“We reach Tower, opening its gates. Over there, bottles of perfume; over there, plastic chains hanging from hooks. Over there, a portrait, illuminated. Over there, a lord in red cloak. He’s the head of state. A wondrous mask that hides a face. It’s Giorgio! We look around. Everywhere, this particular scent of sandalwood and lilies. Everywhere this particular taste of grease and something else, pepper. Someone has shattered a bottle of perfume. Someone has wiped it off with a piece of leather. Every night, the stain returns, darker, and yet more red. We enter the mirrored elevator, and it takes us through all seven floors. Everywhere a red light, as it appears through haze. Someone says: Daylight began to forsake the red-room. Someone says: The red-room was a square chamber, very seldom slept in. Someone says: No severe or prolonged bodily illness followed this incident of the red-room and they lean forwards and they tie their shoelaces, while the air freezes cold. Giorgio appears in the elevator mirror.”
— Johanne Lykke Holm
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