  Still her heart was pure like the city and bright like the street. That was why she kept waiting. A million rooms just like her had their dreams realized, did they not? The key turned in the lock and the owner entered, did he not?  After all million rooms like this one set hopes to keep waiting. Those rooms gave warmth and calm of the bodies to their owner, who always entered their rooms with a smile and a happy feeling. He hung black-and-white portrait of his parents on the wall and made love under the parents’ black-and-white gaze. The father and the mother looked at their son and at the radiant and passionate beauty trembling in his arms. And they remembered the warm old city, where in the bright street,  workmen had built a beautiful building, on the fourth floor of which there had been a one-room flat, where they themselves had made love under the black-and-white gaze of their parents…

But the room was dreaming and waiting… Maybe she was waiting not using all her strength? Maybe her waiting was not powerful and calling enough? Maybe, just the reverse, her desire was too mighty and her owner was afraid subconsciously to approach her? May be some idiot Pinocchio had lost or sold her key, and now not a noble and handsome owner would enter, but aged and impotent Karabas. He would enter with an ugly step, open her door without any magic words and bring pain and roughness instead of enchanting tenderness. He would begin to snore, turning with his back to her… When the room imagined this, her walls shivered. Even the creaking parquet became silent in terror.

But she had so much love that she was ready to present to her owner, much more than any other room. One warm evening the key would turn, the door would open, he would enter dressed in a black suit and drop down from tiredness. She would approach him, take off his shoes with a tender touch, and undo his tie and the top button. She would say him “Goodnight” with her tender voice like the tarnished neon sign placed on the pavement opposite. With her trembling hand, she would take her owner’s big, strong arm and would tell him the stories that she saw with her clean eyes in the bright street. Then she would cuddle up to her owner with a tender touch and whisper to him the words of love. She would tell him how she had pined for his arms and for the quiet passion of his fingers. She would tell how during sleepless nights of the full moon she had waited with trepidation for the moment when the key turned in the lock, the door opened and her owner entered. He would hammer a nail in the most ardent point of her walls and hang the black-and-white portrait. At that moment she would paint her owner with an anxious tremble of the palette of her happiness… Her love was so hardened in the fire of waiting that she was ready not only to tolerate but even to be solicitous toward a temporary girl with soft arms and with hair full of love. Indeed, what was her loving game in comparison with the Room’s philosophy of love? Wasn’t it a temporary nonsense in comparison with the eternity of her feeling? It was an unfortunate adjective attached to the eternity in the name of Love… And some idiot Pinocchio, who had lost or sold the key with the inexcusable negligence, would call a jealousy that mystery of melancholy and waiting…. And nobody would know, nor understand, a fairytale about the non-happened love of the one-room flat on the fourth floor of the beautiful building on the bright street in the warm city…

Her walls cracked with the non-pronounced words of love and with the unresolved adrenaline and no black-and-white photo could hide their nudeness. The window was dusted with feeling and fullness of heart, and the Room did not see the green rustle of the time gone by in the light street. Her waiting hardened, and she hardened with the waiting.  Her philosophy of love died down because she no longer heard the sound of the key turning in the lock, the creak of the door and the vision of the owner’s appearance…

* * *

The key turned in the lock, the door opened creaking and Karabas entered. He entered with an ugly step, lay on the floor and, masturbating, snored turning with his back to the room.

06 March 1996