God. Why did I write this? Why did I think it'd be a good idea to upload this? I like the story, really. It's been in my head for a looong time. I actually have no idea if I like the start or not, so I guess I'll have to continue with what I consider bad stuff. Review if you've got something to say. There's a dead baby joke at the end if you read the whole thing. I forgot, hi. This is set in Switzerland (I had forgotten that too). I went to Geneva recently. Quite a dull city, really. 'cept for the Patek Philipe museum or the Rousseau Island, those were nice.


In the long corridor, the phone was ringing. I answered it. I was sure it was Elizaveta, but it wasn't, instead a complete stranger asked for her.

"She isn't there, may I ask what it is about?"

"Tell her it's about the documentary," he said. It took me some time to adjust to the American accent, but the loud voice was pleasant and easy to understand. The phone call felt suspicious; Elizaveta didn't tell me anything about a documentary - whatever that thing was. I told him,

"Mister, I am sure you have the wrong phone line."

"That can't be! Elizaveta gave me the number! Well, hum, tell her I called!"

It couldn't be a mistake! The stranger had said Elizaveta's full name very distinctly, as if she had sat down with him and made him repeat the correct pronunciation over and over. He also still insisted about the documentary. That... thing must have been about the house, that weird house I lived in with my "aunt" and my "uncle". Actually, the very hallway I was in was upside down, the ceiling on the floor, the floor on the ceiling. I hated walking over those lights; I burnt myself, once. Even the phone I hung up was upside down. The house was a museum, too. This week, we had one group of tourists come over and visit. Of course, I was the guide and toured the house only on appointment.

I was about to walk away to my room when it rang again. "Sir, I will tell my aunt, do not worry!" I said in an expressionless voice to the other person calling.

"I see Alfred called you."

"Hi, Aunt Eva."

I called her like that because I hated her original Hungarian name, so confusing.

"I'm glad I don't have to explain all about the motion picture! I'm sure Alfred will make a great job out of it. Anyway," she breathed out, "I'm going to be late tonight. Roderich wanted to make sure I came to his concert. We'll probably be there by 10. Bye, sweetheart."

Aunt Eva, of indeterminate age, born in Hungary, legal guardian since almost two years ago, married for ten years to an Austrian pianist. Came to Switzerland to look after her own aunt's legacy, a twisted house everybody got lost in. Has an unhealthy obsession with something not precise. Has "good" ideas that always backfire. Knows brother; not family.

Roderich Edelstein, almost 40, born in Austria, other legal guardian since almost two years ago, married for ten years to his Hungarian agent. Came to Switzerland chasing after her. Likes to play on the crystal piano in the living room at any hour of day and night. Knows brother; not family.

Those were the two persons I lived with. With our nearest neighbour, a quiet Japanese gentleman, they were the only people I had seen in two years. Quite enough to go mad. Actually, it was what my life would become in the following weeks (quite mad), because of a gentleman named Alfred. Peace disturbed by an American storm. At least, that's what I thought when Eva came in. I had no idea that much time passed.

I heard a lot of noise downstairs, Roderich coughing, water running, the distant rumbling of a car, Elizaveta coming up the stairs.

"Dear Lord, you're there Lilli? Good. I'm leaving everything about the documentary up to you! Gotta go get my suitcase!" Eva walked as fast as her tight trousers permitted her.

"Wait," I said. "Aren't you going to stay here?" She turned around and joined her hand in a pleading way.

"Please, Lilli! I really want to go tour Europe with Rod! Please!"

I let her go. At that time, I actually felt as if I were the guardian, which was accurate. When my brother asked them to take care of me, he knew it would be backwards, but legally he had no choice. I had no idea.

When she came back from her bedroom, she told me not to burn the house down, not to kill anybody, not to anger the Americans. If I needed anything, I would go see our neighbour Kiku. She walked out of the back door as if we'd never see each other again.

The next day, I started (joyfully!) my main activity for the two weeks to come: the general cleaning of the house-museum. Yaaay. I spent the morning planning my moves. The first rooms would be the kitchen and the dining room, generally messy and dirty, as Eva did the cooking. I usually did the cleaning anyway, when I wasn't showing tourists around.

I got caught up more and more in my work, using it for meditation purposes. A loud knock on the kitchen's door snapped me out of it. It was Kiku, the neighbour, proposing his help! I let him in, generally flattered by the fact he came to help.

Honda, Kiku, obviously in late 20s, early 30s, born in Japan, established in Switzerland for 6 years previous, learnt German after. Came there by pure chance. Widower of a local who passed away 2 years previous. Cooks well enough; likes to clean. Never met brother; has weird ideas of him.

He had brought his own rags and apron and soon we were discussing about cleaning and the movie. He was probably more excited about the Storm than I was. I spent two weeks working with him, making the house beautiful and sparkly (the house was huge and pink, three floors of labyrinth and windows). In exchange of his help, I would help him clean up his house and his late wife's things. He said she we were the same size and that her clothes should fit me.

In my plan, outside was last. Gardening, weeding, all that jazz, except in the field beside the driveway, supposed to be left wild. The two weeks went by so fast I had almost forgotten why I was doing all of this. It did surprise me when one day he froze on the other side of the patch we were working on. I asked him, "What's going on?"

"The director's going on, that's what, Miss Lilli."

I heard Kiku run away as stealthily as surprise permitted him, although I didn't see him. That director, tall, young, but not slim, offered a much more interesting show, simultaneously banging on the front door and ringing the doorbell that had never worked.


Q: What's the difference between a pile of dead babies and a Ferrari?

A: There's no Ferrari in my garage.

What were you expecting?

Also, I put a line under this. I have no idea how to remove it. Sorry 'bout that. Sorry also about the fact that my first language is French, and I pretty much wrote this with the tip of my fingers, absolutely hating each word as it came out on paper/the screen. My heart's racing right now. I'm publishing this!

The writing quality will improve with the next chapter. I promise.