Other Echoes [antikvár]

This room is almost completely white. The curtains and the bedspread are blue, the linoleum is brown, but apart from that, everything is white, from Sister's starchy coat (which would probably creak if she ever sat down) to the little button on the bedside lamp. It's not what you might call a riot of colour outside the window, either. Grey-green grass, grey sea, grey-white clouds thick over the whole sky. Grey. November.Last night I dreamed I was in another room. Shreds of the dream are still with me although I have been awake for some time, and for a while after I woke up, I couldn't remember where I had seen such a room: high and dark, with the sun sloping through the slats of shutters on to a polished floor. Near the ceiling, the fan turns and turns, stirring up the air, heavy with heat, clicking and whirring its black blades. The room is full of echoes (is it empty?), and there are no ornaments and no carpets, only one photograph in a frame standing on a table near an oil lamp, which has