Evening sank like indigo chiffon upon the late afternoon.
The damp streets shone with mirrored colours of flashing lights - red, blue, green, orange. Street lights and shop signs were eerily twinned in the shallow puddles, begetting thoughts of other worlds and imponderable depths. Illusion... all was illusion.
The tall veiled woman who stood fixedly before the black wrought-iron gate absent-mindedly noted the light rain without being consciously aware that she awkwardly extended her umbrella in one hand, while regarding, held in her other hand, a very large and beautifully made key ring on which was a single large, elaborately chased brass ring.
For years she had sought the answer to the mystery of the key ring. Whence had it come? What did the key open? Why had it been given to her? And why had she felt compelled to travel from Zagreb to Antwerp in search of the answer?
She had left behind husband, suckling babe, respected career as a physicist, beautiful house, and her many friends. These lay abandoned in the attics of her mind, half-forgotten in the crazed impulse that had led her here, on this night, to this place. She had tried the key in desk drawers, music boxes, safety deposit boxes, bedroom doors, flats, palaces. Each time, despair had gripped her. Nothing fit! - Her rattlings of key in lock had proved to be futile.
Her shoulders straightened. She lifted her veil, and her face bore a feverish but determined look of resolution. Her trembling ceased; she stepped forward, the keyring held aloft, the key stabbing like a knife at the lock, then gentling, seeking entry...
... and failing.
The muscles in her neck corded. Something that was not rain slid down her cheek. She cried aloud in despair, "You well-made key! You thing of beauty! Why do you haunt me so? Why do you torment me?"
Her arm lowered. Her journey must continue, until the lock revealed itself and the knowledge would be hers...
