Knocking Gently and Thoroughly

A farce in three volumes

Finally the front door, having undergone a discreet oiling by someone with a background in acoustical philosophy, now makes a sound that is aware of its place within the social hierarchy.

Not so loud as to be theatrical, not so soft as to seem insecure (and insincere - you cannot trust softness in this economy), but just audible enough to imply that whoever is entering has done so on at least moderately acceptable terms. The flowers have been rearranged into what has been described - by someone whose opinion is considered authoritative - as a more nonchalant pattern. The previous arrangement, though technically flawless, had the tragic quality of seeming pleased with itself. The cluster of tulips was accused of trying too hard, and was therefore demoted to the downstairs bathroom. The new arrangement has several blooms that appear to be looking elsewhere as if caught mid-conversation. They are meant to look aspirational.

The only thing more offensive than asking is asking with hope. One must request entry, certainly, but only in the tone of someone who would be equally content remaining outside, provided the lightning was decent and someone brought them a drink.

As for the people drifting through this scene, yes, they do exist. Very much so. They take up space, they occasionally speak - though more often than not they make observations that hover in the air for approval before landing. They remain unnamed, not for lack of labels, but because their names are the least interesting things about them. Names imply specificity. Specificity implies accountability. And accountability implies the possibility of fault.

They are not characters in any conventional sense, more like consequences. They smile of such calculated neutrality that entire diplomatic crises could be resolved - a civil war indeed.

Every so often, someone knocks. Not at the front door, which is now considered more symbolic than functional (perhaps the best thing one can be considered), but at one of the many internal doors that divide the house into increasingly smaller chambers of some sort of curated ambiguity. The knocks themselves have become a subject of silent competition: too firm and you are too eager; too faint and you are being mistaken for an animal. The ideal one is audible, but deeply uninvested in the outcome.

Of course, the door one knocks on is never the door one is meant to enter. That’s part of the charm. You knock on the red-lacquered door beside the parlour and are invited elsewhere. You ask after someone in the blue drawing room and are redirected to a vestibule you’re told you’ve already passed through, though you have no memory of it. Directions are always given in terms of former uses: ‘just beyond where the billiards room used to be’. Nothing is direct, but everything is adjacent. Clarity is considered a kind of unforgivable sin.

And yet, everyone here fully believes they are moving closer to something, some central chamber, some inner circle, a final room where answers are given and the good glasses are used. They believe this even as they are gently but perpetually redirected.

The ones who reach it, of course, are not the ones who knocked. They’re the ones who were mistaken for staff. Or who wandered in absentmindedly. Or who stood still for so long someone assumed they were already part of the furniture and let them stay. The irony, naturally, is that those who make it to the centre never quite know what to do once they’re there. The chairs are too low, the lightning is terribly unflattering. The conversation is somehow too quiet but too loud. They sip something herbal and ask themselves whether perhaps the knock wasn’t meant to be answered after all.