Korridorium

♫ Mare Chronium––Contemplating ♫

31/398

I enter the corridor, carrying a tray with two meals. It is Coq au Vin, and it smells delicious.

Our guest has requested that I serve it five minutes past midnight. He is a nice older gentleman with gray stubble, who has already paid for everything in advance. “K. K. Koriander” he wrote on the registration form and repeatedly confirmed that the reception at our small country hotel is indeed staffed around the clock and that room service is absolutely punctual. The nighttime receptionist and room service, that’s me, and it’s precisely five past midnight. I knock on the door of Room No. 27.

The door opens: “Come in. That smells delicious.” Mr. Coriander isn’t alone. There’s a young man there, perhaps thirty years old. He’s wearing a suit, and his hair is slightly disheveled.

Mr. Koriander gestures toward the table. I place the plates in front of them, set down cutlery and napkins, and pour two glasses of still mineral water. The young man smiles at me. I feel somewhat peculiar. How did he get in here? I was standing at the reception the whole time. Or did he arrive in the minutes when I was in the kitchen getting the Coq au Vin?

“Please stay,” Mr. Koriander tells me, “in case we need anything else.” I nod and step next to the bed. If someone were to unexpectedly need something from me at this hour, there’s a call button at the reception.

The two men clink glasses of water, and while the young man eagerly tucks into his chicken, the older one starts asking questions. They converse in English, and Mr. Koriander’s guest is apparently American. As far as I can understand, they’re talking about Mars and some life forms there.

“Tweerl?” Mr. Koriander asks, or at least that’s how it sounds. The young man laughs and says that humans can’t pronounce it, so he can’t either. Mr. Koriander is quite interested in something he calls non-human consciousness. It’s all very strange, the way they’re talking

It’s very strange what the two of them are talking about – the young man, who keeps chewing and swallowing before answering, and Mr. Koriander, who doesn’t eat at all, but makes notes in a small notebook.

They talk about this creature with the unpronounceable name as if it were in the room.
Mr. Koriander wants to know how it evolved and what happened to the other “Thots.” I’m quite confused because, on one hand, they seem to be talking about some sort of bird – with a “beak” in its literal meaning – and on the other hand, about an Egyptian god who is said to have taught the ancient Egyptians how to read and write.

The young man tosses the last gnawed bone back onto the plate and wipes his hands with the napkin.

“I would have liked to discuss Venus with you as well,” Mr. Koriander says regretfully, “and the intelligent plants there.” It seems very eccentric, what the two of them are discussing in the middle of the night. The young man shrugs. “Yummie,” he says and wipes his lips, which must mean he enjoyed it.

Mr. Koriander turns to me: “We’re finished. You can clear the table.” So, I do. I leave them the water.

It’s strange, I think, as I ride our aging elevator downstairs. “Tweerl” goes through my mind once more. Whatever it is, it must be a very peculiar creature that thinks quite differently from ordinary people. But then again, those two weren’t exactly ordinary people.

A short time later, Mr. Koriander approaches the counter and hands me his room key. “Would you like to go out?” I ask, bewildered because at this hour, everything in the village is fast asleep. But Mr. Koriander wants to check out. He leaves a generous tip on the counter. I thank him and watch him with astonishment. It’s just past one in the morning.

And only then do I remember the young American. But somehow, I already know that he’s no longer in the hotel. He must have disappeared the same way he appeared.

The Coq au Vin, which Mr. Koriander had not touched, still tastes incredibly delicious, even when cold.

♫ Mare Chronium—Drifting ♫

83/398

I enter the corridor, rushing to reach Room No. 27 in time. Our guest, Mr. Koriander, insists that his meal—again it is Coq au vin, a specialty of our house—be served promptly at five minutes past midnight. Today, Pascal, the chef, has been a bit slow, and I have to bear the brunt of it. But Mr. Koriander, the one who opens the door for me, doesn’t seem upset that I’m running slightly late. Again, he is not alone. There’s an older gentleman sitting there, with a distinguished face and dense black hair, who appears somewhat reserved and uncertain.

I serve their meals and pour each of them a glass of still water, as Mr. Koriander prefers. “Please, stay,” he offers, and I position myself beside the bed in the small guest room, ready to refill their glasses at any time.

Mr. Koriander’s guest eyes the chicken on his plate a bit critically. “Man is no more than a little fleck of foam…” Mr. Koriander begins, and as his guest continues, “…on the torrent of existence,” revealing that he’s British. He smiles. The ice seems to be broken.

The Englishman starts eating, and Mr. Koriander bombards him with questions, eagerly jotting down notes in his notebook. They seem to have forgotten about me, or maybe they think I don’t speak English. However, I understand enough to catch that their conversation briefly touches on Mars and its inhabitants before moving on to Venus, a planet inhabited by humans, which leaves me quite perplexed. Mr. Koriander appears to be consistently interested in matters related to intelligence and consciousness, as he frequently inquires about them and has his guest explain his views on these topics.

Suddenly, the Englishman turns to me. He has a keen gaze, and I feel myself blushing a bit. Without taking his deep-set eyes off me, he asks Mr. Koriander if the hotel might have a swimming pool. Mr. Koriander replies in the negative. I also shake my head. The Englishman lowers his gaze again and mutters something like “too bad.”

The intense conversation between the two continues, and their journey into a distant future unfolds. They don’t just talk about one, but “our” humanity, touching upon a succession of human civilizations, even one in which the individual humans telepathically join together to form a kind of superintelligence, if I’ve understood correctly. In two billion years—can it truly be that they’re discussing such an unimaginable span of time while our world is supposed to end in this very year?

The Englishman eventually finishes his meal but declines when Mr. Coriander offers him his portion, which he has not touched. “You can clear the table,” Mr. Koriander instructs me. As I leave the room with the tray, he mentions to his guest that he would have liked to discuss the intelligence and consciousness of stars and galaxies, and I feel a bit bewildered. Often I gaze in wonder at the star-studded night sky, but the idea that the thousands of shimmering points above me could possess their own consciousness or intelligence has never crossed my mind!

Pascal is still around and is pestering me with questions as I put the tray in the kitchen. I should probably explain to him that there were two madmen—one of whom mysteriously appeared because I haven’t left the reception all evening, except once when I had to use the restroom. But I can still see their two faces and the seriousness with which they discussed their eccentric topics. So, I simply tell Pascal that there were two writers who met here in Room 27 of our hotel.

“Writers, hm-hm,” Pascal responds with a knowing grin, “and only still water, you say?” He wants to open a bottle of wine with me, but I send him home.

A short while later, Mr. Koriander stands at the reception with his hat and coat, placing the room key and a tip on the counter. I nearly ask him who the man with the intense eyes was, but I believe Mr. Koriander chose our small country hotel because of our discretion, so I decide to keep my mouth shut.

The room is empty, the bed untouched. How the Englishman managed to leave the hotel unnoticed remains a mystery to me. But perhaps that’s precisely what makes good room service: not to be surprised by anything.

♫ Déjà vécu ♫

110/398

I enter the corridor as the last of 110 and sit down to write my life on paper scraps—and wait until the clock runs out.

♫ Mare chronium––Focussing ♫

156/398

I enter the corridor. Pascal’s Coq au vin smells delicious once again. The twelve strokes of the church clock are just fading away. I’m a little early and stand waiting outside Room 27.

“But I ordered us food!” I hear the voice of Mr. Koriander, our guest for the night, from behind the door. Something clatters. I can’t make out the response. “Oh, but you can, I insist!” Mr. Koriander asserts. Something bangs again. “Please wait at least for the meal!” Mr. Koriander pleads. Even though I’m sure I’ll turn red with excitement, I decide to serve immediately. I knock. Mr. Koriander opens the door. “See?” he says, turning back toward the room.

A small man is standing on the bed. He has a bald spot with just a few white hairs in the back, wears glasses, and has a rather amusing round face with sticking-out ears. How old might he be? Sixty? Eighty? Hard to tell…

“Oh,” he goes, and steps off the bed. He inspects my tray, and he seems to like what he sees. I serve them their meal at the table. “Just water?” he asks as I pour table water into two glasses. He has a slight accent that I can’t quite place.

“Of course,” Mr. Koriander says. Then he opens his notebook and begins his questions while his guest starts to cut up the chicken and pepper it vigorously. I step back a few paces beside the bed, holding myself in readiness to top up their water.

At first, the conversation revolves around Mars—I might have guessed. Since they’re speaking German, I understand everything this time. And yet I comprehend almost nothing. “Arlanthropos” seems to be the name for a Martian that is merely a piece of brain inside a giant metal machine and shares no human interests. Koriander’s guest, however, doesn’t seem inclined to talk about it and grumbles discontentedly again and again. Judging by his accent, he seems to be from somewhere in the East, Russia perhaps, or Romania. I’m not sure.

“Where has Golem XIV vanished to?” Mr. Koriander wants to know, but his guest informs him that that’s not how it works and that entirely different things matter, especially given the short amount of time.

Mr. Koriander seems a little miffed. He presses his lips together and snaps his notebook shut. His guest smiles, takes it from his hand, looks inside, and says, “Pirx.” But Mr. Koriander shakes his head. He wants to talk about evolution and consciousness.

His guest smiles mischievously and asks, “In a small black box?” Mr. Koriander bites his lip and says, “Trurl.” “Klapaucius,” says his guest. Their crazy conversation goes on like this. Somehow I gather that the visitor has evidently given far more thought to artificial intelligence and nanotechnology than others. For a while, they talk about something they call “Phantomatics,” then about a certain bacterial “Eruntics.” They might as well have been speaking Ancient Egyptian for all I understood.

Finally, it’s time to clear the table. Mr. Koriander looks somewhat desperate as he studies the long list of unasked questions in his notebook. His guest laughs, and I can still hear his laughter as I stand by the elevator and the church clock strikes one.

♫ Silfurstóllinn ♫

165/398

I enter the corridor, amazed and a little spooked. How can it be that after all these years I’m discovering a corridor that leads away from my bedroom? But then, I’ve never pushed against the back wall of my closet before. Now I’m entering rooms that were completely unknown to me before, rooms that I didn’t even know I didn’t know about.

I decide to equip myself better for this expedition, instead of venturing out in pajamas without any gear. I turn back and lie down in bed to make sure that I am well-rested for the adventure. When the alarm clock beeps in the morning, I only have hazy memories of “something with my wardrobe and a gas lantern in the woods,” which I soon forget.