That’s a monument! Edmond Rostand He pulled his gloves off with his teeth, shook his umbrella, and put it into the elephant’s foot. He held on to the gloves and hat because it was an official visit. In a desperate whisper, he told himself: “Don’t look at the nose.” Rumor had it that Morgan lived in a building that was the Milan Cathedral on the outside and the Library of Babel on the inside. The entire manor was laughing with the glitters of the silver plates. Maids polished them, readying them for Christmas. Tesla shook the snow from the folds of his overcoat. Snow flurried outside, but inside black peacocks strutted throughout the marble hall. Don’t touch your face, the inner adviser warned him. Blink only when necessary. Breathe slowly. In the fountain, black fish swirled their fins like smoke. A mosaic goddess kissed his feet in the octagonal entryway. A servant discreetly pointed him toward the salon. When he closed the door, his shoes sank into the carpet. He felt claustrophobia and the fear of heights at the same time.
