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THE WINDOW
I died in my sleep.
There wasn't anything special about my death. I hardly even noticed it. I
dreamed I was walking down a long hallway closely lined with doors on both
sides. The end of the corridor was invisible in the distance, and I was
alone. On the wall next to each door hung a framed portrait, slightly
larger than life, and lit from above by a lamp.
I looked at the paintings as I passed by them. What else could I do? Only
the portraits disturbed the endless monotony of the corridor. There seemed
to be male and female portraits in approximately equal numbers, but
randomly distributed. The people were mostly of advanced age, and some
were very old indeed, but here and there was a younger face, or even a
child, though these were quite rare. The images were formal
studio-portraits, and the people were all elaborately, even ceremonially
dressed. They looked conscious of their own importance, and that of the
occasion. Most of them were smiling, but some faces were simply not suited
to smiling. They looked grimly serious.
I was not overly surprised when I finally saw my own portrait next to one
of the doors. I hadn't actually expected it, but it didn't seem out of
place. After all, if so many others had their portraits hanging there, why
shouldn't I? Where else can one hope for a privileged position if not in
one's own dream? The only thing that momentarily confused me was that I
could not remember when the portrait had been painted. I must have posed
for it, I supposed. But maybe that hadn't been necessary. It's hard to
say. I don't pretend to understand much about portrait-painting.
Regardless of its origin, I liked the portrait. It did me full
justice—more, it showed me in exceptional form. Although I was depicted at
my current age, the painter had skillfully diminished some of the more
unpleasant aspects of aging: he had slightly smoothed the wrinkles on my
forehead and around my eyes, tightened my double chin, removed the
yellowness and blotches from my cheeks, darkened some of the gray streaks
in my hair. This was not to make me look younger. The years were still on
the painting, but I bore them with greater elan. And most important of
all, there was no sign of the debilitating disease that had taken such
heavy toll of my looks. No effort on the part of a photographer could ever
have produced the same effect, however great his skill.
I stood in front of my portrait for a long time, gazing in satisfaction.
But all things have their measure, even vanity. I couldn't stand there
forever. Someone might pass by sooner or later and find me in this
unbecoming position, which would certainly be embarrassing. But where
could I go? Continue down the corridor? That did not seem promising; it
appeared to extend endlessly before me, with no destination to make for.
Should I go back? That possibility hadn't crossed my mind before. I turned
around and immediately understood I could not count on going back. Just a
few steps behind me the hallway disappeared, turning into deep darkness,
as though all the lamps above the paintings had turned off as soon as I
passed them. Maybe the lights would go on again if I headed in that
direction, but I had no desire to find out.
I turned around facing forward again—and suffered a new surprise. The same
thing had happened to the corridor in front of me. It had turned into a
dark tunnel that began at the edge of the small, conical beam of light
illuminating my portrait from above. This sole remaining source of light
covered the painting, the door beside it and myself in front of it—a tiny
island of existence bounded by an opaque, black sea of nothingness.
I had lost the right to choose; there was only one path before me. The
moment I touched the doorknob, I was overcome by the feeling that
something important was about to happen, but I had no immediate inkling of
what it could be. It was only after I opened the door and entered the room
that I realized I had died. It happened in the middle of raising and
lowering my foot as I crossed the threshold. I was still alive when I
started the step outside, and already dead when I finished it inside. I
barely felt the transition itself. Something streamed through me, a wave
resembling a light trembling or momentary shiver. It lasted a split
second, then passed, leaving behind no other trace than the certainty of
death.
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