VI

I was once in a small and ancient town in Moravia. It was autumn; a glorious yet murky evening. Yellow leafs were scattered on the pavement. I walked among old gloomy Czechs.

I was bored and alienated. Willing to get some adventures, I stepped into a two-storey building with weird columns.

As the entrance closed, violent and unpleasant music rushed into my ear canals. The sound was from a stringed instrument, probably a violin. I struggled to find the source of that unmelodious rumble.

Finally, I approached the spot where the tune sounded the loudest. It was a small landing on the second storey. The floor was covered with semolina-looking dust. The only door had a woven tapestry on it. The painting was majestic, but somehow this devious noise made the beauty of an art hackneyed and prosaic.

I knocked. The music ceased this instant. I became motionless. For some reason, the sudden silence gave me shivers. As there was no answer, I waited for a minute and knocked again. Apparently, no one was eager to welcome me. I held my breath and pulled on the knob.

The lights were off inside. I could not have a slightest glimpse on anything. Dying with curiosity, I dove in, withdrew a matchbox from my pocket, and lit a fire.

There were five men and two women. The males wore cylinder silver hats and crimson pyjamas, whereas the ladies were in silk maroon gowns. All seven of them stood closely to each other holding bouzouki in their hands. The strangers gazed at me dumbly and steadily. They did not blink. They did not stir even a bit.

The match in my fingers burned out. A pleasant smell of sulfur reached out and faded right away. I drowned into the darkness and never came back.