The Mysterious Art Museum

Chapter 47 (1) - The Mysterious Art Museum

Ding-dong.

The sound of a bell ringing from the back of a carriage.

Clip-clop, clip-clop, snuffle.

The sound of horse hooves and the horse's snorting.

"We sell cheap chicken!"

"We sell the finest leather!"

The cries of the merchants hawking their wares.

Having woken up, I always struggle to adapt to my surroundings, as usual, after being dragged into a dream. I was sitting on a sofa, but now I find myself standing on a street in some medieval era.

The tracks made by carriage wheels on the unpaved dirt road are visible, and a boy, slightly older than ten, wearing a cap, scurries around with a bundle of newspapers under his arm.

I tried to block the way of a portly middle-aged gentleman passing by, but it seemed he didn't see me from the start as he just walked right through me.

"Once again, I'm invisible to the people here."

When could this be?

What era have I come to?

Based on my experiences so far, it must be a time related to Klimt.

What kind of dream will it show me this time?

I looked around but couldn't see Klimt anywhere.

I decided to walk. Why just wander aimlessly, you ask?

Isn't it obvious? If you had the chance to go back to the Middle Ages with a time machine, would you just stand still? One must explore whatever they can.

I left the narrow alleyway, barely wide enough for a single carriage, and stepped onto a somewhat larger road.

About two hundred meters away, I saw beautiful buildings constructed along a round street.

'Ringstrae (Ringstrassen).'

The most bustling place in Vienna, Austria.

Of course, it's still remarkably beautiful today, but the nostalgia of that era adds even more splendor and beauty.

Who else in the world would have the fortune to visit the center of medieval Austrian bustle in person? I was eager to rush over there, so I quickened my pace.

Where I was, felt like a back alley, slightly off the main area.

A bit away from the center, this place lacked the glamour.

It felt just like a residential area with old markets, much like the vicinity of the Hwanghak-dong Flea Market.

There was a slight foul smell, making me want to quickly leave the area, and just then, I saw a small but newly hung sign that caught my eye.

I stopped in my tracks when I saw the writing on the sign.

'Knstlerunternehmen.'

It's German.

I don't know German. But I recognize this word.

"Artist Company. It's Klimt's company."

I craned my neck towards the shop that the sign was hanging from.

Incredulous.

The company of Klimt, known worldwide, was this small?

It's even smaller than a little store run by an elderly lady in our neighborhood.

Maybe about three square meters?

The shop was so small that the width of the door was almost the same as the width of the shop itself.

Inside the small and long shop, there were two desks, but due to the narrow space, they were placed side by side facing the wall.

And there, I saw a familiar face.

'Ernst Klimt.'

The brother of Gustav Klimt.

It's only natural that he's here. After all, this company was founded by the brothers.

A man walking by throws a newspaper he finished reading onto the street. When I saw the black-and-white newspaper, I was drawn to the date written in the top right corner.

'April 1886.'

My first dream in this strange art museum was in Paris on July 4, 1939.

Now, I've fallen 53 years earlier.

I glanced again towards the bustling area, my initial destination.

It seemed a pity to stop here.

There's no guarantee I could visit that place again even if I dream again.

I looked back into the shop and saw Ernst, deeply troubled and scratching his head, then I stepped inside.

This museum showing me a dream must have a purpose beyond just sightseeing.

The real importance of this dream must lie here.

Ernst, who was puffing on a pipe, looked intensely at something and frowned. As I walked sideways through the narrow shop to his back, I realized he was looking at a receipt. There seemed to be about a dozen receipts, and he was alternately looking at them and the few banknotes left in the drawer.

'This company, wasn't it doing incredibly well? Is he worried about not being able to handle these receipts?'

It seems apparent even to an outsider.

This man is struggling with the high fixed costs compared to the revenue.

Faced with the reality of insufficient funds for urgent expenses.

It feels somewhat similar to my situation, doesn't it?

Though I think I'm in a slightly better position.

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