Donned in grey chino
pants and large buttoned black greatcoat, the man walked through the hallway,
its white walls flashed bright yellow with the ceiling bulbs, the Italian
marble stones mopped immaculately white clean emanating the light back. His
lips played a soft whistle of Andrew Bird’s ‘Danse Caribe’ that echoed through
the silent walls. The dim shadow of the man tailed him on the floor, twice as
long as he was, and thousand times more disguised than him. His black shiny
loafer shoes that looked to be polished with a costly liquid polish before he
left clicked on the floor at a steady rate of two times per second. That was
one good of a pace to walk in.
He’d put on a black peak cap on his head with a yellow outline of a cat’s head on it the left ear of which was half erased. The cap slanted downward, half his face veiled in the shadow its peak casted, his face could be inferred neatly shaven from what could be seen below it. His hands tucked deep in the pockets of his greatcoat neatly buttoned from top to bottom, only a scanner could tell what he’d cloaked under them, or if he was only fiddling with his fingers or his car key.
After a minute long walk with two clicks per second on the floor, during which he took four turns, two lefts at first and two rights through the hallway continuing his whistle all the way, he and his whistle, came to an abrupt halt before one of the many mocha colored doors of the building. On a wooden stool rightward, stood a white porcelain amphora vase that supported a couple of stalk of blue gladiolus inside. On the door, inside a white outlined circle was also written in white, ‘192’. The man briefly pulled his cap about 1 cm downer, his right arm still in its pocket, and knocked on the door exactly five times; 2-2-1. His knocking arm then back to the left pocket. He stood calm before the door, his head a bit more lowered than before. He didn’t even endeavor to turn his head left, or right or backward. That is, if someone had stealthily lifted the vase from behind, not awaking a sound, and quietly stripped it of its gladiolus stalks, the man didn’t seem to notice until he was hit on his head with the vase. Not that there was anyone behind him, or even stalking him whatsoever.
About 30 seconds later, the door moved slightly inward giving a space so meager that only a wiry cat could squeeze in through provided that the door wouldn’t budge with its force. It seemed someone inside merely unlatched the door and ran back to his, or her, working desk.
The man then took out his left arm from his pocket, and rested his first three fingers on the door. The door nudged further giving space enough for the man to slip in. The man slipped inside the room, and the door, at the same tedious pace, closed back with another short light creak.
This happened every single day, and exactly at the same time. No single minute ahead, no single minute later. Exactly at 4.54 PM. The man, always in the same attire whistling Andrew Bird’s ‘Danse Caribe’ in the same pitch, walked through the hallway clicking on the floor at the same rate with his black loafer shoes as shiny and dandy as ever, his peak cap inclined down at the same angle, shadowing the exact same portion of his face, his lower jaw as well shaven. He stood in front of the door exactly at 4.55 and knocked on it in the order 2-2-1, waited for 30 seconds, cool as a cucumber, during which the door nudged in leaving the same tiny space, and the man touched the door with the same three fingers as if verifying his identity to a hi-tech fingerprint scanner. The door then nudged further and let him in. Now it could also be a different man everyday with the same attire, the same suture, same body girth, same gait and the same punctuality, but let’s suppose that it’s the same man, as for the odds to be otherwise are extremely slim. Come to think of punctuality, the man not even once glanced at his watch which he may or may not have carried for his right arm always remained inside his pocket, and if he wore it on his left arm, it was not visible when he raised it to give the knocks. 2-2-1.
The door then never opened. At least for that day. Neither the man himself, nor any other physical being stepped outside. The only other time the door opened was at 5.56 PM the next day. After the man knocked it at 4.55 at the rate of 2-2-1. As if it wouldn’t open if it was 4.56 or 4.54, or if knocked in the order of 1-2-2, or if he didn’t place his very three fingers onto it, or if it was not for the very man.
This continued for straight 20 days, after which the man stopped appearing anymore, as if all of him had entered the door.
He’d put on a black peak cap on his head with a yellow outline of a cat’s head on it the left ear of which was half erased. The cap slanted downward, half his face veiled in the shadow its peak casted, his face could be inferred neatly shaven from what could be seen below it. His hands tucked deep in the pockets of his greatcoat neatly buttoned from top to bottom, only a scanner could tell what he’d cloaked under them, or if he was only fiddling with his fingers or his car key.
After a minute long walk with two clicks per second on the floor, during which he took four turns, two lefts at first and two rights through the hallway continuing his whistle all the way, he and his whistle, came to an abrupt halt before one of the many mocha colored doors of the building. On a wooden stool rightward, stood a white porcelain amphora vase that supported a couple of stalk of blue gladiolus inside. On the door, inside a white outlined circle was also written in white, ‘192’. The man briefly pulled his cap about 1 cm downer, his right arm still in its pocket, and knocked on the door exactly five times; 2-2-1. His knocking arm then back to the left pocket. He stood calm before the door, his head a bit more lowered than before. He didn’t even endeavor to turn his head left, or right or backward. That is, if someone had stealthily lifted the vase from behind, not awaking a sound, and quietly stripped it of its gladiolus stalks, the man didn’t seem to notice until he was hit on his head with the vase. Not that there was anyone behind him, or even stalking him whatsoever.
About 30 seconds later, the door moved slightly inward giving a space so meager that only a wiry cat could squeeze in through provided that the door wouldn’t budge with its force. It seemed someone inside merely unlatched the door and ran back to his, or her, working desk.
The man then took out his left arm from his pocket, and rested his first three fingers on the door. The door nudged further giving space enough for the man to slip in. The man slipped inside the room, and the door, at the same tedious pace, closed back with another short light creak.
This happened every single day, and exactly at the same time. No single minute ahead, no single minute later. Exactly at 4.54 PM. The man, always in the same attire whistling Andrew Bird’s ‘Danse Caribe’ in the same pitch, walked through the hallway clicking on the floor at the same rate with his black loafer shoes as shiny and dandy as ever, his peak cap inclined down at the same angle, shadowing the exact same portion of his face, his lower jaw as well shaven. He stood in front of the door exactly at 4.55 and knocked on it in the order 2-2-1, waited for 30 seconds, cool as a cucumber, during which the door nudged in leaving the same tiny space, and the man touched the door with the same three fingers as if verifying his identity to a hi-tech fingerprint scanner. The door then nudged further and let him in. Now it could also be a different man everyday with the same attire, the same suture, same body girth, same gait and the same punctuality, but let’s suppose that it’s the same man, as for the odds to be otherwise are extremely slim. Come to think of punctuality, the man not even once glanced at his watch which he may or may not have carried for his right arm always remained inside his pocket, and if he wore it on his left arm, it was not visible when he raised it to give the knocks. 2-2-1.
The door then never opened. At least for that day. Neither the man himself, nor any other physical being stepped outside. The only other time the door opened was at 5.56 PM the next day. After the man knocked it at 4.55 at the rate of 2-2-1. As if it wouldn’t open if it was 4.56 or 4.54, or if knocked in the order of 1-2-2, or if he didn’t place his very three fingers onto it, or if it was not for the very man.
This continued for straight 20 days, after which the man stopped appearing anymore, as if all of him had entered the door.
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