Korridorium

♫ Clone Chamber ♫

49/398

I enter the corridor, and instantly, my annoyance over the supposedly extra pizza—which the customers simply handed back without even leaving a tip—is forgotten. After the hassle with that client in a Berlin rear building, my gaze falls on a doorbell nameplate two floors down on the landing. It reads: “Cory d’Or.”

Could this be the anonymous author of the obscure blog Korridorium that my wife raves about? On impulse, I ring the bell. A buzzer sounds. The door opens into a long hallway, typical of many Berlin pre-war apartments. “Don’t touch anything!” a commanding voice orders from one of the adjoining rooms, without the speaker showing himself.

The pizza box almost falls out of my hand. I stare in disbelief at thousands of hand-written index cards pinned to the walls, ceiling, and some scattered on the floor. Many are connected by colored strings, making it almost impossible to navigate the hallway without disturbing the delicate network. It resembles a rainbow-colored art installation. Fascinated, I try to read some of the index cards, but then the voice sounds again: “Place the books on the entrance cabinet. Your payment is there.”

I nearly drop the pizza box. I stare, speechless, at thousands of handwritten index cards pinned to the walls and ceiling, some even spread across the floor. Colored strings stretch from one to another, making it nearly impossible to navigate the hall—at least not without snapping the delicate web. It looks like a rainbow-colored art installation. Fascinated, I try to read a few of the cards, but then the voice rings out again: “Place the books on the hallway console. Your money is there.”

Cory must be mistaking me for someone he’s expecting. Hallway console? I spot a wooden casing on the wall with several glass-covered displays—evidently an old call system for servants. There is money lying on it. A lot of money. I can’t resist the temptation; I pocket it. Hastily, I set the extra pizza on the ledge, retreat, panic, leave the door standing open, rush down the stairs, and scramble onto my scooter…

Am I brain-dead? What was I thinking?!

Of course, I never dared to go back. The money is long gone, and to this day, I’ve never had the courage to tell a soul about that encounter. I suppose it’s no excuse that I—with a doctorate in astrophysics and another in moral philosophy—am struggling to support my small family as a pizza delivery guy.

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