108 292
Mircea Cartarescu
108
was taken by the chair that
has been waiting there for
tens of years maybe, fixed
to the floor in bolts. Not
one speck of dust, no spider
web, not the least trace of
mould in that silent room
showed the passage of time.
It looked like an image from
the centre of your mind,
clear like in a camera lucida
and equally enigmatic. I sat
down on the yellowish chair
covered in fake leather, like
I would do over and over
again. One push of a metal
switch turned on the lights
on the huge porcelain plate.
I remained suffused in light,
my back against the chair,
my head leaned on its head
cushion, like a navigator
in a ship crossing the gap
between galaxies.
What was this vision doing
here? The old man hadn’t
told me anything about his
“dental office” that I initially
imagined the tower to be.
But what kind of office could
this be, where in order to
reach you needed to go
through the bedroom, go up
a stair, get out on the house
terrace, go up again on
the narrow and dangerous
cement stair that went
around the tower, then go
down like in a submarine in
order to get to the dentist?
Who would ever get into
that claustrophobic and
sinister trap? And where
was the waiting room? I
thought about all these in
the hours when, withdrawn
in my tower under the clear
light of the bulbs fixed in
the ivory platter, I played
with the instruments on the
enamelled tray in front of
me: weird crooked tongs,