We stroll like subtitles walking across a foreign film screen - slightly out of time with the rest of the world, but it makes sense for us to be here, now. A classic black umbrella is held above our heads - it’s raining. The wet city streets become slick as oil as the starry black sky weeps. A staccato drumbeat permeates the heartbeat of the entire city. The pervasive buzz and chaos of the day has been replaced by a steady, soothing rhythm. The sun has already pulled her veil across her face. Like a river, the city eyes shine.
Oh, dear reader, I have forgotten to introduce myself! For it is to you I am speaking! It does not matter who I am. For now, I shall be your guide, your eyes. Or perhaps instead, I will borrow your eyes and manipulate them so you can see what I see - so you can feel what I feel. And right now, I feel as though a damp chill has entered my bones and run through my bloodstream, poisoning and freezing my heart. Perhaps I am overexaggerating the effect the frigid rain has on me, or instead this feeling stems from some other affliction.
We are walking down a street unknown to you, yet familiar. It is like any other street in any other city. These long streets seem to stretch forever, growing skyward as if they were ancient oaks. To your right, a striking, stark white marble museum stands proudly in contrast to the tenebrosity of the night. Still, you hardly notice as we pass it. Perhaps your mind is occupied with other thoughts. I am walking you to the piers - the place where the harsh edge of the city gives way to the sea, now silently slumbering in its deep blue robe.
The sea hardly houses any boats tonight, but a lone fisherman, heavily imbibed, has not gone home for the night. He shouts, “Who’s your tailor on the preference?” You throw a snide glance his way but puzzled at his question that suggested he had some sort of class. After all, what did a clearly struggling fisherman, with his tattered, threadbare sweater, worn cap, and stench drenched fishing pants, need with a tailor? In his state, he was probably grasping at a thin sliver of his hopes and dreams located somewhere in the recesses of his mind - hopes and dreams that apparently included a well-tailored wardrobe. You notice his age and think him to be too old to have dreams full of grandeur. If only he had worked harder, then perhaps he would not have ended up like this. He would have lived his dream instead of dreaming of living. It would be no surprise to you if his body became one with the sea in the near future. Let him rot, you thought. This world has no use for people like that.
We reach a pier that seems to stretch its infinite hand towards the sea. This pier is different from the others, as the comforting light of two stolid streetlamps is absent. Yet, this is the path we choose. As the sea moves to an arcane rhythm, we move in syncopated rhythm towards the imperceptible end of the pier. Finally, I pause and take a few irresolute steps before sitting down and hanging my feet over the edge. You follow suit. The Cimmerian shade of night makes us unsure of whether our eyes are open or closed.
But verily, your eyes are the ones that are truly closed! Even if the blazing light of a thousand furious suns were to illuminate the earth and everything in it, you would be utterly unable to see! For you go around in a state of perpetual indignation, stumbling blindly about, yet you have never once stumbled into the truth! That is why I am here, you see. I hope before the night is over, before our story comes to a close, you will become intimately acquainted with the truth - the reality I want you to see.
You seem unaware of my frustration as we sit in silence for an indeterminate amount of time. I make a motion to leave and you hurry after me. We head now to the city center. Walking down an alley, past small boutiques, we spy a woman on the street corner stitching. Watching her stitch was a mesmerizing experience, and it seems to be a language only she understands. It is as if the thread flows from her very fingers. We look on, enraptured, hearts beating loudly, as everything fades to the periphery. Brilliant vermilion contrasts with rich Prussian blue and celadon on a plain alabaster tapestry. The image being created was not yet clear, but its origins appear to be more beautiful than the lowly clot of blood from which we spring. Its final form is certain to surpass our ignoble one.
To the left of the skilled artisan on a simple, purple linen cloth, are woven canvases detailing kings feasting while peasants starve, supposed defenders cudgeling the defenseless, drinkers of clear-flowing drink selling poison-drink, and many more portrayals of those in power abusing those without it. Yet, all the sordid acts are shown in the most beautiful way.
A steady thump, thump, thump, that I had assumed was a heartbeat continues to approach us. The dimly lit alley casts irregular shadows across the sharp face of a uniformed man. “Hey!” He shouts. “Do you have a permit to be selling those?” The woman quickly drops the unfinished stitching with the rest of her work, gathers up the cloth, and runs. The man pursues her and crushes underfoot a single stitching that has escaped its shoddy wrappings. I pick it up and am instantly accosted by the image depicting a man holding a weapon above the head of a defenseless man. Yet, this scene in the foreground is not what disturbs me. It is the bystander, hidden in the shadows, looking on apathetically with his hands behind his back.
You disrupt me from my reverie as your thoughts reach me, unbidden. If she was not supposed to sell without a permit, then she should not have been doing it, right? The law is the law. My lip curls upwards and to the right, not in a smile, but an expression of disdain. Still, I say nothing and ignore your attempts to catch my eye. I start walking again. Silhouettes of buildings rise around us as we begin to approach a more populated area of the city. We hear snatches of conversation and echoing laughter. Scenes of gaiety and frivolity now abound in the city center, where lights blaze so brightly they can be seen from outer space.
Cutting through the chaotic din is a man’s voice accompanied by the lilting notes of a guitar. I pursue the music and find myself in a small plaza where a man with a shock of curly black hair sits at the edge of a fountain, playing his guitar. Immediately, I am struck by the desolate and haunting nature of the tune he plays. I turn to look at your reaction, and it is the same as mine – awed, yet dispirited. The song practically rended your heart out of your chest, leaving it alone, hopeless, and violently contracting.
As the man continues to play for his audience of two, a group of women who have clearly consumed copious amounts of a fermented grape drink enter the square. They callously interrupt the man and request a more joyous tune. The man does not stop his song, and the women clearly become more agitated. “Deirdre, get him to sing something else!” shouts one woman. Deirdre launches a projectile of coins at the singer that fortuitously misses his head and lands in the fountain behind him. She hands more coins to two other women. “I have bad aim, Denise,” she says to the woman who made the earlier request. “Maybe you will have better luck, Dion and Jonet,” she says with a malicious giggle. Dion and Jonet follow Deirdre’s example, but the man continues, unphased. Amid a cacophony of chortles and insults, the women depart.
I look at you again and you seem to be pleading with your eyes for us to leave this man and his depressing song behind. You think, he has such a beautiful voice. Why use it for mourning? I grant your wish and we walk towards the main avenue. Breaking the silence that has permeated our relationship thus far, I ask if you know why I have accompanied you on this night walk. You answer in the negative. I shall now illuminate the reason why I have appeared, since you failed my test three times, and then disappear from your life forever. I showed you three people, every one of whom you thought negatively towards. Let me tell you more about their lives, and perhaps I can change your perceptions of these individuals.
The first man’s name was Ansel. He was the owner of a major, successful business that his father, Stephen, founded. Stephen’s inventions were renowned and he was well-respected by many prominent figures. This all changed when Stephen was suspected of the attempted murder of a young protégé of his. Stephen and Ansel fled to an island where they were granted asylum by a man of questionable moral character named Rex. He asked Stephen to create an impenetrable prison where he would place his wife’s illegitimate child. Stephen obeyed, but when a young man came to save the child, Stephen instructed the man as to how the child could be saved from the prison. The young man was able to save the child and ran off with Rex’s daughter. Rex was furious, and Stephen thought it best to flee. He created a contraption that would allow himself and his son to fly away from Rex’s territory. Ansel, though, became prideful and flew recklessly. The waves of the sea overtook him, and he washed up on the shore near the piers where he remains to this day. The man you judged so harshly has gone through a serious crisis, as he had to reckon with his father’s wrongdoing in which he played no part. He was banished from the only home he had known and lived in secrecy and exile when we came upon him in a state of obvious adversity. Yet, you spared him no pity or kindness.
The second person we came across was Octavia. She was a successful businesswoman who owned her own store that sold clothing, stitchings, tapestries, and other woven goods. Octavia was very talented and handmade everything she sold. A prestigious stitching competition was held which Octavia entered. A former teacher of Octavia’s, Dana, who had once briefly encouraged her, also entered the competition. Octavia won the competition amid much praise from the judges. In her acceptance speech, she did not acknowledge Dana. Unbeknownst to her, Dana became extremely jealous of Octavia’s talent and increasing renown. A few weeks later, Octavia’s store burned down, along with all her original designs. One day, as Octavia mourned outside the charred remains, Dana walked by. She smote a distraught Octavia on the head with a shuttle three times and admitted to arson. Dana told Octavia she was ungrateful and should be happy that Dana did not cut off her hands. Yet, you so quickly condemned Octavia for a minor infraction with no regard or thought as to her circumstances.
This brings me to the final person we met on our journey, Carlisle. His wife, Adelai, was in a car being pursued by her stalker, Max. She was seriously injured in the resulting crash and was rushed to the hospital. Carlisle arrived as soon as he could and was told to stay in the waiting room. Yet, there existed in him a dreadful need, like the need of a devotee. A voice urged him underground and he descended to the floor where Adelai was being treated. He burst into the operating room and caused a scene when he saw the state Adelai was in. Some doctors and nurses had to stop their work on Adelai to remove him from the room. Soon after his outburst, Adelai died. Carlisle still houses guilt from the belief that it may have been possible for Adelai to be saved if he had not gone into the operating room. Singing about his lost love was one of his few remaining comforts, and yet you did not appreciate or care about his pain – only your own selfish desires to hear beautiful and happy music.
Living life in the city, it will never be pretty. It will be filled with many people from whom we would rather turn away than lend a helping hand. We see only the ugliness at first, and do not dare to look deeper. Why? Is it for fear that we may realize our own errors and lapses in judgement? Or is it that we are afraid of expending energy by caring about others? This night, empathy has been lost – or at least, you never reached for it. But in the daytime, I am certain, just as the sun lifts her veil from her face, you will lift the veil that shrouds your heart in the obsidian cloth of darkness and reach for warmth and light.
In this city, there is a vibrancy here that can uplift the soul. Ever present are the moments of kindness, fleeting smiles, and gestures of goodwill that bring beauty to the blank canvas of the city - for the cold steel skyscrapers and bleak concrete buildings are empty if they house only empty souls. You must search for those acts of goodness to color an otherwise bleak existence.
I have only one final question for you before I leave you. Do you know how far we walked? One mile. Now that you have walked a mile in my shoes, you can judge me. You smile, a conspiratorial yet sweet smile, and say nothing. And within the silence that stretches on, a whole universe, ripe with compassion and understanding, is conceived.