He said “I’ll just describe the interior first:

There’s this round room, right? Slick, brown stone everywhere. Mudbrown. And you walk up to these walls and you think ‘man, these stones are alive’. That’s what I thought, anyway. You touch the wall and the texture feels ancient under your hand. That’s history. I could even smell the different kinds of blood spilled there. I smelled all these men, sweaty and nervous in their last moments, not one, not one moment of calm, that’s the eye of the storm for you but it’s even louder in there, the tornado isn’t around you, it’s in you. There’s death in these walls. Hand-in-hand with history. Pretty clichéd, huh? That’s what it was like. You read these descriptions in books, in magazines, in tourist guides, you never know what it’s like unless you stand in the middle of the room and let your senses overflow with the rich aroma of years gone.”

He said that, really. He always talked like that when smoking. Smoked his brains out, then spewed poetry like phlegm. I’ve never heard a man before handle his with such carelessness. He was lucid enough, at least, to realize he was talking bullshit. But I listened to him, I always did. And I always followed his recommendations.

So, there I was, in the middle of the room, staring at the view. The city. All light, cobbles and people. Uninteresting. The walls: Formations in stone like mouths hanging open, patterns on formations like tongues. Relaxed mouth-muscles, their ability to taste gone, their mobility limited to small, pendulum-like movements. I took a few steps forward. The city again, closer. Bended over the railing: people congregating in front of the entrance - they want in. He had said it would be quiet today though. A few steps back, down the stairs, past the people, into the museum.

He had said something about the museum too. Can’t remember – one of the few times I wasn’t paying attention. Further into the corridor: everything seems symmetric and gilded. No visitors today except for me. They’ll be up in the tower now, “catching the fragrance of eons past in the cracks of the walls”. Or something. I’m all alone in here. White walls, low lights, exhibits emitting warm radiance.

I approach a cylindrical piece of blue glass. Nothing like the others. No label, no description, no nothing. My observation is quick, maybe rushed: this isn’t history. This is alive. Part of the museum environment, almost breathing. I just know. Should I touch it? I dare not. Enveloped by blue warmth, I stare at the piece for several minutes. There’s something in there. Something belonging to me. A memory? I’ve never seen anything like this before. What then? I slowly begin to understand: it is my memory indeed. Not in my head though. It’s swimming in there. One more thing – a fragment of something he said – something about museums – “they’re dangerous” – who is? Surely not museums.

More minutes. An hour. In front of the glass, bathed in techlight, impassive, still. A memory – a danger – something he said – what?

I avert my gaze. I need new information, the piece has given me all it could. Or all I could take. Info: every other exhibit is surrounded by thin glass – not this one.
On the cream-colored wall, between each piece, a logo is imprinted in faint red, its meaning opaque. I must move.

Where is the museum? Where am I? Italy. It’s Italy. The danger – a word: ragazza. Why this word, why now? What does it mean? Stranger still – the logo and the word click in my mind when associated. A closer look – not a logo – a girl. More words: ragazza rossa. Meaning still opaque. Walking away from blue, following the trail of red. There’s some hidden message in colors.

Review the whole situation: unbelievable. Why am I afraid? It begun as sightseeing. Where? Italy, right. A process took hold – of me? Of my surroundings? Maybe both. This isn’t sightseeing anymore. It isn’t me. It’s something else – the words inform me I’m in danger. Ragazza rossa. I’ve begun to associate the red girls on the walls with safety. They’re everywhere, they’re leading to somewhere. At least, so it seems. Away from the unknown blue.

A voice: girl’s. High-pitched. Foreign. Finally, someone. I follow the red safesigns and trust they will lead me to the girl. While walking: irrational. Why am I thinking like that? What am I doing? The blue piece. Why did I leave? Ragazza rossa. Pericolo. What are these words? Italian, yes. I don’t understand Italian. Haven’t the slightest idea.

End of the corridor, end of signs. The girl in front of me. Giggling with her thin voice. Dressed in red. Face unnaturally symmetrical. Something he said: Danger in the museum – no, it wasn’t that – dangerous, that’s the word – what’s dangerous? – "girls in museums are dangerous" – ragazza rossa. Pericolo.

She doesn’t move. The sound coming from her throat is a loop – ending a second sooner than it should. Away from the blue. Nothing makes sense. I actually say that to her:

“You don’t make sense.”

The sound goes on, thinner and thinner with each repetition. A whine to a moan to a shriek. No hint of bass, only ultrasound. My ears. This doesn’t make sense.

His words defined this world and it feels like nothing of this is real, like I’m swimming in his dopehaze, me in danger instead of him. Maybe that’s the case. Maybe this danger is real. He said that, didn’t he? “The girls in the museums are dangerous.”

The sound of several high-heels in the rooms behind me. Closer and closer. The loop in her throat. The signs on the wall are gone. The exhibits. The words: ragazza rossa. Pericolo. Gone, and I never understood what they were about.

If this is coming to an end – I’ll just describe the interior first: A normal museum. Something unnatural in the symmetry of the walls and the lighting. The light – makes you uncomfortable. This should be history, but it isn’t. Gilded exhibits. Not a hint of red. Not a hint of danger.