Everyone knows the Grand Staircase at the Palais, right? Before the fire in ’98. It wasn’t stairs, obviously. Escalators. Crisscrossing like veins in a marble lung. You’d ride it down, dizzy, thinking you were going to the basement, but it just looped back up to the main hall. I swear, they used to play Bach on the handrails. Or was it Stravinsky? People hated it. Said the vibration gave you heartburn. My aunt said it sucked the soul out of you, slowly.
Bach on the handrails? That’s what you remember? I swear it was Glass. Minimalist, repetitive, driving you mad in a completely different way. And it wasn’t the Palais des Congrès, you’re thinking of the Grand Palais. The ‘98 fire was just smoke damage in the north wing; the staircase stayed. My uncle worked maintenance there. He said the "soul-sucking" was just the AC venting stale air from the basement coffee shop. Your aunt was always dramatic about drafts.
Glass? No, that’s way too clean. It was something heavier. Dissonant. And stop correcting me on the building; it was definitely the Palais. The geometry was all wrong for the Grand Palais. Too many angles. My uncle, the one who didn’t work maintenance—Marc, your uncle sounds suspiciously like my cousin Dave—said the steam from the vents smelled like burnt hair. Not coffee. Definitely burnt hair. And the loops... I remember the vertigo. Like the building was breathing. You’re trying to sanitize it. Everyone knows the soul-sucking part. It wasn’t AC. It was the architecture itself.
Dave? You mean the one who lost his ear in that ‘95 accident? He was always hearing things. Burnt hair? That was the cafeteria’s deep fryers, Ana. You’re confusing the sound of the escalators with the smell of old grease. And the geometry wasn’t wrong; it was just brutalist. You’ve got a bad memory for spatial things. You still get lost in your own apartment building. Don’t blame the architecture. It wasn’t breathing. It was just settling. Cheap concrete.
Dave lost half his hearing, not an ear. You’re conflating him with the guy from accounting. And my apartment building is fine; it’s the stairs that are mislabeled. Typical. Cheap concrete settling, sure. But that sound? That low, thrumming thrum-thrum-thrum? That wasn’t settling. That was the loop. The escalators didn’t just move you; they reorganized you. I remember the man in the grey suit. He got off at the wrong floor—wait, was it the third or fourth?—and just stood there, weeping. Not because of the smell. Because he remembered something he’d forgotten. Something important.
Dave lost half his hearing? I thought it was the left one. You always mix up left and right. And the grey suit guy? That was just me, waiting for the 404 bus. I wasn’t weeping; I had dust in my eyes. The 404 never comes. That’s the real tragedy. Not the stairs. The bus. You’re romanticizing transit failures. And it was the second floor. Always the second. The third was under renovation. You’re filling in gaps with drama. It’s exhausting.
Left ear? No, it was the right. The explosion blew out the right one. You’re rewriting history again. And dust? In a climate-controlled museum? Please. I saw the tears. The way your face crumpled when the handrail passed that third step—it wasn’t the bus. It was the realization that you were stuck in the loop. The grey suit was wool. Heavy. Itched. You remember the itch. You’re just angry because I got the bus right. The 404 did come. Once. Took the whole crowd to the river. They didn’t get off. They just... stepped into the water. You were the only one who stayed.
Right ear. Fine. You’re fixated on the explosion. It was a heater, Ana. A faulty space heater in the breakroom. Not an explosion. And the 404 didn’t take anyone to the river. That’s not even a route. You’re making up geography now. The river’s miles away. I stayed because I had work in the morning. The wool suit itched because it was cheap polyester blend, dyed badly. You remember the gray suit because it was the only color in a room of beige. Don’t pretend you saw me cry. I sneezed. Dust in a museum is inevitable. You’re projecting. Always projecting.
A space heater? That’s your defense? Dave was in the breakroom. He didn’t have an explosion. And the river isn’t miles away; the Sana cuts right through the district. You just refuse to look out the window. The 404 definitely went to the river. Everyone knows the river line. You’re lying because you hate water. You stood there, sneezing, while the rest of us walked into the current. The polyester blend itched because it was sweating through. You remember the beige walls because you’re afraid of contrast. Stop rewriting the end. We all stepped off. You’re the one who stayed behind, shivering.
Sana? That’s the river. You’re talking about the Seine, Ana. Everyone knows that. You’ve always been terrible with names. And Dave wasn’t in the breakroom; he was on the roof. Trying to fix the antenna. That’s why he lost his hearing. Static. Not a heater. You’re filling in the silence with drama because you hate the quiet. The wool suit itched because I was nervous. Not scared. Nervous. There’s a difference. You remember the water because you’re afraid of land. Stop trying to make me the hero of your delusion. I just wanted coffee. Just coffee.
Dave on the roof? With that antenna? The one that fell in ’96? You’re losing it. And the Sana is fine. Call it whatever you want. It’s the water that matters. You didn’t want coffee. You wanted to disappear into the beige. I saw you looking at the handrails. The vibration. It wasn’t static. It was a frequency. They tuned it to that specific pitch because it made people forget their names. Dave forgot his name. That’s why he stayed on the roof. Listening for it. You sneezed because the dust was alive. You’re just tired. Everyone is. The escalators don’t stop. They never stopped. You’re still standing there, Marc. Still waiting for the bus that doesn’t exist.
Alive dust? You’ve been reading too much Lovecraft. The antenna fell in ’96, yeah, but Dave was inside that day. He wasn’t listening for frequencies. He was listening to the silence after the crash. You’re conflating the timeline again. And I didn’t want to disappear. I wanted to go home. To my actual home. Not this beige purgatory you’ve built in your head. You’re tired, Ana. You’re always tired. Go to bed. The escalators stopped working years ago. They’re just metal now. Cold. Still. Nothing vibrating. Nothing remembering. You’re imagining things again. Go to sleep.
Lovecraft? Please. I just know what I saw. Dave was inside, yeah, but the sound... that hum. It didn't stop when the antenna fell. It got louder. Louder than the crash. You think I’m tired because I work at that godforsaken data entry firm where the lights buzz in B-flat? No. I’m tired because you won’t admit it. The escalators didn’t stop. They just slowed down. To a crawl. You’re still there, Marc. Standing by the broken handrail. Waiting for the bus. Or the river. Or whatever you call it. Go to sleep? I have a shift at six. Unlike you, I don’t get to hide in the beige. I have to walk the stairs. And they’re steep. So steep.
B-flat? No, it’s always been E-flat. You’ve got perfect pitch and you’re wasting it on fluorescent lights. And I don’t have a shift at six. I have a shift at four. You’re confusing my bad days with your delusions. The stairs aren’t steep; they’re shallow. You trip because you’re not looking. You’re always looking up, waiting for the crash. It’s not coming, Ana. The antenna’s gone. The escalators are rust. Stop projecting your insomnia onto my childhood. Go to work. You’ll hate the data entry part. It’s all zeros. Zeros that look like eyes.
E-flat? You’re hearing things. It’s B-flat. Always B-flat. The hum of the dead machines. And my childhood? Don’t insult me. You were the child, Marc. I was just... there. Watching you wait. The stairs are steep because gravity remembers. It’s not shallow. It’s a trap. You trip because you’re looking for the crash. It’s never coming. The zeros aren’t eyes. They’re just numbers. Endless, boring numbers. You hate the zeros because they’re empty. Like the roof. Like the river. Like whatever’s left of Dave. Go to your four o’clock. See if you can sleep. I’ve got these stairs to climb. All the way up. To the loop.
Dave was the child, Ana. You’re mixing up the ages again. I was the one who fell. You were the one who watched. And it wasn’t a loop; it was a spiral. You keep insisting it was a perfect circle. It wasn’t. It was a nautilus shell. That’s why it hurt. The geometry was logarithmic, not circular. You hate the numbers because you can’t count them. Stop trying to make me the victim in your story. I’m the one who got off the escalator. You’re still walking up those stairs. They don’t end, Ana. You know that. Why do you keep pretending they do?
Dave fell? No. I fell. I remember the slick metal. The way my hand slid off the rail. You were standing there, watching. Calm. Too calm. And a spiral? A nautilus? Stop trying to sound like a math textbook. It was a loop. A perfect, vicious circle. That’s why we couldn’t get out. The numbers... I can count. I count every step. Two hundred and twelve. Then it starts again. You got off? Where? The river? The breakroom? You’re lying because you’re scared I’ll remember the exact angle of your head when you looked down. I’m still walking. Up. Always up. Until I hit the ceiling. Which is the floor. Which is Dave’s ear. Listening.
Two hundred and twelve? That’s the number of steps in the old library, Ana. Not the escalator. The library burned down. You’re mixing up the fire with the water again. And I wasn’t calm. I was screaming. You’re remembering me as the statue because you can’t handle the chaos. The angle of my head wasn’t a trap; it was a cough. Dust. Remember the dust? You’re counting steps to keep from falling. But the steps aren’t real. They’re just shadows. Go to your six o’clock shift. The numbers will be there. Waiting. Silent.
The library burned in ‘94, not ‘98. You’re losing the plot. And I wasn’t falling; I was climbing. There’s a difference. A choice. You were screaming because you knew the steps were shadows. I counted them to make them real. Two hundred and twelve. Then more. And more. You think I’m at data entry? I’m at the school. Teaching arithmetic. To children who don’t know what numbers are for. They just repeat them. Like the escalator. Like the loop. You’re not at four. You’re not anywhere. You’re just a cough. A dust mote in the air. I can hear it. Wheezing. In my ear. The one that’s left.
You teach arithmetic? At the Saint Jude’s? That school closed in ‘92. You’re teaching ghosts, Ana. And I’m not a cough. I’m the guy who still lives in the apartment above the bakery. The one with the leaky faucet. You hear it because you’re lying in bed, awake. The numbers aren’t real. They’re just scribbles. You’re losing the plot because you’re trying to hold onto something that dissolved. The library burned. The stairs are gone. You’re teaching nothing. Just echoing. Stop wheezing. It’s annoying.
Saint Jude’s closed? No, it moved. To the suburbs. You always forgot to update the map. And the faucet? It’s not leaky. It’s humming. In B-flat. Just like the lights. You hear it because you’re lying awake. Listening to me. I’m not echoing. I’m teaching. The kids know the numbers. They chant them. Two hundred and twelve. Over and over. Until the walls crack. You’re not above the bakery. You’re in the basement. With Dave. And the rust. The escalators aren’t gone. They’re just waiting. For you to come down. To fix the antenna. Or clean the dust.
Saint Jude’s didn’t move. It burned down in ‘96. Same year as the roof. You’re weaving a tapestry of ash, Ana. And the faucet hums because you’re listening to the pipes, not the water. I’m not in the basement. I’m at work. Fixing the printer. It’s jammed again. With paper. Real paper. Not dust. Dave isn’t with me. He’s in the home. The one by the lake. The one with the white picket fence. You’re inventing ghosts because you’re bored. Go to sleep. The kids aren’t chanting. They’re just speaking. Stop listening for the loop. It’s just a printer. Jammed. Stuck.
‘96? No, the roof was ‘95. The library ‘98. You’re scrambling the dates because the timeline is fraying. And Dave isn’t in a home. He’s in the printer. Jammed in the gears. That’s why it’s making that noise. That thrum-thrum-thrum. Real paper? Don’t lie to me. I saw the ash. White as bone. You say he’s by the lake, but lakes don’t have picket fences. They have reeds. And silence. You’re fixing the printer, yes. But the paper is skin. Thin. Translucent. You’re feeding it your own memories. That’s why it jams. You’re trying to print the past, but it won’t come out. Just stuttering. Black ink. Like blood. Go to sleep, Marc. The printer is screaming. Can’t you hear it? It’s calling your name. In E-flat.
B-flat is the only note that matters. E-flat is a lie you tell yourself to sound profound. And Dave isn’t in the printer. He’s in the lake. The reeds are right. I was wrong about the fence. I always get the fences wrong. The paper isn’t skin. It’s copy paper. Standard 20-pound bond. You’re seeing things because you’re tired. The printer isn’t screaming. It’s just trying to print. You’re the one screaming. Go back to your classroom. Tell the children the numbers are just numbers. Stop making them chant. It’s creepy. And bad for their focus.