They went through the rooms arguing. One room after another room, each room was exhausted, in disarray from their frantic stomping down of carpets, banging into tables, kicking up of rugs, tossing of pens and open leaves of paper into the air, hardly waiting for the leaves to flutter their way down to the floor before moving to another room.
Defenses were made, and counter-defenses. The servants understood that a war was going on, one equal to or surpassing the war that was even then unfolding in their country, as armoured companies positioned themselves near the country’s border, and troops arranged themselves strategically in the jungle.
A red scarf coiled boldly on a woman’s neck. Dresses trailed behind legs like sea kelp. Every now and then one of the gentlemen thrust an ivory cane at a portrait, perhaps, or a candle, and smashed the glass pane of one, or knocked the other down from its ledge. The servants, in their thick shoes, rushed in from their purchases and scooped up the burning wicks, the shards of glass, like sparrows darting from the bushes.
There was no end to the rooms. Or, rather, one couldn’t say whether those arguing would ever come to the end of them, because just as a room was made presentable again it was broken into, fiercely, by the combatants. In this way the occupants of the mansion passed their time before the tanks came down from the border and rockets crossed the air in front and behind them, detonating themselves in the field.