The Museum by Tobias

The building was black, and it was large. Very large, in fact. A huge conic shaped structure that shimmered slightly when the rays of the sun fell against its dark metallic hue. The building was the size of a small village in circumference and towered above the landscape as the tallest of skyscrapers would. One could only guess at the incredible amount of space inside. Walking around it would take an hour probably even when walking at a brisk pace. The building had been under construction for 8 years and was located at the edge of the city.

Even though it was the talk of the town, the construction went on in relative secrecy. Press was not welcome inside the building when it was being decorated, let alone visitors. The workers were asked questions but remained silent about what could be seen inside. What was known was that it would be a multi-storey museum themed around the history of war and that it would show case exhibitions unlike any other. There were rumors about the use of music and light effects, and well before the opening it was already being touted as a ‘historical Gesammtkunstwerk’ and a ‘multimedia artistic experience of life altering proportions’ by London’s connoisseurs. How a museum by itself could be considered as one work of art or what it was even like inside remained unknown. It was confirmed that numerous paintings displayed in museums across the country had been relocated to the building, but that would only take up a fraction of the available exhibition space. Fine paintings, but nothing one could not see in the big museums on the continent or further abroad. There were many workers though, bringing in all sorts of materials and the rumor was that the bulk of whatever artworks present, was created inside.

I am about to see it, as I stand in line for the opening day with eager anticipation. It is still early morning, and the line is long, winding its way around the building. I will not be the first to see it of course. There was a royal opening yesterday and the queen entered first followed by members of Parliament, the distinguished professors at British universities and the entrepreneurial doyens who made this mega project possible. I am one of the commoners, one of the first, as I have been waiting in this long queue for about three hours now. Visitors have come from afar to London to see this museum on its opening day together with droves of art lovers from the city itself. I am one of the travelers, I have been on the way for 12 hours straight, night train and all. The line will take time too, but what I will be seeing will be worth it, I am sure. I am alone, but I do not mind. This experience will be just mine.

Before me in the que I see a small woman with curly auburn hair. She stands out in the crowd and she reminds me of a girl I knew and desperately wished to date in high school. She is almost inside by now and I am quite close by, trailing her. At least the long wait has come to an end and I will see the museum, no, experience it. When it is my time to go in, I enter through a rather simple door. The door is no different than the rest of the exterior, shining black metal and glass. I am shown inside together with an Indian couple chatting enthusiastically to each other in a language I cannot not understand. The friendly doorman checks my ticket and inside I notice a simple but stylish looking hallway with four large shiny black elevator doors at the end. There is only one button they explain to me and the other guests. Press it and it will take you up. You will be shown further from there. The elevator goes up and we look at each other in anticipation, the chattering couple, a German woman two British boy students and me.
As there is no indication of the storeys that we are passing and because elevator speed is hard to measure, I do not know how high up I am in the building when the doors slide open. I find myself in a round-shaped stairwell that bears no resemblance to the futuristic exterior of the building or the modern interior of the entrance. Instead, it resembles an old bell tower, with large, sturdy stone stairs leading both up and down.

“This way sir” I am informed by an elderly gentleman who is obviously one of the attendants. I hear muffled sounds around me, cries, thumps, tones of a base, nothing clearly audible but it reverberates through my body. I climb up the stairwell and pass a few other people when I notice two women just up ahead. One is the woman with curly auburn hair. I recognize her now clearly. It is indeed my old crush Rachel together with a high school friend who I also recognize from her silvery pale blond hair. They are talking and their voices sound immediately familiar. They bring me back to those high school years. Her laughter, the slight tinge of irony that she seemed to always use when talking. It made one wonder if she really meant anything she said. I wonder with distinct clarity whether this crush has really ever left me? Possibly not. We have never been lovers, but we are both still single now probably if she is with a female friend… I compose myself and realize that I am much older now and that I should act my age. After all, it is a most remarkable coincidence that we meet again here. “Hi Rach, it has been a while!”, I say with a smile and a tone of voice which I just hope sounds self-assured. “Bennyyyy!” She giggles and she flings her arms around my neck in a tight hug. My name is Benjamin, but no one calls me that, at least not during my high school years. “What a coincidence and what great timing! I just knew you would be here!”. Why is not clear to me because in high school I never stood out for my love of art. My love for war games was known though, maybe that was it.

We decide to walk up the stairs shown to us by another attendant and the thumping gives way to music. While we talk, we are shown inside a room and there paintings hang. They are all paintings of war, mostly at sea, of battles, of ships. They are reminiscent of those 17th and 18th century paintings which you also see in the Amsterdam Maritime Museum for instance. They are impressive, but nothing like a ‘Gesammtkunstwerk’, though the classical piano music that is now audible adds a nice touch. I am way more interested in our conversation anyway to really notice.

As we return to the stairwell and start to descend, we are joined by a younger man who shows much interest in Rachel. I must confess he is flamboyant and has a way with words. I also think I recognize him. Yes, he is one of the resident DJ’s of the museum, featured in a two-page newspaper interview. Of course, he remained tight lipped but a museum with a DJ was news in itself and news about the museum even reached my country. I now find myself shut out of the conversation as Rach is laughing about his well-timed jokes. He also has the attention of her friend. As we walk down the stairs, techno like beats become louder and he explains he composed the music, much to the admiration of Rachel. He starts being flirty towards her, but she keeps her distance it seems. Polite but certain she rejects his overtures, which makes me smile. I recognize I am being too reactive and feel silly about it. We arrive in a hallway with multiple doors. When they proceed to enter a room, I tell them I will have a look at the room on the left. We will see each other again on the stairwell.

The room is remarkable actually and features long corridors covered by video screens. There is not a scrap of empty wall to be seen. The screens show well known historical politicians giving speeches, Hitler, Churchill, Ataturk, Kennedy, Mussolini, Putin. On others there are scenes of battles and bombardments. Almost lifelike, the child hit with napalm in Vietnam seems to rush past me, her naked skin burning. I see grieving mothers and storm troopers attacking trenches throwing hand grenades. I hear the historical speeches with intermittent noise of explosions and the techno beats accompany them with an unchanging rhythm as if the march of history unfolds in sound. I wander around, impressed, but my mind is elsewhere, just as it so often was in the past. I walk back to the hallway with the doors. I notice the stairs go down, but there is also an elevator. Not a modern one as the ones near the entrance but an old one, an old paternoster lift it seems. I need to wait a bit as a couple of people just took it down, but I want to wait anyway, trying to spot Rachel and her friend. She does not appear, and I take the elevator down which descends for quite a while. Eventually It becomes totally dark until I reach another floor. There is only one door there and the attendant shows me inside.

I find myself in a huge hall, with a remarkably high ceiling. One really must bend the neck to see it. I walk inside and reminds me of some sort of abandoned village. I am wandering through dwellings, rooms, but they have no roof, just the high ceiling above. The rooms have furniture, but it is all remarkably oddly placed and shaped, sometimes too small, more often way too large. The rooms look like they are abandoned in a hurry and sometimes they seem destroyed or vandalized. in a room I see a couch standing almost upwards on its side, but the couch is much too big for the room, it is the size of a small bus. Tables are turned over and their large legs poke into the air at odd angles sometimes even blocking the walkways. I might get lost here I think when the music starts playing. Loud, almost deafening techno fills my ears and I notice sirens as if an air raid is incoming. I hear a thunderous explosion and I see dust and grit flare up right behind me, though there is no fire or heat. I start walking on hurriedly, I twist around the hallway almost stumbling over an old radio seemingly thrown down in the middle of the path. It makes a crackling almost laughing noise, “I love you, I love you, hehehehehe”. I start walking as fast as I can without tripping, over the debris and I enter rooms where plates are still on the tables but the huge tables are slanted sideways. The plates keep sticking on the tables I notice. The cupboards are open, showing foodstuffs like tea, bread and honey. A creaking noise is audible between the music and the sound of thunder.

Through the explosions, the incessant techno beats, and the swirling dust cloud, I cannot see the way back anymore, as my vision becomes blurred. The rest of the visitors seem as disoriented as me and as I rush on, I see an African couple pleading with an attendant. I join them and listen. They ask in a panicky voice why this place is so disorienting. They cannot concentrate on anything they complain, and they do not know the way back anymore. The attendant calmly explains that this is a museum about war and that war is disorienting, not a situation that allows for concentration or focusing of the senses. They ask him to please show them the way out, but he just smiles and in a friendly voice asks them to proceed. When I start to speak up to ask him the way back to the stairwell because I am waiting for someone, I see her face down the corridor. She is on this floor apparently and I run in her direction.

Another explosion of dust makes me lose sight of her and when it subsides, I walk on looking left and right. My eyes peer inside another room. It is a bedroom, this one has some sort of roof over it, with a hole in the ceiling. In the room I see a bed and on this bed lays a couple. The bed and the couple are covered in dust and grit and it is like the man protects his woman from the falling debris with his body. But she has her legs wrapped around his hips and looking at the girl’s face I realize she is climaxing repeatedly; she is writhing, and her face is contorted in a grimace that expresses both agony and bliss. Suddenly shocked, aware of my voyeurism I rush on, but the sounds grow even louder, and I am stumbling over derelict furniture while avoiding crashing into the other guests who seem to have no idea where they are going. They are lost just like me. I intend to find Rachel, but I do not see her face again. Once I think I see a glimpse of her hair, then it is gone. I turn right, after being startled by an explosion and I find myself inside a derelict children’s room, the once colorful wallpaper torn and stained as if the room is long abandoned. A crib with the size of a car occupies most of the room. The soft crying of a child emerges from it, but I cannot look inside as the crib is too large.

I must be at the outer edge I think when I suddenly approach a black, shimmering, slightly bended wall. I walk along the wall until arriving at a staircase going down. The stairs are made of marble with anti-slip strips. They look familiar to me as they remind me of the stairs in the subway stations of my city. I go down and I reach two large, steel, grated orange doors, like a gate. They look familiar too. They are the same doors that close off the subway station at night. They are made of heavy steel, and they are shut tight. Within the main gate there is another door I notice, steel and grated as well, but with a handle. I try the handle and the door gives way. I turn back up the stairs intending to find Rachel and her friend and take them to what seems to be an exit. I change my mind halfway up. Calmly I descend again and open the small orange door and step outside. I feel the cool air on my warm skin, and I notice how much I rushed. When I close the door behind me and walk outside, I realize I must be far from the main entrance. I am no longer in the city. I find myself on a winding railroad track with pebbles between the wooden sleepers. I try to open the door out of curiosity, but it is shut. I walk away from the building proceeding along the track.