I enter the corridor—and I didn’t even want to: Where is my head? How can one be so impractical and lost in dreams! But complaining won’t help me here. So I turn back, leave the corridor that can offer me nothing, and step into the herb garden. Ahhh, here I can breathe freely, and a symphony of different scents welcomes me. What on earth do I need corridors for? I couldn’t care less about them: This right here, these narrow paths between the beds, is where I feel at ease. It’s the place that inspires me with numerous ideas, jests, and yarns—a place I can never visit often enough, no matter the season.
I enter the corridor. Stations of the Cross hang as wood carvings between the rough wooden doors. Silently (of course, silently), the silent monk leading me points to the door of the cell—my new home for the rest of my days. Only now, in this moment, do I fully realize that from this point forward, I will never speak a word again, let alone write.
I enter the corridor. Large-format black-and-white photos of rhinoceroses hang on the walls between the doors—snapshots from my last trip to Africa. For a moment, I stand there, hesitant. What was I here for again? Well, actually, it’s irrelevant which of the doors in the corridor I choose or whether I go any further—at least for a follower of the Many-Worlds Theory like me, who assumes that every decision made creates as many parallel realities as there are possible alternative decisions.
Now I remember: I want to go to the smoking lounge—the right door. But that’s only here. An alter ego of mine in another, otherwise entirely identical world is now opening the left door and entering the billiard room. Another version of me simply walks all the way to the door to the garden, creating a new world that is otherwise identical to this one in every last detail. Just as a parallel reality splits off from mine when one of us, on a whim, turns around and goes back to the kitchen for another (or third or fourth…) shot of bitters.
You see where I’m going with this?
Whatever I do—ultimately, in the form of countless incarnations inhabiting just as many parallel worlds, I do everything. Even a banal act like entering a corridor already creates a multitude of worlds. And this is not philosophical nonsense but simply the consequence that physicists draw from sophisticated experiments.
Somewhere in the multiverse, color photos of rhinoceroses adorn this corridor. Or photos of giraffes. Or unicorns. Or maybe they are old silent film posters.
Somewhere, I am a burglar in this corridor. Or a visitor. The bill collector. Or the cleaning lady.
Somewhere, my children are romping through the halls. There was a civil war, and my house has burned down to its foundations. Everything is desolate because a plague has depopulated the country. My family and friends and I are joyfully celebrating because hunger has finally been eradicated from the planet.
It’s pretty crazy, the horizons that open up. Unfortunately, I only know this in theory—my feeling is that only one version of myself lives and breathes, namely this one, and even that I’m not always entirely sure of. And even about that, I’m not always sure. Currently, I’m feeling a bit irritable because of my stomach trouble. And it doesn’t help to know that somewhere else in the multiverse—unreachable but just as real as you and me—a parallel-world counterpart of mine is in love, feeling butterflies in their stomach, ready to embrace the world. To name just one of presumably countless other realities…
And if you now believe that, in the face of these imagination-defying prospects, it would be completely irrelevant how we make our decisions or even how we feel: you’d be mistaken! This is mine alone, my very own thing, and no matter how it’s fashioned elsewhere, no parallel version of me, no matter where they may be, is having this precise experience. Admittedly, I’ve been dealt a bad hand with this upset stomach. But that will pass. How about you?
What’s clear is that whatever I write (and whatever you are reading or having read to you right now), eventually, in the form of a parallel version of myself, I’m also somewhere writing the opposite. Or a version that fits in 140 characters. Or perhaps even a more gripping, emotional version that sends my readers’ hearts racing and prompts a renowned Hollywood producer to think that this should be made into a feature-length film.
So you can rest assured: somewhere in the multiverse of quantum physicists, there is a parallel world where this text or an alternative version or interpretation of it deeply touches something inside you, inspiring you to shape this—this—world in your own unique way and perhaps even make it a better one.
(You can believe me or not. It makes no difference to me or to you, because, indeed, ultimately both apply.)
I enter the corridor—for the record—only reluctantly and under protest! I’m conscious of no guilt whatsoever; my older brother probably pinned it on me again. So, Father sends me to the hallway as punishment. Am I mad? You bet I’m livid. It’s always my fault, and it’s always me in the corridor! And where is this all heading? Straight toward a childhood trauma that I’ll have to painstakingly work through once I’m an adult…
I enter the corridor, followed by my squad. An infernal heat blasts us; the corridor is a single sea of flames. Well, the treasure of all treasures may be well-guarded, but I’ve brought help. My two fire salamanders step forward. They salute and venture into the blazing hell to reach the opposite side, where they shut off the fuel to the flamethrowers. The path is clear. We march on between walls that are soot-blackened and still glowing hot.
The next portal and the passage beyond are completely filled with earth—this is a job for my mole brigade. They don their helmets and get to work. A short while later, we are able to pass.
We come across a staircase leading down, flooded with water. I’ve thought of that, too. Of course, the most elemental of all treasures—one that has eluded grave robbers for millennia—isn’t going to make it easy for us. The swamp turtles start their march and dive down the steps. They must find the drain quickly, because suddenly the water level drops. A final watery belch echoes through the stairwell, and we are able to descend, though the steps are still quite slick and we have to be careful not to take a spill.
In the next corridor, giant redwoods grow so close together that there is no getting through. I can’t even wedge my hand between the trunks. Wood? I was expecting air. Or Aristotelian ether. But wood? The termites diligently set to work. Yet, even though they give it their all, they don’t make much progress. It takes days for them to process the trees into sawdust. The morale of the troop sinks. Some no longer believe in our success and turn back, despite my impassioned appeals not to give up. Now, only a fraction of those who set out with me remain.
The last corridor—for according to ancient lore, there can be no more than five—is filled once again. But not with air or ether; this time, it is metal. The portal opens onto solid iron, perhaps poured into the corridor in liquid form and allowed to cool. Those of us left look at one another. This caught us all off guard. I cast a desperate glance at our motley crew. None of us is a match for this material.
A chirp. I look up. A small bird flies in, paying us no mind. For a moment, it hovers, fluttering before the massive iron wall, briefly whets its beak against it, and flies off again. At the spot where it—for the umpteenth time, probably—sharpened its beak, the squirrel spots a tiny indentation in the metal and alerts us with a squeak.
So, there is some truth to this legend as well. But now, even my last loyal followers throw in the towel and turn back—evidently not blessed with the patience and persistence of a little bird from Pomerania that pecks at the iron once every hundred years. Only I, the last of the treasure hunters, sit down before the bare metal with my arms crossed. I’ve come this far. The prospect of waiting doesn’t daunt me anymore, even if it might take a little while.
»Ich betrete den Korridor«, wiederhole ich folgsam, wie es mir der Meister vorgesagt hat.
»Und nun sage mir«, fordert er mich auf, »was darin der ursprüngliche, unbewegte Beweger ist. Ist es das Ich, der Korridor, das Betreten, das Betreten-Werden oder vielleicht doch das Betreten-Sein?«
Ich bin verwirrt und schweige betreten. Der Meister lächelt zustimmend, und da trifft mich der Blitz der Erkenntnis.
I enter the corridor and, with a practiced hand, switch on the small video camera clipped to my headband. Of course, I start narrating right away—chattering is, after all, part of the trade. I open the apartment door, and the delivery guy—a new one, not the usual—immediately eyes the camera suspiciously. He’s puzzled that I seem to be happily talking to myself. Let him think I’m on a headset with a friend. What am I supposed to tell the man? That I’m making a striptease video? Because my specialty is: uncut unboxing videos. They start with the delivery—I’m currently scribbling my signature on the chunky delivery-service touchpad with the gray display that always seems too small for my name. And I only use one of my three first names at that.
The door clicks shut behind me. I carry the package through the hallway to my “Peepshow Room,” scrutinizing it from all angles and providing a verbose commentary. Nothing should distract my viewers from the unveiling that awaits! That’s why I moved my bed to the living room a while ago and emptied the bedroom of everything except my large “operating table.” I set the package down here. My tools are already laid out to the side: scissors and a box cutter.
Now, it’s time to dissect. If there’s an imprint or a logo on the box, I naturally bring that into the light first, before I strip the object of desire of its layers, one by one, and penetrate to the contents. The key is to keep talking to keep the viewers hooked.
Finally, it lies exposed and seductively gleaming before me, a trendy lifestyle product, something from the category of brand new + slick design + early adopter appeal—whether it’s a smartphone, VR headset, or AI gadget. That’s what my video channel subscribers expect, I owe it to them, and that’s precisely what they get, uncut and with voice-over commentary. I free every item from its packaging, bring it into the light, showcase it from all angles, and share my thoughts. Is it sleek in design, does it fit the modern lifestyle, does it feel good in the hand, is it a must-have? My videos need to have that same appeal somehow. There seems to be a certain erotic charge in the unveiling and assessment of brand-new must-haves for some. The view counts speak for themselves.
Finally, it lies exposed and seductively gleaming before me—a trendy lifestyle product, something from the category of brand new + killer design + early-adopter appeal—whether it’s a smartphone, an action cam, or high-end headphones. That’s what my subscribers expect; I owe it to them, and that’s exactly what they get: uncut and with voice-over commentary. I free every single item from its packaging, down to the batteries if there are any, bring them into the light, present them from all sides, and add my two cents. Is the design sexy? Does it fit the modern lifestyle? Does it feel good in the hand? Is it a must-have? My videos have to have that same appeal somehow. For some, there seems to be a certain erotica in the unveiling and assessment of brand-new “must-haves.” The view counts speak for themselves.
From the comments, I know that for many, it’s simply the ultimate thrill: with the ring of the doorbell, an internet order materializes at the door. And if they can’t afford the hip new gear because their account is maxed out, my unboxing videos serve as a form of substitute gratification—or, of course, as inspiration for their next purchase.
I can’t explain the high subscriber count and the enthusiastic comments any other way. Among the latter, as always on the internet, there’s plenty of nonsense—like the constant question of what I actually do with all these gadgets.
The truth is, I can’t actually afford the consumer electronics and designer tech that arrives here two or three times a week. But that’s what online return policies are for. Once I’ve turned off the camera, I neatly pack everything back into the box, seal it with the brown tape I keep ready under the table, and send the device back to the retailer the very next day. It goes back without a single trace of use. By then, of course, the video has long since gone live.
I enter the corridor at the police station. Even from here, I can hear Albo yelling. He seems to be in a foul mood. No surprise there. When he sees me, he shoos the rookies out of the office. Even pulls up a chair for me. Never does that, the detective.
“Find anything?” His voice is hoarse. He nods towards the copies with the bloodstain that fades down to document number 10. “The team here says he’s a cannibal and ate everything but the heart.”
I help myself to a coffee. “They must mean text number 15, the ‘man-eater.’ It’s a literary allusion to the Minotaur myth. Unlikely that he identifies with it that way.”
Albo sits on the desk and rubs his right thigh. “But there’s no body. And no missing person report that fits. He cut the heart out with a knife that, the experts say, ‘was neither particularly sharp nor particularly dull.’ Great! Got anything else for me?”
“It’s all pretty vague. Based on the texts, I’d guess he’s single, a loner, doesn’t like being around people.”
“Yeah. But also the one about the hippies. And he’s got a grudge against government institutions and bureaucracy. Number 42, with the promised bloodbath…”
“Could just be he’s having trouble with his tax office. This is all garbage, man. I’ll spell it out for the dummies: What am I supposed to be searching for? And don’t tell me some young female clerk at the building department named Cory d’Or!”
“That’s just one of many false leads, sure. Although…”
Albo shifts to get comfortable and knocks a pencil sharpener off the desk. He groans as he bends down. “Although what?”
“There’s a decent chance his real name actually is Cory. It’s a man’s name, too.”
Albo reaches out with extended fingertips, but the sharpener just slides further under the desk.
“Text number 8, with cavity, horn, and boiling basin, and so on,” I add.
“Yeah?” He gives up, drops back into his swivel chair, and looks at me expectantly.
“All possible etymological origins of the name ‘Cory.’ And unless he happens to be a linguist—which I can’t entirely rule out—only someone with that name would know that.”
Albo rubs his stubble. “I’ll have it checked out. A thin lead and a slim chance, but I’ll check it. Can’t be that many Corys in Berlin and the surrounding area.”
“And one more thing, Uwe.” Albo drops his hand. “I’ve been thinking we should publish some of the texts. With a note making it clear we’re looking for the author.”
“And you don’t think that might be exactly what he wants?”
I expected that question. “Yeah, could be. But we’ll only publish excerpts, and we’ll slip in a few typos. Enough to make him see red. What do you think? Maybe someone recognizes the texts. Or the style, or an allusion.”
“That’s all you’ve got? What if he feels provoked? I don’t want to find a liver somewhere tomorrow, or a lung, excised with a knife that’s not too dull and not too sharp.”
I point to the copies. “I’ve squeezed them dry. The whole thing is a shell game designed to lead us by the nose. I can’t just point a finger at someone and say, ‘That’s him, he wrote them, you’ll find fifty typewriters in his garage and the bloody knife in his kitchen cabinet.’ ”
Albo sways his head back and forth. We’ve known each other for so many years—every now and then he’d consult me, his old psychologist friend, on tricky murder cases. But despite the useful insights I could offer from time to time, he should know I can’t work miracles. He lowers his voice, leaving no doubt that what comes next is important. “I want a written profile, as precise as possible, clear? One that says he isn’t a cannibal, but an intellectual who enjoys cruel games. Who might be named Cory, which gave him a trauma that turned into an obsession with corridors. Got it?!”
“That’s pretty much all I have, though.”
“Write it down. I need it for admin. If you happen to think of anything useful while doing it, let me know. And as for publishing the stuff—I’ll think about it.”
♫ Colorless Green Ideas Sleep Furiously (Pt. 1) ♫
69/398
I enter the hallway. It’s the one with the carpet. Well, that’s not going to stop me. With a quick yank, I flip the carpet aside, and there it is, just as I suspected, a few steps ahead: a deep pit with sharpened stakes jutting up from the bottom. Staying true to my principle of not taking anything personally, I shrug with a smile, get a running start to leap across, and continue my journey with a light heart.
I enter the corridor. Or perhaps, given the absence of gravity, I should say I float into one of the spokes of our space station. Here, our archaeologists store the artifacts of a civilization of semi-intelligent beings who apparently destroyed themselves. The exact events on this planet remain a subject of speculation, as we have not yet deciphered the aliens’ script. They inhabited the entire planet, and almost everywhere our scientists found their metal armor—equipped with engines and wheels—which they apparently mass-produced. Our researchers’ initial hypothesis attributes the fact that they preferred to move about the surface in these casings to an exaggerated fear of meteorites; however, the cause of their destruction must have been something else.
