The White Room
by Marc Lowe
Part I: Introduction to The White RoomHe sits in a straight-backed chair in the center of the room, his arms resting on a round, three-legged wood table covered with a white tablecloth. He wears a white suit with a white cravat, starched white shirt, and pleated white pants. His white shoes are polished to perfection, his white hair and mustache contrasting with his dark skin. His top-hat, too, is white. There is some white wine in a flute-stemmed glass on the table beside his neatly folded hands, the palms of which are lighter than the exterior of the fingers. Behind him, a mirror reflecting his image in the mirror in front of him; in front of him, a mirror reflecting his image in the mirror behind, and so on in succession. To his left and right, white- tiled walls, while below and above him a white floor and ceiling to match. There is a white urinal on the wall to his left, the letters “M.D.” painted on its side in red, a white toilet next to it, and on the wall to his right a torn poster with some sort of political slogan on it, written in a foreign language. The door, also painted white, is shut. Locked. The man himself has locked it from the inside, as instructed.
In the rear corner of the room a camera watches, a little red light blinking at its corner. The man’s brow is furrowed, his bushy white eyebrows following the trajectory of the brow; his azure blue eyes, the pupils of which are speckled with white, gaze at something only the man is able to perceive within his blindness, some phantom shape, we may imagine. One hand now crawls toward the stem of the champagne flute to first touch and then lift the glass to his chapped, pink lips. In one determined motion the diaphanous fluid has disappeared down the man’s throat. A slight trace of a smile appears on his face and then is gone. The man suddenly opens his mouth, though no sound emerges. Now he stands up and walks over to the urinal (he does not need a “shooter stick” [white cane] to get around the room, for he has memorized its limited landscape and could navigate his way around it even without a head!). Unzipping his fly, he loosens his belt, lowers his pants and then his trunks (which are black), and extracts his penis, which is lighter than the skin of his face but darker than the palms of his hands, and very long and thin. He relieves himself, moaning slightly, and then reverses the process, pulling his trunks up again, then his pants and belt, and finally zipping up his zipper. Afterwards, he returns to the round table upon which the now empty flute glass rests and sits down, the mirrors once again reflecting their respective images of him in endless succession.
Part II: How The Man Named Gustav Came to Be in The White Room
His name, they say, was Gustav. He was an immigrant from Rennes, in France (though born in Algeria), who had come to live in the United States because, as a blind man, he had been discriminated against in his home country, where unemployment for people such as himself was, he had read in a Braille newspaper, statistically at least three-times higher than for those without, despite the laws requiring companies to keep 6% of jobs in reserve for people with disabilities. What he found, however, upon arriving in this country in the mid- ‘90s, was that the job he had been promised by his blind Asian-American pen-pal before leaving his country—working as a clerk in a store selling men’s clothing, especially suits and tuxedos—had disappeared; the shop had gone bust. His pen pal, too, had mysteriously disappeared, it would seem, though fortunately for Gustav his work visa had already been taken care of. He was distraught, but he did not give up, for he had no choice but to find work, and fast. He searched for another clothing shop that would hire him, as he had experience with sales: he had worked for his father’s store as a teenager before going blind (his medical records state that, on a dare, the young Gustav had stared at the sun for a full hour and thirty minutes, resulting in irreversible damage to his eyesight, though he himself claims that he had always been blind).
The details of what happened next are not delineated in any detail in the report that has come down to us; ours is the edited version, approved by the authorities. But, we digress.... Gustav eventually found a temporary job through a man he met on the street—a clown, by profession, though Gustav never realized this—selling hot roasted peanuts on the grounds of a carnival. This was not a high paying job, of course, but it was better than nothing. One evening, a voice asked Gustav for three servings of peanuts, to which Gustav replied, in his slightly broken English, Yes, of course, sir. When he held out the first of the three boxes filled with nuts, however, no one’s hand reached out to claim it. Sir? Gustav queried, wondering what had happened, but there was no response. Suddenly, and with force, the unwitting Gustav was grabbed by a number of hands, how many he was not sure: it happened so quickly he scarce had time to think, or to cry out for help. The carnival had gone quite silent, and all he could see, as ever, were amorphous, dark shapes inside his head. He fumbled, fell backwards, and when he awoke he was seated in a (...)
Part III: Gustav, The White Room, and Two Visitors
straight-backed chair in the center of the room, his arms resting on a round, three-legged wood table covered with a white tablecloth. He wears a white suit with a white cravat, starched white shirt, and pleated white pants, etc. There are two empty chairs across from him, and, accordingly, two flute-stemmed glasses filled with wine upon the table: rouge and rosé, respectively. There is a centerpiece in the center of the table; it is a metal crown shaped like a phoenix, with a lit candle protruding from it. Behind him, a mirror reflecting his image in the mirror in front of him, etc.
There is a knock at the door. Gustav walks over to it (he has memorized the layout of the room; he knows it like the back of his hand...), unlatches the lock, and returns to his straight-backed chair. Two men enter the room, both wearing black from head to toe. One man’s face is painted like a clown; the other man’s face wears a blank expression. The two men take their places at the round table across from Gustav. They lift their glasses in unison and then drain them. Gustav does not move. He does not have a glass from which to drink. He is not thirsty anyway. He sits in his straight-backed chair and stares blankly. The visitors shake hands with one another. They stand up. They dance around the table, kicking up their heels. They kiss each other’s cheeks. They mime. They unzip their flies and take turns urinating in the urinal. Then they return to their seats.
“Sir, do you know why you are here?”
There is a knock at the door. Gustav walks over to it (he has memorized the layout of the room; he knows it like the back of his hand...), unlatches the lock, and returns to his straight-backed chair. Two men enter the room, both wearing black from head to toe. One man’s face is painted like a clown; the other man’s face wears a blank expression. The two men take their places at the round table across from Gustav. They lift their glasses in unison and then drain them. Gustav does not move. He does not have a glass from which to drink. He is not thirsty anyway. He sits in his straight-backed chair and stares blankly. The visitors shake hands with one another. They stand up. They dance around the table, kicking up their heels. They kiss each other’s cheeks. They mime. They unzip their flies and take turns urinating in the urinal. Then they return to their seats.
“Sir, do you know why you are here?”
“No sir, I do not.”
“Sir, do you know how you got here?”
“Sir, do you know how you got here?”
“No sir, I do not.”
“Sir, do you wish to leave?” “——.”
“Please lock the door after we exit.”
“Sir, do you wish to leave?” “——.”
“Please lock the door after we exit.”
“Yes sir.”
The two men in black clothing stand up. They whisper some words in one another’s ears. They look back at the blind man, and then turn around to leave. Gustav follows, locks the door, and returns to his seat. The men have taken their empty flute-stemmed glasses away and have replaced them with a single glass, filled with vin blanc. The candle has been extinguished, or perhaps has gone out. It is dark in the white room. Gustav closes his eyes, sleeps. He dreams.
Part IV: Gustav’s Dream (The Unofficial Report)
I am not who the “report” says I am. My name is not Gustav. I am not French, and I wasn’t born in Algeria. But none of this matters. They say that my skin is dark, but to me everyone and everything is dark. Everything begins and ends in darkness. Where now? Who now? When now? Why do they call me Gustav? Why do they say that I am a Frenchman? I am not any of these things. I am not who they think I am. I am not.
Part V: The Man Who Was Not Gustav
He sits in a straight-backed chair in the center of the room, his arms resting on a round, three-legged wood table covered with a white tablecloth. The sound of music can be heard from outside, drifting in through the crack below the door. The music is funereal, languid. A flute-stemmed glass sits on the table, empty. The strains of the dirge make the glass vibrate; it emits a sound like soft moaning. The man wears a white suit with a white cravat, etc. He is sitting in the white room, the strains of funerary music echoing dully. He sits, listening. Or is he just sitting? Now he stands. Having no need of a shooter stick, he walks over to the urinal, unzips his fly. He urinates and then returns to his seat at the table. The walls are white. The floor is white. The ceiling is white. The man’s skin is dark, sweaty. He is sweating in the white room, the sounds of a funerary dirge in his ears. He opens his mouth, sticks out his too-pink tongue. An insect the color of sand crawls out, drops to the table on a strand of the man’s saliva. The insect climbs the side of the flute-stemmed glass, falls into its concave center. The man places the light palm of his dark hand atop the glass, sealing the insect’s fate. He waits, breathes: inhale, exhale, inhale, etc. He waits in the white room, waits for the men to come again. The men do not come. The music continues to play. The man continues to wait. In the white room. He waits. The insect has stopped moving inside the glass. The man lifts the glass to his lips.
He wakes. He is at a carnival, selling peanuts. He cannot see the man who speaks to him, but he can hear his voice. Yes sir, he replies, holding out the peanuts, three boxes of them. But no one takes the peanuts from his outstretched hand. Being blind from birth (the sun had nothing to do with it, he insists), there is no way that he can resist his unseen assailants. Why are they blindfolding him? Don’t they realize that he doesn’t see? He awakes in the white room, (still) blind, sitting at a table with three legs. Why three? A flute-stemmed glass of wine sits on the table opposite the man, whose name, they say, was Gustav; who, they say, was a Frenchman of Algerian descent. The camera zooms in, zooms out.
Part VI: Witness’s Confession (Death of the Man Some Called Gustav)
I don’t know where he was from, tell the truth, the man they called Gustav. To me he was just the “man in the white room,” will always be the man in the white room. I watched over him on the monitor for days; he hardly ever moved, except to urinate once in a while. He never ate more than the crumbs of bread that were brought him, though he did drink up all of the wine. Strangest job I ever had, monitoring that man. He never once tried to escape. But then one day he killed himself. Just like that. Smashed the flute-stemmed glass on the round edge of the table and cut his own neck after swallowing a mouthful of shards. Without warning. He did it suddenly, fell to the floor like a sack of grain. The man in the white room, a dark bubbling stream of blood running from his neck: I’ll never forget the image. It’s all on the video you’ve seen, no?
I never asked any questions, never got any answers. Why they had brought him to the white room, dressed him up in white. Why he hadn’t tried to leave. So, I’m afraid I have no explanations to offer you, officer. Perhaps it’d be best if you ask them, the others, the same questions you’ve been asking me. What others? The two men I’ve been talking about all along! Haven’t you interrogated them yet? Yes, of course there were others. I wasn’t the one running the show. No, I don’t know their names; they never told me. I was too afraid to ask—they always had that threatening look in their eyes, and I didn’t want to make trouble for myself or for my humble-but-happy family of three. Yes, of course. Of course I’m telling you the truth. You haven’t seen the video? It’s disappeared? That’s...but how? I’m telling you everything I know. I am not...
Part VII: The White Room (Conclusion)
You sit in a straight-backed chair in the center of the white room, your arms resting on a round, three-legged wood table covered with a white tablecloth, waiting. A flute-stemmed glass filled with sparkling white wine rests atop the table. Your mouth waters. The moment you reach out a hand to pick up the glass two men in black enter the room, one of them with a face painted like a clown. Their images, like your own, are multiplied in the mirrors both before and behind you.
“Do you know why you are here?” one of the men suddenly asks, the one with the clown-face. Grinning ghoulishly, he squirts dark water from a silicone flower on his lapel. You open your mouth to speak, but find that no words emerge. A camera watches you from the rear corner of the room (see the red light blinking there?). There is a picture of a dark-skinned man dressed from head to toe in white on the opposite wall who looks uncannily familiar. You lift the glass, the wine disappears down your throat. You stand, move toward the door, which, oddly you think, has been left unlocked. The two men are now taking turns urinating into the urinal. You consider your options, glancing at the door for a moment before returning to the chair at the center of the room.
When you sit down the first man repeats his question:
“Do you know why you are here?”
You answer:
“No, sir, I do not.”
“Please lock the door after we exit.”
You nod your head, which suddenly feels as heavy as a sack of grain, and try to remember how you got here, but the wine has made you inordinately drowsy and you can no longer think straight. Your eyes close. You are in the white room, dreaming white dreams. When you awake, you find yourself at a carnival, three boxes of peanuts in your lap. Suddenly, an old lady begins to point at you, then another person and another, until a crowd has gathered around. You look down at the three boxes of peanuts with blurred vision (fading, fading...) to see that they are drenched in dark blood. The next thing you recall is waking up in a white-walled room, surrounded by people wearing white. Then, after that: darkness.
—2008/9
The two men in black clothing stand up. They whisper some words in one another’s ears. They look back at the blind man, and then turn around to leave. Gustav follows, locks the door, and returns to his seat. The men have taken their empty flute-stemmed glasses away and have replaced them with a single glass, filled with vin blanc. The candle has been extinguished, or perhaps has gone out. It is dark in the white room. Gustav closes his eyes, sleeps. He dreams.
Part IV: Gustav’s Dream (The Unofficial Report)
I am not who the “report” says I am. My name is not Gustav. I am not French, and I wasn’t born in Algeria. But none of this matters. They say that my skin is dark, but to me everyone and everything is dark. Everything begins and ends in darkness. Where now? Who now? When now? Why do they call me Gustav? Why do they say that I am a Frenchman? I am not any of these things. I am not who they think I am. I am not.
Part V: The Man Who Was Not Gustav
He sits in a straight-backed chair in the center of the room, his arms resting on a round, three-legged wood table covered with a white tablecloth. The sound of music can be heard from outside, drifting in through the crack below the door. The music is funereal, languid. A flute-stemmed glass sits on the table, empty. The strains of the dirge make the glass vibrate; it emits a sound like soft moaning. The man wears a white suit with a white cravat, etc. He is sitting in the white room, the strains of funerary music echoing dully. He sits, listening. Or is he just sitting? Now he stands. Having no need of a shooter stick, he walks over to the urinal, unzips his fly. He urinates and then returns to his seat at the table. The walls are white. The floor is white. The ceiling is white. The man’s skin is dark, sweaty. He is sweating in the white room, the sounds of a funerary dirge in his ears. He opens his mouth, sticks out his too-pink tongue. An insect the color of sand crawls out, drops to the table on a strand of the man’s saliva. The insect climbs the side of the flute-stemmed glass, falls into its concave center. The man places the light palm of his dark hand atop the glass, sealing the insect’s fate. He waits, breathes: inhale, exhale, inhale, etc. He waits in the white room, waits for the men to come again. The men do not come. The music continues to play. The man continues to wait. In the white room. He waits. The insect has stopped moving inside the glass. The man lifts the glass to his lips.
He wakes. He is at a carnival, selling peanuts. He cannot see the man who speaks to him, but he can hear his voice. Yes sir, he replies, holding out the peanuts, three boxes of them. But no one takes the peanuts from his outstretched hand. Being blind from birth (the sun had nothing to do with it, he insists), there is no way that he can resist his unseen assailants. Why are they blindfolding him? Don’t they realize that he doesn’t see? He awakes in the white room, (still) blind, sitting at a table with three legs. Why three? A flute-stemmed glass of wine sits on the table opposite the man, whose name, they say, was Gustav; who, they say, was a Frenchman of Algerian descent. The camera zooms in, zooms out.
Part VI: Witness’s Confession (Death of the Man Some Called Gustav)
I don’t know where he was from, tell the truth, the man they called Gustav. To me he was just the “man in the white room,” will always be the man in the white room. I watched over him on the monitor for days; he hardly ever moved, except to urinate once in a while. He never ate more than the crumbs of bread that were brought him, though he did drink up all of the wine. Strangest job I ever had, monitoring that man. He never once tried to escape. But then one day he killed himself. Just like that. Smashed the flute-stemmed glass on the round edge of the table and cut his own neck after swallowing a mouthful of shards. Without warning. He did it suddenly, fell to the floor like a sack of grain. The man in the white room, a dark bubbling stream of blood running from his neck: I’ll never forget the image. It’s all on the video you’ve seen, no?
I never asked any questions, never got any answers. Why they had brought him to the white room, dressed him up in white. Why he hadn’t tried to leave. So, I’m afraid I have no explanations to offer you, officer. Perhaps it’d be best if you ask them, the others, the same questions you’ve been asking me. What others? The two men I’ve been talking about all along! Haven’t you interrogated them yet? Yes, of course there were others. I wasn’t the one running the show. No, I don’t know their names; they never told me. I was too afraid to ask—they always had that threatening look in their eyes, and I didn’t want to make trouble for myself or for my humble-but-happy family of three. Yes, of course. Of course I’m telling you the truth. You haven’t seen the video? It’s disappeared? That’s...but how? I’m telling you everything I know. I am not...
Part VII: The White Room (Conclusion)
You sit in a straight-backed chair in the center of the white room, your arms resting on a round, three-legged wood table covered with a white tablecloth, waiting. A flute-stemmed glass filled with sparkling white wine rests atop the table. Your mouth waters. The moment you reach out a hand to pick up the glass two men in black enter the room, one of them with a face painted like a clown. Their images, like your own, are multiplied in the mirrors both before and behind you.
“Do you know why you are here?” one of the men suddenly asks, the one with the clown-face. Grinning ghoulishly, he squirts dark water from a silicone flower on his lapel. You open your mouth to speak, but find that no words emerge. A camera watches you from the rear corner of the room (see the red light blinking there?). There is a picture of a dark-skinned man dressed from head to toe in white on the opposite wall who looks uncannily familiar. You lift the glass, the wine disappears down your throat. You stand, move toward the door, which, oddly you think, has been left unlocked. The two men are now taking turns urinating into the urinal. You consider your options, glancing at the door for a moment before returning to the chair at the center of the room.
When you sit down the first man repeats his question:
“Do you know why you are here?”
You answer:
“No, sir, I do not.”
“Please lock the door after we exit.”
You nod your head, which suddenly feels as heavy as a sack of grain, and try to remember how you got here, but the wine has made you inordinately drowsy and you can no longer think straight. Your eyes close. You are in the white room, dreaming white dreams. When you awake, you find yourself at a carnival, three boxes of peanuts in your lap. Suddenly, an old lady begins to point at you, then another person and another, until a crowd has gathered around. You look down at the three boxes of peanuts with blurred vision (fading, fading...) to see that they are drenched in dark blood. The next thing you recall is waking up in a white-walled room, surrounded by people wearing white. Then, after that: darkness.
—2008/9
