black-headed gull on deck.
E
AUSGANG / EXIT
HALLE / LOBBY
RESTAURANT / CAFÉ / BAR
A BLACK-HEADED GULL ON DECK. L ARUS RIDIBUNDUS. Larus, Larus … the name sounds like an invocation. I chose the suit well, true to myself … Here I stand, my breath and I, I and my pathetic little soul. How flat the buttons with the floor numbers are! G for ground, M for Maisonette Suite and my suite, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. A black-headed gull on deck. Poppycock, it can’t be on deck. The black-headed gull can do nothing but follow a ship. It follows the giants of the ocean that slowly set out from harbor. It catches everything the sailors throw to it: flowers, potatoes, nails. It does! With the chocolate-colored hood it displays during the breeding season it can easily be distinguished from other types of gulls, assuming you know which one it is. I know which one it is. But I would, however, like to seriously question my own corporality at this moment in time. So comforting are the lights here in the golden cabin, so dull any memory of pain, so dim. I can prolong or curtail the flight at any time and enter another dimension. Go to the fifth and last floor for example. But now it is time to hover.
The elevator opens its chest. To step onto the carpet, to dip your foot noiselessly into the softness, is a revelation. Levadski’s delight gives way to astonishment: in a display cabinet in front of the entrance to the café there is a gleaming black and gold lorgnette with an elegant plaited chain twining around it. In the display cabinet next to it, dazzling, pristine white pillows with the initials of the grand hotel, napkins, starched bed linens. Levadski bows in front of the inconspicuous treasures shown to such advantage by the cabinet lighting. Through the pane of glass he admires a china doll wearing a chambermaid’s outfit, holding a tiny feather duster in her hand. The door of the hotel café creaks, perfumed ladies go in and out, their steps swallowed by the carpet, their stilettos taking revenge on the marble in the spacious lobby for the brief hardship endured.
The door creaking behind him, Levadski strides through the soft chandelier light of the café, where the sound of the piano bathes his old carcass. A waiter with a menu in hand emerges from the musical backdrop and shows the guest to one of the tables near the grand piano. Everything is in perfect harmony, the lighting with the carpet, the muted tinkling with the soft glow of the mirror. Only Levadski and the waiter stand out from this somnolent lava for as long as they are in motion. Levadski is already seated. The waiter too, who flits back and forth between the tables, soon becomes part of the furniture. Even in such a small room a person becomes a blur, Levadski is astonished to find, as if the room itself possessed so much soul that we, its true animate souls, suddenly are drowned in it.
The pianist mops his brow and with an encouraging nod and barely audible snort plunges into the keys. I Did It My Way . Levadski wants to polish his eyes, which are two dull buttons. The pianist’s friendliness is genuine, but it’s also pure discrimination. Levadski returns the smile. He deserves it. He who has observed so much. So many waterfowl, nocturnal raptors, diurnal birds of prey, coliiformes, totipalmates and waders, antbirds, the blue cuckooshrike, even calm and sociable Nordic birds such as waxwings, with their beautiful crests. Levadski has observed them, too. He would have given all the fruits of his garden, which he did not own, in exchange for the tinkling warble of the waxwing. Levadski opens the dessert menu. If they eat constantly it is believed there will be a harsh winter. Which is pure nonsense – birds always eat constantly. It is just like breathing. Like thinking.
Semolina dumplings “Old Viennese style” with toasted apricots , 13 euros. The bird eats because this is its way of communicating. Without thought or malice. It talks to the trees through the
E
AUSGANG / EXIT
HALLE / LOBBY
RESTAURANT / CAFÉ / BAR
A BLACK-HEADED GULL ON DECK. L ARUS RIDIBUNDUS. Larus, Larus … the name sounds like an invocation. I chose the suit well, true to myself … Here I stand, my breath and I, I and my pathetic little soul. How flat the buttons with the floor numbers are! G for ground, M for Maisonette Suite and my suite, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. A black-headed gull on deck. Poppycock, it can’t be on deck. The black-headed gull can do nothing but follow a ship. It follows the giants of the ocean that slowly set out from harbor. It catches everything the sailors throw to it: flowers, potatoes, nails. It does! With the chocolate-colored hood it displays during the breeding season it can easily be distinguished from other types of gulls, assuming you know which one it is. I know which one it is. But I would, however, like to seriously question my own corporality at this moment in time. So comforting are the lights here in the golden cabin, so dull any memory of pain, so dim. I can prolong or curtail the flight at any time and enter another dimension. Go to the fifth and last floor for example. But now it is time to hover.
The elevator opens its chest. To step onto the carpet, to dip your foot noiselessly into the softness, is a revelation. Levadski’s delight gives way to astonishment: in a display cabinet in front of the entrance to the café there is a gleaming black and gold lorgnette with an elegant plaited chain twining around it. In the display cabinet next to it, dazzling, pristine white pillows with the initials of the grand hotel, napkins, starched bed linens. Levadski bows in front of the inconspicuous treasures shown to such advantage by the cabinet lighting. Through the pane of glass he admires a china doll wearing a chambermaid’s outfit, holding a tiny feather duster in her hand. The door of the hotel café creaks, perfumed ladies go in and out, their steps swallowed by the carpet, their stilettos taking revenge on the marble in the spacious lobby for the brief hardship endured.
The door creaking behind him, Levadski strides through the soft chandelier light of the café, where the sound of the piano bathes his old carcass. A waiter with a menu in hand emerges from the musical backdrop and shows the guest to one of the tables near the grand piano. Everything is in perfect harmony, the lighting with the carpet, the muted tinkling with the soft glow of the mirror. Only Levadski and the waiter stand out from this somnolent lava for as long as they are in motion. Levadski is already seated. The waiter too, who flits back and forth between the tables, soon becomes part of the furniture. Even in such a small room a person becomes a blur, Levadski is astonished to find, as if the room itself possessed so much soul that we, its true animate souls, suddenly are drowned in it.
The pianist mops his brow and with an encouraging nod and barely audible snort plunges into the keys. I Did It My Way . Levadski wants to polish his eyes, which are two dull buttons. The pianist’s friendliness is genuine, but it’s also pure discrimination. Levadski returns the smile. He deserves it. He who has observed so much. So many waterfowl, nocturnal raptors, diurnal birds of prey, coliiformes, totipalmates and waders, antbirds, the blue cuckooshrike, even calm and sociable Nordic birds such as waxwings, with their beautiful crests. Levadski has observed them, too. He would have given all the fruits of his garden, which he did not own, in exchange for the tinkling warble of the waxwing. Levadski opens the dessert menu. If they eat constantly it is believed there will be a harsh winter. Which is pure nonsense – birds always eat constantly. It is just like breathing. Like thinking.
Semolina dumplings “Old Viennese style” with toasted apricots , 13 euros. The bird eats because this is its way of communicating. Without thought or malice. It talks to the trees through the
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