The Museum Wedding Night

Disclaimer: All names and events in this story are fabricated. Some inspiration comes from Museum Dedel in Den Haag.

♠︎

The warm October light flooded our table and made Milena’s hair glow. She sat there like an angel—bathing my gaze with the unearthly beauty of her delicate frame. The wind played with her long strawberry-blond hair. When she smiled, two lovely dimples appeared on her cheeks. They made her smile look innocent, childish, and mischievous. 

We hadn’t seen each other for a whole six months before that day—the time needed for me to arrange an internship in a foreign country and for her to get a visa. I was losing my mind over how I missed the sight of her. A day spent away from the sweet scent of her hair, the soft touch of her lips, the tranquilising murmur of her voice, was a day wasted in my life. Finally, she arrived and my plans of building a future together began coming to reality.

We are both from Belgrade, Serbia. Our lives there were quite different though. I inherited my professional path. You see, my family owns a private medical clinic in Belgrade. My father worked as the head of cardiology at the Military Medical Academy for thirty years and opened his own practice afterwards. From an early age I knew I’d follow his path. An internship abroad would do me good, he said. Then it struck me that we could live for a couple of years abroad together. I could get into medical research, spend four, five, eight years writing a dissertation on some new method of early diagnosis of cardio-vascular diseases. There would be time for Milena to figure out what she would like to do. A blank slate. You can be anything you want in a place where no one knows you.

‘What are you thinking about, with such a serious face?’ she asked.

‘My room isn’t big enough for the two of us. The bed is tiny. We could never get good rest sleeping like that,’ I replied.

‘That’s what my husband is busy with!’ She laughed, the sound of her laughter rang in B major.

‘You are right. It’s nothing. We’ll sort it out later. I’m sorry, my love.’

‘Don’t take it all on you. I can work too. Surely, there’s a position of a hotel maid that is open even for someone like me: not speaking English all that well.’

‘Hotel rooms are filthy. Cleaning after filthy strangers isn’t the job I want for my darling,’ I protested.

‘But it’s fine. I have you. I spent all my life’s luck on meeting you and don’t care for more. A brilliant career—you can have it. Money, fame, houses, yachts, trips around the world—it’s all entirely optional to me. If I can say good night to you before going to sleep, that’s enough.’

It was her gift—an ability to disarm me with just a few words. I was bound to lose any argument before it could even begin.

‘And now that we are married, the lonely waiting time is over,’ she continued. ‘It was a beautiful ceremony. Simple but elegant.’

That morning, we went to the city hall to say yes to each other and get a marriage certificate. It took surprisingly little time. I didn’t even have a ring to give to Milena. My wallet could not afford one, and I was too proud to take the money my mother offered. Those were vain worries. Just looking at her wearing a cute lemon-yellow dress with a pattern of white lilies made me the happiest man alive. I felt intoxicated with joy. 

Trams rumbled by, navigating busy narrow streets. The sun beams ricocheted from the tall stained-glass window of a church across the street. The waiter came with my coffee and a cup of black tea with milk for Milena. It was at my parents’ house when she tried this drink for the first time. We were in middle school and I invited her in to do homework together. My mother thinks she has some British blood. She offers the darkest Assam with some milk to every guest who ever visits our house. At first, I thought Milena pretended to like it to be polite, or that the drink gained some symbolic significance of a grown-up tea ceremony for her. But since then she wouldn’t drink anything else, even if there was a choice.

‘We should watch the time to catch our train.’

‘Are we going somewhere?’ Milena asked.

‘Oh. It’s a little one-night get-away trip. How about experiencing a honeymoon in twenty-four hours?’

‘No, no,’ she replied. ‘I want a three-year-long honeymoon. But we don’t have to be away the whole time. One day is enough. Thank you for arranging it for us.’ 

She smiled and I reached for her hand. The skin felt cool. Milena always had cold hands and feet, ever since she was a child.

♠︎

Life in Serbia during my early years didn't qualify to be called happy times, not according to people I know. I remember everyone was tense and terrified of the dark present and impenetrably dark future. My parents would talk in low voices about someone they knew who was involved in narcotics and some neighbour in our ten stories-high building never returning home from a late-night walk. All this while nationalists, patriots, socialists, and catholics blamed the chaos that reigned the country on each other. 

My mother stressed about me going to school alone while  crossing a street. ‘Look around even if the light is green,’ she told me. It was dangerous. Every week there were speeding, reckless and drunk-driving accidents on the news. People died on the streets, children included.

But my family has been fortunate. Father’s position as a distinguished medical professional brought many privileges with it. We lived in a big four-room apartment (including separate bedrooms for my parents), our fridge was always full, and so were the bookshelves. Every month there was a delivery of new books for my father, most of them in foreign languages. I loved books, unwrapping them, smelling the fresh pages, leafing through them. Every once and again there would be something for me too: English books for children. My parents believed a good education gave you chances in life.

School experiences were gruesome for Milena—she was bullied for being dirt poor. It was a regular public school, not some high-end private lyceum. None of the kids at school, except for a handful, were well-off. I couldn’t grasp why they singled her out and tormented her with such unflinching determination. Her classmates stole her books and stationery and hid them. They spoke about her second-hand clothes and shoes in voices loud enough for her to hear, wrote obscenities on her desk, accidentally showered her with muddy mop water, and threw the black-board sponge full of chalk dust at her head. Milena’s face was a rigid mask: tense jaws, uneasy gaze. She wouldn’t make eye contact, but scan your hands and feet instead.

We met on a dreary day. It was pouring hard, no sunlight coming through the thickest grey clouds. I was a little late for my first lesson and prepared to run to the classroom when I saw her standing with the Headmistress in the foyer. Milena hadn’t brought a change of shoes and was scolded for what seemed a long time. She stood there silently and looked at Mrs. Maksimović's hands. Reproaches spouted from the Headmistress’s mouth in an endless flow. It was like watching a person getting hit by a landslide or an avalanche. I took my loafers from the backpack and handed them to Milena.

Picture credit Nandia

‘And what are you going to change into, young man?’ Mrs. Maksimović asked.

‘I have sneakers in my locker at the gym,’ I lied.

That day, I went around in my white socks that soon became dim grey. Milena was a grade younger than me, her feet were tiny, but I refused to take the loafers back—oversized shoes were a better option than being scolded every day. At home I said that I lost them and needed a new pair. My mother was suspicious. (She told me years later.)

It could have ended there as a single encounter but my vision became strangely attuned to Milena. I saw her everywhere I went: being laughed at in a corridor, eating a bread bun alone at a staircase window, running laps on the field. She looked like she wished it was her last day on earth but knew it wasn’t. One time I gave her a piece of candy, another, half of my lunch. But it wasn’t until she said ‘They will pick on you too, if they see you with me,’ that I realised I couldn’t leave her side.

My mother complained to my father that I would always bring stray animals home, I could never ignore a struggling pigeon with a broken wing. At first, she saw a feral kitten in Milena too. It was impossible not to. Her clothes were smelly and unwashed, her hair was a greasy lump, she would hardly speak and never looked you in the eye. But very soon, already in December that year, I noticed mum had bought some warm socks, tights and mittens for Milena. Her own clothes weren’t warm enough for winter, which caused her many sick days and weeks.

‘I have to meet your friend’s parents. I hope they don’t mind Milena spending afternoons at our house,’ said mother.

‘I’ll come with,’ I said.

Milena wasn’t a big fan of the idea but my parents insisted and I was curious to see her house. They lived on the other side of the train tracks, on a dead-end street between the river and a hill that sporadically became an outdoor marketplace, a circus playground, or a battlefield for local bands settling scores. It was a place where you wouldn't want to be alone, neither at night nor during the day. The houses were built some sixty years ago as temporary accommodation for factory workers. It was a measure to compensate for the housing shortage when masses of people moved from the countryside to big cities looking for jobs. There were not enough square metres available and the government sponsored the cheapest and quickest solution. People say that only a third of that money reached the building site. I couldn’t tell. But looking at those darkened by rain wooden frames with oakum sticking out from between the logs, I know they hadn’t paid an architect.

The inside of the house was sectioned into tiny cramped rooms. Torn was the wallpaper with ugly brown boats between blue stripes that hung on the walls. Cream coloured linoleum with a washed off wood-imitation pattern covered the ground in frivolously-shaped cuts. 

It smelled of sour milk and boiled carrots. Milena’s mother, Ivana, met us at the door. She gestured us inside without a smile or chagrin. If anything, she looked tired.

‘Would you like some tea?’ she asked.

‘No, thank you. We will go in a minute.’ my mother replied.

A small child—about four-year-old—peeked out a crack in the door from one of the rooms.

‘Go back to bed,’ Ivana snapped at her.

We squeezed into the kitchen, my mother sat down on a shaky stool with unmatched serenity and smiled.

‘Our children meet at our place to do homework together. I hope you don’t mind,’ she said.

‘I do. Milena has to watch her sister and help at home.’ Ivana replied.

‘No more than a couple of hours then.’

‘No need. She doesn’t have the brains to be smart.’

That was my first and the last encounter with Milena’s parents. Her father was there as well, watching TV on a couch. He didn’t lift his head to say hi to us. My green and naive little heart was astounded. If a family could take such a form, the world was a scary place. We walked back in perfect silence. And since that day mother prepared an extra portion of food so the two of us could eat together after school hours.

I must make a confession to the reader. It isn’t a love story. Much different. The more time we spent together the less I could imagine a day without Milena. She was my unborn sibling, my closest friend, a keeper of my secrets, an interpreter of my moods and emotions. I was pulled towards her by an unstoppable force. I wanted to discover her universe, get past the silence of her sad smile. More than anything, I wanted to protect her from everyone and everything, from every speck of dust and a snowflake that might cause her discomfort. She was my fifth element and The Fifth Element was my favourite movie.

High school days flew by. I went to the Medical Academy, Milena found a job. It was hard for me to see her waiting tables, washing dishes, selling doughnuts, but her family wouldn’t allow it otherwise. Money was the only thing they cared for. I knew that only moving cities (or better, countries) would free Milena of family obligations. I never had the courage to say that to her directly, but I think she understood my intentions. Five long years I agonised over my plans, searched for opportunities, and finally we were free. 

♠︎

We packed one travel bag for the two of us and got on a train. The trip was a short one—slightly more than an hour to the central station in The Hague. Milena looked out the window and commented on the cute rural landscapes with black-and-white cows and windmills. The car was more than half full, people were speaking in different languages. An American couple across the aisle was the loudest. Their voices effortlessly pierced the muffled mutter of other travellers. Loud sounds unsettle me. I guess it’s because in our country they mean trouble.

An unexpected disaster broke out when I couldn’t find our luggage upon arrival. The bag was safely tucked between two sets of chairs. Till this day I think it was stolen but Milena tried to convince me that somebody must have taken it by mistake.

‘It’s better to walk around with our hands empty and no need for an early hotel check-in. Let’s go to the beach. I want to meet the ocean!’ she said.

I was immensely annoyed by the incident but showing it would ruin our day. Letting go of things wasn’t my strong side. I endlessly complained to anyone who would listen about how I missed the bookshelves that stayed back in my parents’ apartment. Yes, I could get e-books, but they won’t give me the same warm and fuzzy feeling inside as my own paperbacks did. As a result I didn’t read fiction that year. Didn’t need it that much. After all, fiction in general, and Haruki Murakami’s mad worlds in particular, were my hiding place. It was my rabbit hole with talking flamingos and a Queen of Hearts playing croquet on the other side of it. Then was the time to come out of hiding and live.

I cannot say I like studying medicine that much, or that I liked my prospects of working as a medical doctor till the end of times. Nothing except for a steady paycheck excited me about it. But it was my path and I followed it, hoping to keep Milena out of harm's way.

The coast threw pulses of cold wind in our faces. Waves surged and fell to the sandy grounds with a hiss. Seagulls' yelps added to the music of nature. Milena ran towards the water waving for me to catch up. She smiled that beautiful unrestricted smile that showed two dimples on her cheeks. I took off my shoes and rushed towards her as fast as the dry sand mixed with sea shells let me.

Image credit Nandia

‘I want to hug the sea.’ I heard Milena say before she wandered knee-deep into the freezing-cold water. I went after her in disbelief.

‘Why, Milena? You’ll catch a cold,’ I said.

‘I know a handsome young doctor who can nourish me back to health,’ she replied.

I had to laugh though I was worried. Milena was prone to illness. She had bronchitis in one of our school winters. I’m afraid it was my fault too. 

One late evening I found her waiting outside my music school. Her hands were pure ice, and, I suppose, everything else too. There probably was a scuffle at her house. I noticed a red-and-blue bruise on her temple. My mother gave her a hot bath at home and put her to sleep under two blankets, but the hypothermia did a great deal of damage. She got so sick that my father found a hospital bed to treat her in. I was so upset I cried for hours and begged my mother to never let Milena back in that horrible place she called home. Mother stroked my hair and sighed. ‘That would be kidnapping, you know,’ she said. 

Ever since that winter Milena got sick easily. I scooped her out of the salty water and brought back to dry land.

‘You are so sweet,’ she said. ‘I like it here. Clouds, waves and limitless blue everywhere—what else might you need for happiness? And you, my love. Of course. Today, happiness seems simple. It’s everywhere I go. Maybe it’s because I feel free. I can go left and right and there’s no one who scares me. 

‘You know, I almost thought I had a fear of open spaces. I used to hide in my parents’ closet. Mostly that dark hole proved to be a safe place. Occasionally, it wasn’t. Still, outside was much worse. I saw spiteful eyes wherever I went. I didn’t know why. Before I met you, no one talked to me. They talked about me: loud and clear, made up stories about how I was born in a ditch and will die in one too. 

‘Did you know that Mrs. Kusturica, the geography teacher, lived in the house next to us? Everyone thought she was well-off with her huge golden rings and nice alpaca shawl. But that was the only shawl she had and the gold of the rings was fake. I saw her walking to school past our windows. That woman was as nasty to me as no other teacher. She made fun of my notepads that I used back and front for different classes because I had only three of them. She always pointed out to the class if I couldn’t answer a question making suggestive remarks about my future. I hope she’s well now. Because I’m well.’

I looked at her for a long moment, thinking of the little girl she once was, for all the stories from her life and all the untold facts of Milena’s past. 

My phone rang. It was my mother.

‘Stefan,’ she said. ‘Stefan, you don’t forget to eat, do you? How do you sleep, dear?’

‘Why, mum? I’m not a child anymore. I can handle that much, right? Maybe if you asked about the laundry or when I cleaned my room the last time, the answer wouldn’t be so easy. But I’m okay.’

‘You are joking, that’s a good sign. Do you take Zoloft as Dr. Kovačev prescribed?’

‘I feel fine. Don’t need any pills. Have to go now, we have an emergency. Love you, mum.’

I hung up.

‘An emergency?’ Milena asked.

‘Yes, we need to get you dry clothes and shoes. We go shopping.’

♠︎

I never liked shopping. Typically, I would go in and out in a jiffy with a pile of white and blue shirts in my hands. My mother has a good eye for suits and jackets. And I trust her to pick those things for me.

The only time I enjoyed loitering around the changing rooms was when we went with Milena. I don’t know if there was a special occasion or not. We were in our last year of school. Mother met us after classes and we went to a mall. Milena’s usual high school outfit was a big stretched wool sweater that covered her knees.

That day my life crossed a point of no return. As I sat there watching Milena changing one pretty dress for another (mother insisted I should judge which one was the best), my heart accelerated as I saw that my quiet angel had the shape of a woman. I was overwhelmed and ashamed of myself because I was certain my brotherly and not so brotherly love for Milena clearly showed itself on my face. It probably did.

Today Milena was my wife. It made little difference to how I felt. The teenage boy— dazed, stunned by her beauty—still lived inside of me. 

She tried on a jumpsuit, a pleated long skirt with a turtleneck, and a checked shirt dress. ‘You look pretty,’ was the only thing I could say when she walked out of the dressing room to show herself to me. But when I saw her in a jade green jersey dress I could find no words. It was the cutest. The rich green of the dress made her silver-grey eyes sparkle. I found her a pair of smart Chelsea boots to combine with the dress.

‘I hope your girlfriend will like the garments,’ said the cashier.

‘Of course she does,’ said I, receiving the bag.

We went to have lunch in a small cafe—what they call a snack bar. Milena said she wasn’t hungry. She only took a bite of my pizza and drank her usual English Breakfast with milk.

‘Do you have a fever? We should check into the hotel now. You can lie down there,’ I said.

‘Then the day will come to its end. It’s still early. Let’s do something fun!’ she replied.

‘As you wish. But no more wet activities. If it starts raining, we go to the hotel. Agreed?’

‘Sure.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘I want to see beautiful old things.’

Her style of exploring was wandering around aimlessly turning left and right when she felt like it. I obediently followed my wife. The architecture in The Hague is a wonderful mix of very old, relatively old, and shining glass-and-concrete modern constructions. Someone would say it belittles architectural inheritance. Someone would argue that the modern pieces rather elevate than overshadow historic buildings. I’m a total amateur in the arts. To me, as a person who grew up in a grey neighbourhood of unified parallelepipeds (brutalism style), The Hague was a fairyland. Stucco and frescoes preserved in this moist and windy climate—isn’t it a miracle?

‘There’s a museum,’ Milena said.

♠︎

We stood in front of a red brick building with a sign that invited us to visit Museum Dedel to see a vast collection of rare posters. We went in. To my surprise, the front was just a false façade. A guide led us into a seventeenth-century mansion that survived countless generations of owners and was lucky enough to be preserved in almost perfect condition. 

That was the weirdest museum I’d ever been to. Instead of walking on carpeted staircases, corridors connected with each room, you come down to a warm kitchen, where volunteers chat and drink tea. One of them offers you a guided tour. If you agree to that, they tell you about the old times, people who owned that magnificent house, and their customs.

We made a full round and came back to the ground floor. There stood a grand piano.

‘Play something for me,’ Milena asked. 

‘What would you like to hear?’

‘Beethoven—Moonlight Sonata.’

It was her favourite. I sat down at the piano and played. Music was the first foreign language that I learned. I always thought it bizarre how chord progressions awaken a rainbow of emotions in one’s heart. How it connects us, creates unspoken understanding among the listeners. 

I am forever puzzled why people love that composition. If you ask me, Moonlight Sonata sounds like what angels play in Heaven, so immeasurably far from our hasty existence. I secretly hate this piece for being intolerably beautiful even in the most melancholic parts of it. 

The music attracted other visitors. They gathered around the piano, listening. When the last note died, silence fell for a brief moment before several excited voices thanked me for the performance. They were interrupted by the sound of a gong. 

‘The museum is about to close for the day,’ said Milena. ‘I want to have another look at the old beauty. Quick!’ She tugged at my sleeve. 

We went to the drawing room, the salon and the dining room. Milena was excited.

‘Can you imagine living in a house like this? Dining here, looking at the garden through the tall windows. Logs are burning in the fireplace. The Greek gods watching you from the ceiling. And the best of all… A maid brings your dinner from the downstairs kitchen. It’s freshly made just as you like it: pumpkin tomato soup with grilled cheese sticks, stuffed bell-peppers, butternut squash casserole, roasted potatoes with feta cheese, and, of course, pasta puttanesca. Wine? Red and white wine or maybe rosé.

What kind of person would you grow up to be? Should you be extremely kind or spoiled rotten? Would you be someone who never feels sad, lost, in despair? Yes, yes. That lifestyle should suit you. The heir of a noble family.’

‘What about you?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know. I can’t see myself fitting anywhere…’ She tilted her head as if thinking on a tough question. ‘But it’s silly,’ she continued with a smile. ‘I should be glad to be a servant here. Look.’

She pointed at a door in the far corner of the room. 

‘That’s where I come from with hot steaming dishes in my hands.’ She beckoned me with her finger. ‘Come with me, Master Stefan.’

It was a small servant’s room with a round window looking at the staircase. Milena hugged me, pressing her face to my collarbone. Her hair smelled of lilac. The room darkened, time stopped. The warmth and softness of her body filled my mind. I stood there overwhelmed with happiness, intoxicated with the sweet taste of it.

Many years I pretended that my feelings for Milena were purely platonic. I needed to outgrow the role of a knight, a saviour, needed to stop seeing Milena just a little girl with a red-blue bruise on her temple. Parents being parents, they joked about our future wedding sometimes. I waved it off as nonsense, secretly pleased to my core. 

In my second year of high school, my classmates discovered how funny insinuations about my with Milena intimate relationship can be. It was teasing at first but soon became a lurid flow of obscenities during each break. Milena endured it with a bleak face. Her eyes got glossy as if hidden behind thin plastic foil. I, on the contrary, showed rage, embarrassment, and pain in every feature of my red-hot face.

‘You are jealous, aren’t you?’ I said to one of the bullies in return.

‘Me? Of what?’

‘She is pretty and she is with me.’

‘That’s true then?’

‘She’s with me. Basta.’

‘Alright. Alright. You could find a real woman but prefer a homeless monkey…’

‘Shut. Your. Mouth.’

‘Maaan.’

I wish I could say they left her alone after I publicly announced our new relationship status in that way. No, not that easy. 

But when I graduated and she still had a year to study, she quietly asked me: ‘Are we dating?’ I said we could, if she didn’t mind, and she said she didn’t.

Harried steps on the stairs interrupted my train of thoughts.

‘Shall we go to the hotel now?’ I whispered to Milena.

‘Sure.’

We left our hideout and found the lights switched off and not a human sound in the whole building. The entrance door was locked, effectively separating us from a warm bed in an expensive hotel room I had booked for the night.

‘Not to worry. I’m sure there’s an emergency number I can call,’ I said, trying to calm myself down.

But the number was nowhere to be found.

‘A museum night!’ Milena said. She smiled.

I can never remember her flipping out about an inconvenience or annoyance, being disappointed because plans didn’t get through. I would call it weird, if someone else showed no negative reaction to adversity. In her, I found it a wonderful superpower.

♠︎

I went to have a look around the kitchen just to make myself busy. There were some cups and tea bags, a couple of bottles of wine and champagne. Some left-over birthday cake in the fridge. I was tired and hungry, so I went against my good conscience and ate a piece of cake, washing it down with a cup of Earl Grey. Milena didn’t eat much. I seriously suspected she was coming down with something.

The night was going to be a long one. We tried to build a more-or-less comfortable place to lie down from the chairs that stood around us. I found some interesting books in a little library adjacent to the kitchen. Milena explored the exhibition rooms. A church clock in the neighbourhood struck twelve times.

The church bell seemed to keep on striking. A single note grew into a melody. I thought it was odd to disturb the sleeping townsfolk with a late-night performance when Milena said: ‘I think it’s upstairs.’ 

It was Bach’s Keyboard Sonatina in E minor, transforming half way into something that reminded me of Totentanz by Franz Liszt. I was chilled to my bones. Did someone with a key come at night to practise ominous piano music? If he were a burglar, why make noise? If he were one of the museum’s staff, why didn’t he express his love for music during the evening hours? However, I saw a chance to be let out of the building and decided to meet the pianist. Milena didn’t want to stay downstairs, so she came with me, clutching my arm.

Dozens of candles illuminated the vestibule. With the shatters closed, the circular room reminded me of the bottom of a water pit or a crypt. The doors to the drawing room were open. Bright fire snakes played in the grey marble fireplace. A young man wearing a white shirt and a slim black jacket with long tails balanced a tray full of wine in tall glasses. The pianist and people around him were draped in glossy shiny fabrics that at first made the room look like a pool of shimmering water. Then my eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room, and I realised that they were reenacting an eighteenth-century event.

Everyone wore theatrical costumes. The two ladies bore resemblance with frosted wedding cakes in their stunning opulent gowns with floral prints, embroidery, and ribbons. They looked as if they had just stepped down from a painting: delicate necks embraced by sparkling jewels, ornamented fans in hand. The men’s fashion was no less peculiar and sophisticated. They wore closely cut coats with two long rows of glistening bronze buttons, richly ornamented waistcoats and knee-long breeches. The lady in an aquamarine gown leaned towards the grand piano, smiling. Another one was soaked in a quiet conversation with her male companion.

The gong struck once more. The music stopped and the party moved into the dining room, paying no attention to Milena and me. While they passed us, I noticed that the aquamarine lady was in a delicate situation. They must be expecting a baby very soon.

The reenactment continued. Dressed in black, maids appeared on the staircase, bringing trays with iced oysters, roasted meat, unidentified birds (maybe pheasants or pigeons), cheese soufflé, pies, puddings, and carafes of wine. We could hear a cheery clink-clank of glasses from the room. 

Despite the contagious joyfulness, I was haunted by an uneasy feeling. We were in the small hours of the morning. I’d more readily believe I was sleeping and seeing dreams than to try to fit what was happening that night into any rational explanation. I was tired too. 

At some point, I found myself lying down on the row of chairs and waking up to a tremendous rumble. A thunderstorm, I thought, shaking off the sleep. The rattling continued, followed by rain. The noise was very dense, almost three-dimensional. It bombarded my senses from all directions. And still I heard something very clearly—a woman’s shriek. The blood in my veins ran cold. I froze for a few moments, hoping it was a hallucination of sorts. Then it repeated, and a third time. I was mortified. The wooden steps squeaked as someone ran upstairs. I followed them.

The sound came from one of the bedrooms on the first floor. It was unbearable to hear. A cry of a wounded animal, a call for help or for the end of it. A woman in her nightgown stood in the passage. She rocked a small child back and forth as it wailed uncontrollably. Three more children clung to her legs.

A maid came and pushed the door open, a basin full of bloody water and linen in hands.

‘More hot water,’ she said and disappeared. 

I looked around. Was she talking to me? The storm was so strong, I half expected it to crash the house or lift it into the air and swallow it whole. How then I heard her moans with every bone in my body, that I can’t tell you. Presently, she didn’t scream anymore but groaned, then wheezed.

A terrible silence fell. The children felt it too. Paralyzed with fear before they started weeping. A man with disorderly hair wandered out of the damned room. His eyes wide open. I wanted to say or do something but was too terrified to approach him. Instead, I followed the man to the ground floor and watched how he opened the garden doors and disappeared into the storm.

‘Magdalena!’ I’ve heard him cry.

♠︎

The lock to the entrance door clicked, and I woke up on a chair downstairs. Someone came in.

‘Oh, hello. What are you doing here? Are you a new volunteer?’ he asked.

‘Good morning, sir. No, I’m a visitor who got trapped inside last evening.’

‘Oh no… How could something like that happen? I’m very sorry. I’ll instruct the volunteers to count visitors coming in and out. Shall I get you a cup of coffee?’

‘Yes, please. And for Milena too, if it’s no trouble.’

‘You had company? I’m glad for you, sir. I guess the night wasn’t that boring after all.’

‘It wasn’t at all. There was a reenactment event. You must know about it. Lavishly dressed people playing the piano and having dinner.’

‘We host dinners for our supporters but only on Tuesdays when the museum is closed. There were no outside-usual-hours visitors here yesterday.’

‘But we both saw and heard them in the vestibule. There were maids and children too. Someone died. A poor man went out to fight the storm. I’ve heard him calling a certain Magdalena.’

The museum worker’s face changed from cheerful to concerned. He put a cup of coffee in front of me and asked me to describe the events in detail. I did.

‘It sounds like you’ve been introduced to the Dedel family. Magdalena was a wife of Jan Hudde Dedel. She died in this house while giving birth to their fifth child. The poor little didn’t live longer than his mother. You must have dreamed of them.’

‘How could I dream of something unbeknownst to me?’

‘The walls keep the memory,’ he concluded.

My phone rang. 

‘Good morning, mother,’ I said. ‘You won’t guess what happened to us last night.’

‘What is it?’ her voice suddenly sounded panicky. 

‘Me and Milena got locked in a museum and watched a most bizarre show of ghosts.’

‘Dear, tell me now: do you take your medicine? What you say doesn’t make sense.’

‘Mum. I’m not a child and I’m telling you I feel fine.’

‘Stefan. Milena died six months ago. She got corona, bilateral pneumonia. Respiratory failure, sepsis and lung abscess followed. We couldn’t save her.’

I looked at the paperbag with the Chelsea boots and an evergreen dress in it. Milena’s wedding ring was on my left pinky.

♠︎ ♠︎ ♠︎