Henriette Houth

VELETRŽNÍ PALÁC
by Henriette Houth

It was the one of the happiest and most uncomplicated affair of the heart I had ever experienced. Uncomplicated, because it included no requirement, nor expectation, nor even the slightest fantasy of reciprocity. Happy, for it was selfless in a way love between two persons seldom is. The red sculpture filled me, quite naturally, with a sense of well-being, even bliss, at the simple awareness of its existence.

The object of my love was on exhibit at the State Museum For Modern Art, as far as one might use the designation “on exhibit”. Indeed, the sculpture seemed to be sequestered within the larger embrace of a collection that was, it was true, accessible to the public, but whose very existence no one seemed particularly eager to proclaim. The museum appeared in no brochure or guidebook I had ever seen. And it was quite by accident I was able to discover it.

It was housed on the rim of the city, in an enormous, modernistic (which is to say anonymous) building, where it lived its life of reticence, ensconced from the world behind long, broad ribbons of windows, running, or rather dashing round the building, storey after storey, desolate autostraders of glass, that conveyed not even the remotest impression of openness, thrusting instead the observer's glance back into her own face.

Where precisely within the huge complex of super- and sub- terrestrial rooms the red sculpture could be found, was something I was never able to ascertain. All I remember, is wandering through room after room with the sensation of having experienced a lifetime; vast rooms of silent landscapes and statues, broken on occasion by a stairwell and the same wide stairs, a floor higher each time. The stairwell lay within almost total darkness and had far too many steps that were far too low. Something was, in any event, wrong with the relationship between height-of-step and the general ascent. Thus, one was compelled to either trot off gingerly, with the sensation of never having actually left, or take two steps at a time and risk tripping headlong into the darkness. And yet, there it suddenly stood before me, standing on one of the upper levels, abundantly red.

It goes without saying that it was not the color alone that did it. It was what the thing expressed, not to mention the way in which this was accomplished. Its name alone (the sculpture could hardly have been called anything else). Well, it was as though the name had to designate something that appeared to be and was exactly like itself. The Great Dialogue. Marvelous. For if there was one thing the sculpture's two figures did not do it was to converse. It was more as though they just sat there, screaming into each other's faces. Two human anatomies reduced to exposed tendons, muscles, marine sirens and megaphones. All in iron and painted bright red.

Forgotten were the sore muscles of my calves, my blistered feet. Forgotten were the beautiful and disturbing things I had seen in the course of the preceding hours, or whatever length of time it may have been since one distant, grey October morning I had tramped about among trolleys and automobiles, freezing to death in a strange city.

I was simply hovering on the rosy clouds of love. An affair of the heart which, once ignited, required no further nourishment and which nothing could ever mar. I had seen my red sculpture and would forever carry its image within me. And that was enough.

Well, nearly enough. I wanted to have a picture of my treasure. This wish grew strong with the discovery that, for some unexplained reason, the sculpture was nowhere to be found in the newly-purchased tome, purporting to contain all the works the museum had ever collected. As the hours progressed and the day of our departure approached, my wish grew more insistent, until finally my thoughts were utterly consumed by it: I simply had to have a picture of that sculpture!

Information, in the state brochure, as to the extent to which one might be permitted to photograph exhibited art objects, was somewhat ambiguous and could be interpreted in several ways. It was clear, however, that the photographing of the museum's artifacts required the approval of some as yet unspecified authority. My only chance of getting a picture of the sculpture was to return to the museum and to try to get permission, a project I initially dismissed as too difficult and, doubtless, too time-consuming, considering the short amount of time my husband and I had left together in the city.

And yet, the last day presented an opportunity I could not let pass. There was a church we wanted to see, a church whose vaguely eccentric name still emerges among my thoughts as a paradoxical reminder of that day. Our Lady of Constant Succour was its name and it was supposed to be close to the museum.

Why we chose to do things in precisely that order, eludes me. But we decided first to go to the museum and to save Our Lady's constant succour for last.

In any case, there we were for the second time. Not in a space that was one storey high, but six or seven storeys high. This was the museums lobby. The ground floor was approximately the size of a soccer field and was totally empty, except for three tiny sitting figures who disappeared behind the imposing tail of a dinosaur, part of a sculpture I recognized from my first visit, that jutted out into the space from one of the open galleries higher up in the building.

We went over to the three. On closer examination, they appeared to be of normal stature and knew precisely enough German as to permit a resonable understanding of one another. We presented them with the purpose of our undertaking, pointing excitedly to the brochure and its verbal formulations as to the question of photographing art objects. We literally pointed out the texts, repeated four times in four different tongues and thus were confident they would be able to understand at least one of the languages. The brochure became the focus of intense scrutiny and was turned and twisted as though subjected to a form of weapons inspection. Never, it seemed, had they seen such a brochure before. And they read it meticulously from start to finish.

I began to have misgivings as to the wisdom of having embarked on this complicated affair, instead of having just entered the museum as a normal visitor would have and taken the picture without trying to get permission. On the other hand, I remembered all too well, the ubiquitous and very armed guards who were the reason, it must be said, I stood there now. They and a number of loose rumors about the country's penal system. Ah, but something was beginning to stir behind the service counter. Heads rose from the brochure. It seemed as though they had now understood the nature of our inquiries and soon they were engaged in a discussion as to under whose or what purview such a case might fall.

We assumed, at least, that that was what the conversation was about. And surely enough, a moment afterwards a telephone was yanked out a a drawer and after a lengthly conversation, the receiver was replaced with an optimistic smack that resounded throughout the vast space. Die Dame*, who was authorized in matters regarding the photographing of art objects, would presently make her appearance and personally attend to the matter at hand. It was, by the way, a mere formality, we were told with some emphasis.

There prevailed now a mood of exhilaration behind the service counter, as though the extraordinary task at hand had thrown a new luster and consequence over the otherwise anonymous existence of the museum. Which, in a way, it had. For shortly thereafter, a figure appeared at the far side of the foyer, insignificant at first glance. Indeed a walrus would have seemed insignificant in such a space. And yet there was no mistaking the manner across which the floor was being strode. Those feet knew very well to whom they belonged and received a confirming response from on all sides of the great space. It simply had to be Die Dame. And when she presently stood before us, clad in a white high-necked blouse of wool, her hair piled into an impenetrable knot, she seemed the very essence of authority itself.
She extended an affable, even jovial hand, as though she were embarking upon an exclusive business luncheon. She understood we were interested in obtaining permission to photograph one of the museum's artifacts. Would we be so kind as to follow her? It was simply a matter of filling out a single application, a mere formality. Indeed, she even apologized for the whole bureaucratic business. Alas, such were the rules.

Relieved to have fallen into competent hands and that the path that would lead to a photograph of the red sculpture was not beyond reach, we followed her the same way she had come, across the foyer, past the ticket counter, into yet another foyer and into an elevator, whose doors sprung open all by themselves.

Alright, so there was now an elevator. Just opposite the broad and very dark stairwell. Sumptuously huge to boot. Of course, it had to be huge, I thought, if it was to be used to transport art works which, in some cases, were really very large. And yet, I was somewhat puzzled that I had not noticed the elevator during my first visit to the museum.

The doors closed soundlessly about us and we begin the long ascent that would lead to die Dame's office. Not that I noticed her pressing a button with any designation of floor level. I never saw such a button. But since the the very idea that she should have an office on any level other than at the very top was unthinkable, I assumed we were indeed progressing upwards.

Stars in the form of miniscule halogen lamps beamed from the ceiling, glittering and creating sparks in the shine of the steel walls. Here within this marvelous lighting, it struck me that die Dame must have been younger than I had previously imagined. She was, doubtless, no older than we were, even younger, which would have put her in her late twenties. Thirty at the most. We chit-chatted in a very Lady-like fashion. Where were we from. How did we like the city. What was the day of our departure. Tomorrow? Ach so, ja. (I see). The door opened again. I hadn't even noticed the elevator had stopped. Yet in next to no time, we stepped into a long rather dim corridor, quite different from anything we had hitherto seen in the museum. My first thoughts were that we must have entered another building.

The only light was that emerging from a door somewhere down the hall. We headed towards it, die Dame striding resolutely before us. Cardboard boxes and ring-binders were piled up as far as the ceiling would allow. These were interrupted by doors, on either side of the hallway, emerging at certain intervals in the form of deep niches in the wall of ring-binders. And through these lusterless panes grimy beams sought to press their way into the hall. Presently, it dawned on me that we were on a floor of exactly the same dimensions as that of the glaringly white exhibition space of vast expanse and that it must have been directly beneath us.

We made our way down to the brighter area just before her office. Because that was, of course, where the open door lead, a space remarkably free of boxes and ring-binders, apart from a few, piled in a corner behind the door.

Would we be so kind as to take a seat on the steel boxes over there? It would only take a moment. And to our surprise we saw her walk towards- not her own office- but to a door on the opposite side of the hall. She was terribly sorry she could not offer us a proper seat, but they themselves had only the two chairs they themselves used.

They? Apparently die Dame did not have an office of her own.

Now she would go get the application form for us. It would only take a moment. We sat on the boxes she had indicated to us, slightly down the hall. Then, to our surprise, saw that she did not enter her office but went towards a door on the opposite side of the corridor to a door, upon which she cautiously knocked. It was as though she stood there, growing progressively smaller before the door until she simply vanished into it.

Thus it was we sat upon our steel boxes, gazing at the muddy pane of that door. It was the least transparent glass I had ever seen. You could see absolutely nothing of what took place behind the pane, only a great indistinguishable shadow which could have been anything.

After some time, die Dame appeared once again. By now I had ceased thinking of her as Die Dame - but out she came, closing the door fastidiously behind her, obviously put out, with a slightly visible strand of hair dangling before her forehead. Oh well, she had unfortunately promised a bit too much. Die Frau* had turned her attention to the fact that there were indeed three application forms to be completed. There was the standard form, the supplemental form (as we were foreigners) as well as a supplemental supplemental form, where we would be required to state the intended use of the prospective photograph of the artifact, as we had said we were not intending make use of it for professional purposes.

So, the shadow wafting behind the pane over there was that of die Frau, a title I only then appreciated as assuming a higher rung than that of die Dame. I had been unaware that the German language made a hierarchical distinction between Woman (Frau) and Lady (Dame). And certainly not in that order. But alright, she was only too welcome to fetch the applications for for us, regardless of their number, so that we might complete them.

It was at this point the entire process seemed to repeat itself. Everything from the timid knock on the door until the moment when she appeared again empty-handed, another strand of hair dangling limply from her ear, held only by the fastness at the top of her head.

The correct approach had now been found. There was no question of ourselves being able to take the photograph. Rather than fill out the aforementioned application forms, a personal application form would have to be completed, in which I very simply requested a photograph of the sculpture in question. It would be taken, assuming the application were approved, by the museum's own photographer. Then it would be sent to me for a small fee. The application should additionally include, of course, all the information application forms of this kind otherwise require. But she would write the application for us; the way it was to be formulated was of the utmost importance. And we didn't even know the language. I should just sign it. That was, she assured us, really the best solution. Certainly it was the one that provided the greater possibility of our being able to obtain a picture of the red sculpture.

I must admit I had very nearly forgotten the sculpture. But the reminder of it made me suddenly flexible and extended my patience by the length of several corridors. Well yes, fine! That was really very kind of her. If she would write the application, we could wait until she was done. I glanced over at my husband with a pang of guilt, as I knew he was determined to see Our Lady of Constant Succour. A mass for those previously anointed was scheduled for precisely that day. The witnessing of whoever or whatever the previously anointed might be was said to be a great experience. We had however missed the event by now, though there was still the possibility of seeing something of the church itself. Through the course of these proceedings, my husband gave the impression of being absolutely absorbed by the experience unravelling before him. We had now got so far that the rest could hardly require much more time. A simple application form and all would be well.

Die Dame had disappeared, in the meantime, into her office and, after a series of strange tapping signals, seemed to have succeeded in turning on a PC. In any case, no sound other than the soft, somewhat irregular chatter of the keys could be heard. But that came suddenly to an abrupt halt. When I leaned far enough forward, from my small nook, I could barely peer into her office, the door to which was slightly open. There she was, surely enough, sitting in front of a computer screen that had apparently been switched on. It did not appear there was anyone else in her office other than herself. Perhaps her office companion was ill that day. In any case, I neither heard nor saw anyone else.

Looking past one shoulder I could see the cursor, whose arrow was now embarking on a reverse movement across the screen, line after line, until it erased everything she had until then written. She now sat still for some time, hands poised on the edge of the keyboard, which she attempted to shift slightly back and forth. Suddenly her head dived towards the keys, one finger pecking frenetically away. Whereupon her head popped up again and leered into the screen as though she were myopic. Down went her head again. Up. Down. Up. Down again until her knotted hair became loose-jointed, before toppling over into lopsidedness, while she, once again, erased the greater half of what she had written.

I leaned back among the ring-binders, beginning to grow accustomed to the fact that this might take some time. There was indeed little of it to spare if we were to see the church. And wouldn't the Museum be closing soon?

We had just taken out the map to find the quickest route to the church, when die Dame came storming into the hall. The application had now been completed and had only to be approved by die Frau (I think this is the way she expressed it) it would then be ready to be signed. And so, once again, she darted over to the door, ever more reduced in size, clutching the application in her hand, while the nebulous shadow within grew mightier and mightier. But enter she did. After sometime, she reemerged with a distracted look on her face, her hair equally dissembled. I had already stood up, prepared to sign my name, but she scarcely noticed us and scurried across the hallway, into her own office, as she mumbled something about having to rewrite- not precisely as it should be- important it be properly formulated-.

We sat down again upon our boxes while die Dame struggled in her office with her formulations, only to have them returned to her from the other side of the hallway with a charge to reword them. This recurred a number of times. Precisely how many, escapes me. I only remember this pitiful woman rushing back and forth between her office and that of die Frau, with the unlucky application form in her hands, an expression on her face of being increasingly adrift, hair and all. And each time, my imagination contrived to make the figure of die Frau an ever more terrifying presence.

It was at this point I began seeing things. I knew very well that they were, well, visions. But I saw them nevertheless. It could have been a function of my fatigue or even my hunger. We had walked quite a bit that day to get to the museum and hadn't eaten anything since early that morning. It now seemed the hallway was full of rather large, roundish eyes and that they were glaring at me. They seemed to emerge spiraling from the walls and were rotating in mid-air, faster and faster.

Of course it was only the round holes in the spines of the ring-binders. At the same time, I noticed something further down the hall, or rather something had noticed me. A narrow shaft of light or a stick white as chalk. I couldn't figure out what it was. This had the effect of shooing the eyes of the ring-binders back into their holes. The stick hovered phosphorescently in the air, suggesting to me a web of invisibility I had read about once in a fairy tale. The boy in the fairy tale had had a white stick and a black stick. With the white stick he had been able to make himself invisible. What function the black stick had had, was more than I could recall. I stared and stared, nearly hypnotized by the white stick, until it began singing and dancing before my eyes and I realized I had been staring at the narrow, white spine of one of the ring-binders. One white ring-binder had inexplicably come to lodge among a sea of black ring-binders.

My visions came to an end and I saw, somewhat relieved, that all things were as they had been before. Die Dame fluttered back and forth across the hallway with the as-yet-to-be formulated application in her hands, while Die Frau's great shadow sat enthroned in immobility behind the dull pane of glass.

Just before flames began to flare from the nostrils of the beast within and the hair of die Dame would fall in one final crash about her ears, the application was done. Now the only thing left was the signing of my own name: just there, ja, bitte (please) not outside the margin and preferably not too large, nor too small. Such things can be important. Yes, just like that, genau (exactly) and thank you so much. She hoped, with all her heart, for the best. Although she could not promise me anything. But I would, most assuredly, receive an answer. I could be quite certain of that, she said, as the tone of her voice ascended, making it sound somehow as though it were a question.

We thanked her, a bit flatly let it be said, for her efforts, shook hands with her as a form of departure and made our way down the hall once more, towards the elevator, unable to comprehend that the matter of our request had actually been resolved and that we, in a few moments, would be out of the museum, outside in the cool October air on our way to Our Lady of Constant Succour.

But there was this thing with the elevator. I was absolutely certain we had gone the same way as we had come. Down the hall and out the door, which would have put the elevator slightly to the right. And yet, there was the possibility I was wrong. Perhaps we had somehow emerged from the corridor in a misguided way so that we then found ourselves somehwere other than where we believed ourselves to be. And yet one thing was certain. There was no elevator. There where only a few hours before an elevator had been, no elevator could be found. And when we finally did find it- how, I will never quite know-there was a sign on the door, or rather a leaf of A3 paper. Something was written on it in clumsy lettering with an orange marker that was obviously at the end of its days.

It could only be a warning that the elevator was inoperative. Or something to that effect. It seemed to us beyond the realm of possibility. We had only taken the elevator a few hours before. Strictly speaking, we had no idea what was actually written on that piece of paper. For all we knew, it could have said “come on in.” Or even better, a set of instructions as to how to operate the elevator. For there were no buttons to be seen, no arrows pointing up or down, no indicators of any sort one might reasonably assume had to do with an elevator. Only bare walls and hermetically-sealed doors of steel. Perhaps the elevator harbored a sensitive mechanism that responded only to die Dame's promptings. But this was simply unbelievable. We had to get down. Ignoring the sign, we attempted to press our fingers between the tightly shut doors. Two guards came rushing towards us, “lassen Sie das,Treppe bitte runtergeh'n!” (stop that! down the stairs please!). And thus we were herded towards the stairwell whose gaping darkness now opened before us.

We went down. One floor down. Two floors down. Three floors down. Two armed guards standing at each floor. Exactly the same way each time as though they had somehow sprouted from the floor of the stairwell and were identical to one another. We took off at a dash, holding hands all the way down as we ran, until we sensed we had arrived at the ground floor. But there were two guards there as well. O Nein! We had made a mistake. There was no exit here. Further on down! Again they hustled us onto the stairwell, a stairwell that lead down to the same guards, or at least an exact likeness of those guards, who then blocked our way, saying that we should proceed up the stairs again. From this point on, things were a jumble of events. I do recall that we ran and ran like children run at night, stumbling and leaping from landing to landing, tearing up and down the stairs that were far too numerous and were either much too low or much too high, while the exit persisted in eluding us, depending upon on which floor we happened to be. It was, in any case, somewhere other than we were. And the guards commanded us up or down and always back to the accursed stairwell.

I can still hear the sound of our running feet on the linoleum steps. A tiny swishing sound appearing briefly only to vanish into the maw of the stairwell.

Yet one thing and one thing alone still stands lucid and bright before me. The image of the red sculpture. Even though I have never received a photograph of it. Nor any reply to my application. And though the possibility of ever receiving such a reply diminishes day by day.

But no matter. The presence of the red sculpture will always stand before me, vibrating, ineffably as a fable, precisely as I saw it that first time in the museum. And it could hardly be surpassed by a photograph, or even perhaps by reality itself, should the occasion of seeing it again ever present itself.

* die Dame (pronounced dee dahma and rhymes more or less with drama) means: the lady.

* die Frau (pronouced dee frow and rhymes more or less with frown) means: the woman

translationcopyright©The Copenhagen Review

©henriettehouth