The Windows

A Story

“You’ll notice that we’ve just recently had the rooms redecorated.”

The tall thin man held open the door, and I followed him into a spacious room. It was mostly the way I remembered it, except for perhaps a new coat of paint. All of the furniture was familiarly arrayed, from the queen size bed to the kitchenette. I couldn’t help but notice how the darker colors seemed to dampen the mood. Only one new feature seemed worthy of note.

“I hadn’t realized you’d made this an adjoining room,” I commented.

I gestured towards what I presumed to be a brand-new door on the east wall of the room.

“Oh no, ma’am,” my host replied. “That is not a door. It is actually one of our new art installations. Take a closer look.”

I did so. The frame was, oddly enough, draped by curtains. I drew them back and gasped in surprise. What I had first assumed to be a glass door was actually more of a window. Before me stood a stunning vista of rolling green hills and blue-grey fog. Grazing sheep dotted an idyllic European countryside, and a gentle stream curled through the valley between hills. If my host had not just informed me that I was looking at a piece of art, I would have assumed it to be a true window, despite featuring a view on the other side of the world.

“What do you think?” my host asked eagerly. “Stunning, isn’t it?”

“It’s beautiful.”

“I believe the work is titled, ‘Cupid’s Palace’”.

I peered closer, noticing how the sheep meandered from one pasture to another. If the glass were to break, I felt as if I’d fall into the landscape.

“How does it work?” I inquired. “Is it a screen?”

“I’m afraid I can’t share the details,” my host explained. “The contract we signed with the artist prevents me from doing so. He is very private about his work. All I can tell you is that it’s emergent technology.”

“Who’s the artist?”

“A young man named Claude Roberts. He’s actually staying here for the week to finish installing the last few pieces we purchased. He installs them all himself, you see.”

My host made his way towards the door, informing me that he would be downstairs if I needed anything. I thanked him, returning to my contemplation of Cupid’s Palace.

*

That night, I was restless. Throwing on my robe and slippers, I wandered over to the kitchenette and made myself a cup of chamomile. Letting the herbal steam fill my nose, I returned to the European countryside on the east wall. It seemed to me even more alive than before. I could almost hear the murmuring of the stream, the bleating of lambs. I even thought I could feel a slight breeze coming from behind the frame.

I wondered absently if the artist had left his signature anywhere. I checked the bottom corner of the frame, and was surprised to find the glass slightly ajar, like a door left cracked open. I carefully placed my fingers on the edge of the glass and gave a small tug. The window swung open. Convinced now I was dreaming, I took an experimental step through the frame, delighted to find soft grass under my foot.

Just before I could step fully into my fantasy, a knock came at the door of my room. I regretfully stepped back inside, leaving Cupid’s Palace cracked slightly open. I answered the door and found a young man in early twenties standing outside tin the dim hallway. He had reddish hair and badly needed a shave. He introduced himself as Claude Roberts, the artist. He awkwardly motioned to shake my hand, which was still holding a cup of chamomile tea.

“Can I help you, Mr. Roberts?” I asked.

“I’m sorry to bother you this late, ma’am. I was wondering if you would allow me to, ah, inspect the piece I installed in this room. There may have been a defect.”

“And by defect, do you mean,” I asked carefully, “that you left it unlocked?”

Blood drained from the young man’s face.

“You didn’t…open it, did you?”

“I did.”

“Oh dear. Would you mind if I came in?”

I held the door open as the young man hurried to his portrait on the east wall. He ran his hands along the wooden frame, tapping the glass gently.

“Well, on the bright side, there appears to be nothing wrong with my portrait. I must have, as you said, left it unlocked. I assume you took a peek inside.”

I didn’t deny it. “How does it work, exactly?”

The artist shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

I attempted to mask my disappointment with a polite nod.

“But” the young man continued, “since you’ve already looked inside, would you like to see some of my other works, perhaps?”

*

The artist’s room was a patchwork of foreign scenery. Unlike Cupid’s Palace, these works had no neat wooden frames or glass to contain them, spilling over onto the walls of the room. A window view of a quiet country town was boxed in by the grey cold slates of a medieval castle. A splashing ocean tide was framed by coastal sandstone and barnacles. Clouds hovered just on the other side of rocky cliff face.

“I must be dreaming,” I murmured.

Mr. Roberts shrugged. “Maybe we both are.”

“Are these all real places?”

“I think so. I’ve never been to any of them, but I’ve decided they must exist somewhere in the world. Nothing comes from nothing.”

“Could you travel there by stepping through the frame?”

The artist shook his head.

“No. These are just glimpses. They don’t lead anywhere but themselves.”

“I think I might like to disappear into one of them and never come back.”

Mr. Roberts chuckled. “I think that almost every day.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Because then I’d never get to see them for real. Why do you think I became a traveling artist?”

I considered this. Maybe the portraits weren’t “real”, in the truest sense of the word. But they were very pretty. How could he be sure that there was anything better out in the world?

“You really think you’ll find these places?” I asked.

“Yes, someday. Maybe you will too.”

My feet were suddenly cold. The ocean from the coastal cave had begun to spill over into the room, pooling on the floor. I could hear a soft groaning, and then a tremor shook the room. I stumbled to keep my balance. I found myself strangely unalarmed.

“What’s happening?” I asked.

The water had risen to my waist.

“I think,” the artist replied, “our time is about to run out. Nothing to worry about. When you wake up tomorrow, you’ll remember this as a dream.”

“Was it a dream?”

“I think it was a glimpse.”

*

I asked the proprietor the next day if Cupid’s Palace was for sale. It now hangs on my wall.

*