Korridorium

♫ Moravec’s Paradox ♫

27/398

I enter the corridor, illuminating the low vaulted ceilings with my torch. As a talisman, I carry the ancient “Scroll of the Hidden Chamber” with me. The drawings on the walls are faded, but otherwise completely preserved. I am looking for the pharaoh’s cartouche. It must be here somewhere. I decipher, “Behold my works, ye Mighty, and despair!” Ozymandias? But the tomb of Ramses the Great was already discovered here in the Valley of the Kings a long time ago! Perhaps one of his sons is buried here.

My musings are interrupted: A muffled sound causes me and my Egyptian helpers to whirl around. The ground beneath us trembles. The gigantic stone slab, whose purpose we had puzzled over during the excavation, has slid down behind us. The entrance is sealed. Even with dynamite, we wouldn’t be able to get out now.

My helpers, after a brief, desperate panic, collapse to the ground, whimpering. I, however, walk on. An unopened tomb that has eluded grave robbers for millennia – and I am the discoverer! As long as there is air to breathe, I want to discover if the burial treasures are truly untouched. Perhaps I will behold the hoped-for riches with my own eyes before my torch is extinguished forever.

♫ Infinity Shuffle ♫

28/398

I enter the corridor and immediately jot it down in my journal: “I enter the corridor.” Since I started using a tablet instead of a notebook and pen, I can record what I do and experience—how I spend my day—much more directly and in real-time. I can also share everything important as a tweet right away. Before going to sleep, I can retrace my daily routine on my Twitter account, divided into small fragments.

What did I come in here for? Oh, right, I’m looking for the tablet’s charging cable. It says so right here: “I’ve misplaced the tablet charger. Maybe it’s in the kitchen.” I can’t find it anywhere in the kitchen. “But in the kitchen, I can’t find it…” But now the tablet makes a strange electronic noise, dropping in pitch, like a disappointed “Oohch.” I’d love to note and tweet that, since I’m hearing it for the first time and it obviously needs to be documented, but now the thing won’t accept input on the virtual keyboard; instead, it saves the text as a last-resort emergency measure and shuts down.

What now?! How am I supposed to write this down? In the kitchen, there’s a roll of paper towels, and in a drawer, I find a pen next to some tealights. I need to record all of this! But the pen won’t write on the paper towel. I lick it, shake it, the whole nine yards, but it just won’t work. All of this is at risk of being lost because I can’t write it down. My eyes fall on the cutting board. Could I carve something into it with a knife? At least some keywords? So much has happened already. Prepping paper towels, licking the pen, considering the cutting board… How am I supposed to remember all of this? And on top of that, trying to memorize the act of memorizing! I need to find that cable; that much is clear. All my thoughts, the excitement, my actions—just when things are finally getting dramatic and life is really popping off, I can’t write it down, let alone tweet it!

I finally discover the charger while searching for a pen and paper in the bedroom, plugged into the outlet by the nightstand. With fingers already trembling slightly, I plug it in, and the tablet comes back to life.

I type as fast as I can to catch up with my life again.

♫ On a Secret Trail ♫

41/398

I enter the corridor leading to one of the temples in the Pirámide del Adivino in Uxmal. The Maya were great builders, but ultimately, their success led to their downfall: despite sophisticated irrigation systems, several years of drought brought their rapidly growing population to its knees. They left behind magnificent structures and a complex calendar that—as some believe—predicts the end of our world for December 21, 2012.

Typically, I experience panic attacks in narrow corridors and passageways; however, since I set foot on the Yucatán Peninsula, strange, long-forgotten memories have come flooding back to me. The ruins appear as though I knew them in their original state—these interiors do not cause me any discomfort; on the contrary, they draw me in as if by magic.

Have I lost my troublesome claustrophobia, which I’ve been trying to combat through a kind of self-treatment with a blog? No, a remnant of panic remains. But there’s a noticeable improvement, and my efforts to conquer my fears seem to be bearing fruit. I’ll give myself exactly one more year! Then, I decide spontaneously right here in the temple corridor of Uxmal, the world will end—at least the world of my little therapy blog, which I will ruthlessly delete on that exact day. It will be a sign that I can now take on corridors in naturam—the physical ones made of stone, metal, wood, and glass. While an entire universe of real corridors awaits me, a world of imagined corridors will be consigned to destruction in a single stroke. As if the Maya had foreseen it…

♫ In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni ♫

48/398

I enter the… corridor? It doesn’t look like one at all. I’m not sure. Didn’t I actually want to go to the… summer house? I knew it just a second ago. Everything is slipping away from me. The thoughts, the words, the… rose beds? In the nursing home, the strange woman said—she told me I was here in a nursing home; she said it very slowly and with such emphasis. But I don’t know anything about a nursing home; I’m here at the… train station, right?

There in the mirror above the sink, someone is making an announcement. I don’t understand it. She looks like an old woman. But I don’t want to talk to her. She doesn’t know any better than I do. Anyway, I have to get off at the next stop. I press the… stop button, but suddenly everything is getting wet. The… escalators must have been completely remodeled; everything has changed so much. Even the door to the garden isn’t there anymore. Is this really my… home? If only I knew…

♫ 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.

(via email)

♫ Flight of Fancy ♫

52/398

I enter the corridor—which isn’t really a corridor at all, because at the push of a button, I can transform it into a study, a TV room, or a guest room. Unfortunately, over the many years I’ve devoted to building and outfitting my motorhome, my travel anxiety has grown steadily. As a result, I can’t make it any further in my rolling home than the local supermarket to stock up on supplies; then, parking back on the patch of grass in front of my little house, I simply imagine I’m spending my retirement on extensive tours across the continent.

Not only is it more eco-friendly this way, but the way I picture these travels becomes increasingly precise and vivid, until there is almost no difference as to whether I am truly lingering in foreign lands—and sometimes, when I wake up in the morning, I am gripped by an inexplicable homesickness.

♫ Arrivo tardivo ♫

59/398

I enter the corridor and pull the door shut behind me. The noise of the party is muffled into a dull murmur. Taking a deep breath, I remove my mask. I’ve never been in this part of the castle before. It’s likely a passage for servants leading to the kitchen. I open one of the windows to let the fresh air dry the sweat on my forehead. It feels as if we’ve spent weeks here behind closed doors with the drawbridge raised, indulging ourselves in unrestrained revelry.

In the window glass, I see a blue discoloration of the skin near my collar, but I attach no further significance to it. Instead, I curiously examine the small, tied bundle on the windowsill. I unfold a long black cloak in which a mask, a large hourglass, and a scythe are wrapped—the handle of which folds out. I drape the cloak over my shoulders and suddenly feel young and full of purpose again, even daring a few small dance steps and pirouettes. The mask depicts a skull. Mine has become useless; I simply toss it out the window. It lands somewhere in the depths of the courtyard, lying in a darkness the pale moonlight cannot reach.

The scythe in my right hand gives me a good feeling. The clock strikes. It is time to go back among the revelers.

♫ Noli turbare barbitos meos ♫

75/398

I enter the corridor to open the front door: The Jehovah’s Witnesses are back to proselytize; I saw them through the window. Last time, I slammed the door on them. How can anyone be so simple-minded and take the bit about the 144,000 who get into paradise literally?

People are always trying to sell me something at my door, and I always send them packing to hell. The two women with their Watchtower and Bible did make me feel somewhat sorry afterward, though. This time, I want to make amends. After all, I pride myself on being civilized, and at least the Jehovah’s Witnesses actually believe what they’re saying – unlike the vacuum cleaner guys, the frozen food people, the mobile phone contract sellers, and the magazine subscription hawkers who are always ringing my doorbell.

I don’t have to invite the Witnesses in, but I can at least politely explain that I appreciate their commitment to their faith and values. However, I’d prefer it if they used their own God-given reason, rather than just following what they’re told. My faith, I’ll say, to set a good example, doesn’t contradict reason; it complements it in the best possible way. And then I’ll politely send them on their way, confident that they’ll see me as someone who knows what he believes and believes what he knows. Someone who’s at peace with himself, who’s found his own truth. Yeah, that’s the ticket.

I open the door. It’s the same two women as last time. One of them is holding the Watchtower in front of her stomach like a shield.

“Leave me alone and go to hell!” I hiss and slam the door.

What got into me? Angry with myself, I stomp back into the living room. The spirit is willing, I think, but apparently it also likes to avoid the effort.

♫ Aboriginal Astronomy ♫

79/398

I enter the corridor on all fours, feeling incredibly dizzy and nauseated. Everything in this house sways and tilts; one loses their bearings entirely. Had I realized beforehand what awaited me in the “Villa Obscura,” I would have given it a wide berth.

The twins, on the other hand, seem to be having the time of their lives—as they do with everything here at the amusement park. I can hear my two offspring squealing with delight in the next room. After the skewed angles and grotesque geometry of a cabinet worthy of Dr. Caligari, after water that seemingly flows uphill, and a forcedly cheerful host who—given the way he stood in the room—was quite literally a slanted character: what other dizzying, seasickness-inducing attractions are in store for me? I prefer things to be orderly, arranged at right angles, and behaving exactly as expected. Fortunately, the whole world isn’t as chaotic, lopsided, and warped as the “Villa Obscura,” otherwise it would be even more difficult to govern than it already is.

I’d like nothing more than to just close my eyes and stay lying here in the hallway. And yet, I promised those two I’d take them on the roller coaster later…

♫ Stock-still Life ♫

82/398

I enter the corridor. One last walkthrough. Then all of this will be sealed forever—with massive amounts of reinforced concrete. Up on the surface, we are erecting a stele, a gray monolith of the hardest granite. A story told in pictograms is chiseled into it. It is intended to remain a warning even into the distant future, showing people digging into the ground. People who reach the reinforced concrete deep below and shatter it to go even deeper. They eventually abandon their search, having found nothing of use. And then, after a prolonged period, they die miserably.

The artist portrayed the time span between their reckless foray into the depths and their subsequent death using apple trees growing on the surface: At first they are mere saplings, then they finally bear their first fruit—but by then, only the skeletons of the intruders remain.

Everything down here is in perfect order. I take the elevator, remove the radiation suit, shower thoroughly, give the final “go,” and drive home to my wife and the dog.