Each to Their Own Century

A rustling of bushes drifts through the ajar window. Alfred opens his eyes and examines the ruby wallpaper with golden patterns. He takes his time to stretch. Then he leaves the canopy bed and wraps himself in his thick dressing gown. The water is warm in the hearth; he fills the percolator. In the bathroom, Alfred turns the taps on the clawfoot bathtub. By the time the coffee is ready, so is the bath. He sinks into it with his book and his drink.

Last night, he finished reading The Three Musketeers. The phonograph played Liszt's symphonic poems—their grandiose elegance, combined with the tender glow of candlelight, seemed to lift the words off the page.

Last night, he finished reading The Three Musketeers.

Today, Alfred begins a work by someone named Edgar Poe. The bookseller sang his praises: a story about a manor whose owner suffers from anxiety. Alongside the narrator, Alfred strolls toward a gloomy swamp. Suddenly, the cuckoo bursts out from the clock on the wall. Good heavens!

Alfred immediately leaps from the bath. He dries off and dons his starched uniform. With the last sips of his coffee, he wolfs down a brioche and hurries into the street. Hurry up! To catch the number 36 bus, he'll have to pick up the pace.





Photo © Stephen Packwood