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Solenoid
105
but in my time only traces
and peels of the old paint
hung on the wood rotten by
time, full of insect pupas and
transparent spider webs. It
was always closed, not with
a padlock, like you would
expect, but with a code like
some diplomatic briefcases.
There was an iron rectangle
with four equally greasy
pieces (blackish lubricant
made them slide in their
sockets despite the rust
that had almost erased the
figures) that could be turned
with your finger to show
one figure on each face.
The number that opened
the lock with a clink of
cams was 7129. Mikola had
whispered it in my ear like a
great mystery: the number
was secret and should not
be written down anywhere.
When you opened the door,
the pitch darkness inside
seemed hard and compact:
where would you enter, how
could you fit? You would be
pushed back through the
door by the force of the
volume of darkness you
displaced. However, you
noticed, once your eyes
got used to the darkness,
that you can step on a small
corridor, a grid suspended
over the night. I remember
when, my heart beating
anxiously, I first entered
the tower. After I closed the
door the world disappeared.
It wasn’t just that I couldn’t
see anything, seeing itself
had disappeared. I could
not remember what to see
meant. I closed and opened
my eyes without feeling any
change. The other senses
had disappeared too with
their related worlds, except