Korridorium

♫ Druckluft-Meditation (Uraniborg-Mix) ♫

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7/398

I enter the corridor—if you can even call it that, since I’m actually just on Skype. It’s my conversation partner who, balancing his laptop on one hand, enters the corridor to take me into the studio. It’s called “Uraniborg,” and I’m supposed to call him Tycho. It’s a good fit; the so-called “Sky Fortress” was once the research station of the Danish astronomer Tycho Brahe.

This Tycho, however, is a musician, and that’s exactly what I’m after: music for my texts. Even though I can’t see him right now because the webcam is giving me shaky images of the hallway, I repeat what I’d already told him in my email into my headset mic, just to be safe: “I can’t pay you anything for it, though.”

“You already mentioned that,” he says, opening a soundproofed door. I had expected walls of synthesizers and a mountain of instruments. But the large, bright room with panoramic windows overlooking the garden doesn’t contain much more than a keyboard and a lounger surrounded by singing bowls of various sizes. The keyboard apparently slides out from under the desk, which has a piano stool in front of it. Judging by the many cables on the table, I assume a computer gets plugged in there—likely the one Tycho is using to carry me around right now.

“Welcome to Uraniborg,” Tycho says. He sets the laptop down on the table, his face obscuring the arrangement of singing bowls.

“What’s that lounger behind you? Is it for a sound massage?” I ask curiously.

“Oh, that,” he says. “We’re currently experimenting with soundscapes controlled by the skin resistance of whoever lies on it. It’s powered by compressed air.” Sure enough, behind him, among the singing bowls, I spot a strange mechanism with hoses and chrome-plated pistons.

“Want to give it a go? Let’s see what kind of skin resistance the computer has…” The image tilts. Tycho sets his laptop on the lounger. Through the built-in webcam, I now have a view of some of the singing bowls. The pneumatic percussion begins to hiss and thump, the mallets start moving, and soon I’m enveloped by hypnotic, celestial sounds.

“Before I drift away completely…” I shout into my headset. The image tilts again, and Tycho—having switched off the machinery—sets me back on the table. He puts on a headset of his own. The singing bowls behind him ring out for a long time.

“How did you find me?” he asks. “Were you at one of my sleep concerts?”

I shake my head. “Not yet. I heard a few of your tracks online and thought…” Well, what was I thinking?

“You want to publish a series of texts and you’d like a little soundtrack for each one. Did I get that right?”

“Exactly,” I say.

I’d already shared a bit about myself in the email: that I work in the building office of a small town in eastern Germany. I don’t have much to do there, but I want to look busy because my desk is right by the hallway to the restrooms and my colleagues can see me clearly through the glass door. I told him I’ve started typing up little “architectural” sketches on my computer, inspired by the applications on my desk and the inspections and site visits I sometimes get to attend.

And that I need music for the publication. A lot of music. Something unusual. Music that creates images in the mind.

“The Labyrinth of the Minotaur,” he says thoughtfully.

“Yes. I sent you a few Minotaur fragments because that was a theme at your sleep concerts and it comes up in the music. It connects us, in a way. I want to start on November 11th.”

“So soon?” My heart sinks when he says that. I’m way behind in my search for music. But having little soundtracks for the stories is my dream, and I don’t want to give up on it that easily.

“What is a young woman like you doing working as a clerk at a building office?” he asks.

“I studied History and Oriental Studies in Leipzig, but I couldn’t find work as a historian. So… anyway, my colleagues can’t know anything about my literary ambitions.”

Tycho gives a mischievous little smile. “I won’t tell a soul. How many blog posts do you have ready?”

“I have the first batch, and I always want to be at least three or four ahead. As for the music, I’d give you totally free rein. It’s going to be almost… uh, four hundred blog posts in total.”

He doesn’t flinch at the number. Good sign.

“I know,” I continue hurriedly, “that it’s a massive ask, but…”

Tycho interrupts me. “No problem. We have tons of material in the archive, all unpublished. Some of it is pretty weird, though.”

“That’s perfect,” I say.

Tycho grins at my enthusiasm. “We’re talking drones, soundscapes, compositional sketches, studio sessions, field recordings, psychoactive sound experiments…”

“Well, that all sounds great! As for the length, I thought the music should last roughly as long as it takes to read the text aloud—so, anywhere from seven seconds to seven minutes.”

“Okay. Send me a text, and twenty-four hours later, you’ll have a soundtrack for it. If you don’t like a piece, you’ll get a different one.”

Wow. I can’t believe my luck. My blog is getting a soundtrack! But…

“But what,” I ask worriedly, “if you don’t like my texts?”

Tycho keeps a straight face. “Won’t happen. I’m not going to read them. I’ll just check to see how long they are.” He shows no emotion—except for a little glint in his eyes that tells me he isn’t being entirely serious.

And that’s how I ended up with a unique little soundtrack for each of my literary architectural sketches.

Soundscape:

Field Recording:

Uraniborg: