Voices of the Lost

Image provided by Flicker: Original painting by. Salvador Dali

Riding high I looked down on the luminescent city below as though it were to suddenly lift into the sky and open a stairwell to heaven. I could not think of anything but what was right there in front of me. As though nothing more magnificent could exist. All night I had been practicing my French with the locals. So far all I’d managed to pick up is ‘Vin’— wine. I recall someone telling me the city of lights would be beautiful; that it would steal me. That it would grab a hold of my soul and twist and turn it within.

“Excuse me?”

I whipped around. To my surprise, I was met with nothing but the cold brisk air of the night. I thought, perhaps it is just the earth’s gravity tonight. Yet just as I was about to continue embracing the lights, I felt everything within me dim. Drop. Every ounce of weight within my soul seemed to tell me to leave. I looked around. For years and years, I’ve pondered; why did I not shudder and sink to the dirt when I saw them? When I saw their faces. Their eyes, sunken, forming dark, glooming, heinous, gray clouds around them. The darkest caves in the deep hidden corners of the earth would be put to sleep by those eyes.

I tried to speak to them, but they seemed to be deaf to my voice. Everything was much quieter than before. They were all moving in slow motion, with empty smiles as though they were carved from hollow rotting wood. A woman was sitting, smiling, and almost silently laughing much like many of them were. When I sat right in front of her, she stopped and looked right at me — or through me, ineffably. So many things were looking at me. Confusion, loss, anger, and many other things.

“Excuse me?”

I whipped around again expecting to meet the eyes of one of the dead, but nothing was there. I stood up and looked around for the source of the voice that was drawing me forth. The air was cold. I could hear the breeze rushing past my ears. The sun set hours ago, but it somehow appeared darker than it was moments ago. I looked out into the chaotic darkness and saw nothing but black beyond the balcony.

“Are you awake?”

The voice was both of man and woman. They were in an unsettling harmony that made my hairs stand up. I shuddered at the sound of it. It seemed to be coming from the sky, below my feet, and all around as well as within me.

“Are you awake?”

“I do not know,” I replied.

Faint whispers began ringing in the breeze. It was not the wind. I did not know from whom or where the sounds of these beckonings came, but I felt a strange inclination to follow.

I followed them to the streets below, in the underbelly from which no one ever came or left. Aged stones and crosswalks eroded by what must have been decades of rain pouring and pounding the fossilized steps of those long gone. Or perhaps those who are now one with the breeze. Old buildings lined shoulder to shoulder stacked several stories high in the night. Streetlights emanated across these great structures — some with balconies modeling old Parisian architecture long forgotten and left to stand the tests of time.

Not a soul was in sight. The deeper into these old streets I ventured, the more I began to question who or what I was following. For all I knew I could have been well on my way to a rendezvous with the devil. Acknowledging this, my pace did not falter. The illogic of it all, coupled with my desire to keep on, eliminated any hesitation I might have held.

“Hello?!” I shouted.

I could still hear the faint whispers, but it almost sounded as though they were slowly becoming more distant the more I pursued. I finally came to a stop at a low-lit street corner. Should I just go back? Where in God’s name are they? Have I gone mad? Thoughts such as these began to pollute my mind.

Despite my strong desire to keep on, I eventually came to a halt. I looked around. Still, there was no one in sight, yet I had the unnerving feeling that I was not alone. Though my ominous friends seemed to be absent, I couldn’t shake the overwhelming sense that something awaited me. Under the streetlight, on the corner of an unfamiliar avenue, I soon felt as though a hand of needles and spools began to sew my heart to my mind. I embraced it. I closed my eyes. I began breathing heavily.

The world was turning inside out. Up is down, down is up. My legs were unsteady on the ground of glass. No narcotic could make this go away. 

I opened my eyes. When I did, in front of me stood a gallant structure which I had not previously seen. In color, it was an iridescent light beige. Stacked no more than a few stories up, it was lined with windows on every floor. Beneath them, centered in front of me, was an arched doorway, with strong iron gates for doors. Gates that seemed to cause one to reminisce of nights past. Strong as though to protect those inside. Above these guarding gates, was the face of what must have been the Christ face. Eyes strong, like the gates, but was without that fierce personality one would associate with such strong eyes. They seemed to say all who enter here may find refuge. I walked up to the gate and gently pulled at it. It opened with ease and with a high-pitched creak, I entered.

Inside, was a long hallway, lined with doors on either side, with another gate at the end, presumably an exit. An eerie silence hung in the air, but still, I carried on. As I cautiously entered the corridor, I heard a slight ringing in my right ear. I froze in place. It was but for a moment, but it was clear. I looked to my right. There was a door, already partially opened; strange. I looked around, and indeed it was the only door that was open. Then, without a second thought, I pushed through the door and was immediately bombarded with an uneasy warmth. In front of me, a gigantic room filled with gaudy décor, but no one was dancing. No one was there. The lights were dimmed. No one in sight.

 “Hello?!” I cried out. No one answered.

I began to wonder if it was all a trick. But no, this must not be a trick. I walked into the fortress, only then to realize that my shoes were leaving footprints on my trail. I looked down stunned to see that I was following a trail of what looked to be the deepest, crimson red, that almost seemed beautiful smeared across the black and white marble tiles beneath my feet. The high ceilings and grand chandelier seemed dismal and echoed and swayed to the sound of the silence as it hung above the brightness of the blood. I followed the thin stream of scarlet across the grand room -which was fitting for a ball — and proceeded to a set of double glass doors, leading outside to the starry night. When I stepped out, I saw a terrace with two sets of steps which then led down to a large pool, from which one could overlook a large bay that touched the sky. I looked down into the pool to see that it was filled with that dark, blooming, crimson red, which seemed darkened by the sheer depth of it. I recall telling myself to run, that something was wrong, but I felt that I would be doing an injustice. Like leaving would be almost ignorant, and stupid. Because I could still feel that strange, eerie welcome.

I looked around for evidence of anyone close by. Only then, at the far end of the pool stood a man, fully clothed standing waist deep, gravely still. He almost seemed to be staring off into the dark, across the bay. I looked to see what he could possibly be staring at, only to then catch the sight of the night sky. Why was I paying less attention to the ghostly man and more to the sky? Could it be that it was just that beautiful? I felt a certain smallness when looking up in the dark at those luminescent lights that hung above the bay. I must have forgotten my situation for a good while.

I finally came back down to earth when I began to catch the unnerving feeling that someone was watching me. I looked down to where the strange figure was standing waste deep, only now he was standing dead center in the dark pool, up to his shoulders, and was staring at me. I could now see his face. He had ivory pale skin, with thick, dark blonde hair which was parted in the middle and smoothly greased back. He had thin lips and green eyes that looked right through you. His face seemed downcast, yet somehow tranquil in an inexplicable sort of way. As though he knew you despite only meeting for the first time. He stood there motionless, not a single ripple in the pool. Then his arm slowly began to ascend from below the surface. When his hand finally broke the stillness of the calm scarlet mass, he revealed a wine glass, which he then held above his head. While standing there with the glass in hand, I squinted so as to look closer, because for a moment I thought I could see the corners of his mouth raise as well.

He was smiling at me. When he did, my blood slowed, and was in no rush. The ground beneath my feet felt more sturdy than before. My heart was silent.

 “Care for a drink?”

Something in the way he spoke chased away angst. His heart was silent too. How reckless of me... But before I got the chance to make my way down the staircase to give him the customary greeting I so wished to give, the faint ringing in my ear returned. Though faint, it made it increasingly difficult to think of anything else. I looked to the man again, and with a smile, he waved to me. It seemed he knew the ringing was what was keeping me from answering his question.

I began following the ringing, back into the large palace-like house, through the large room, and back through the door I had originally entered through. I then found myself walking towards yet another one of the doors. I cautiously walked over to the door across from the one I had just come and turned the doorknob.

I crossed the threshold and when I did it was completely silent. Not a sound was to be heard. I looked around to see what looked like the inside of a diner or a restaurant. Through the windows of the building, there were at least two dozen tables sitting out on a cement patio which, from the corner of the street, provided a clear view of the neighboring buildings and streets. Brown circular tables were littered throughout the large room, accompanied by a bar along the right wall, sporting classical bohemian architecture with bright lights, which seemed to stand out against the darkness in this world around me. I heard the sound of a glass clinking. I looked over slightly to my right ahead of me. There was another person over at the bar, reaching behind the counter. He pulled his hand out from behind the bar with a glass bottle of alcohol in his hand, which he then set down to reach behind again and grab two glasses. He set them down, and sat there for a good long while, staring stiffly at the wall. From the view of mostly his back, I could see he was wearing a brown suit jacket over a white shirt and black tie, with black socks, dress shoes, and trousers. He also wore a checkered flat cap which sat on a head of dark brown hair.

Still sitting silently, he continued to stare at the wall, not moving a muscle, like stone. Then his head turned, and he looked straight into my eyes. He clearly wanted me to notice him, yet there was something about his face that was almost reticent. His round face and dark brown eyes displayed a certain rigid disposition, yet perfectly frank. I cannot explain how I came to these conclusions, because despite being able to make these observations, he had absolutely no expression on his face at all.

He took one of the glasses and set it next to him and filled it with the drink he retrieved from behind the counter. He then slid it to the right of him. He then looked at me again. After a few seconds, he slid out the chair to his right, still staring.

“I hope you do not mind the green fairy.”

He had a thick Latin accent. Hesitantly, I walked over to the seat and sat down in front of the drink, right next to him. He poured his own glass and held it out to me. I clinked my glass with his and he took a large gulp. I then did as well. I waited for him to say something more, but he said nothing. He just stiffly sat there. Though he was no longer staring at the wall. Before I knew it we had started a ritual between the two of us. First, he would look around the room of bright colors and the ominous bohemian charm, and then out the window into the darkness. Then he’d drink. After he did this, I would then perform the same thing. Just looking, observing, and drinking. We did this for a good long while. If we finished our glasses, we filled them up again. Never any words.

The whole time I was waiting for him to say something but to no avail. Seeing the light against the dark outside — despite making me want to jump and hide beneath the bar table — it was clear. My friend seemed to recognize this. It was then that I once again began to hear that familiar sound. He looked at me with raised eyebrows, but he did not appear to be surprised. Could he hear it too? He took what was left of the bottle, and poured the rest into his glass. In my intoxicated state, I stood up and walked back to the door. I turned and looked over my shoulder. He was not even looking at me. He was still simply looking around, just as he was. I followed the familiar ringing through the door, stumbling, but soon found my balance. I felt a sinking feeling. None of this could be because of the drinks. I felt a clear difference from how I felt before drinking with him. I wasn’t drunk then, though now I was. I felt a liberation of which I had not the words to describe. More liberating than I had felt since I happened upon this place.

I exited. After crossing the threshold, I turned to my left, following the ringing to the next room over, on the same side of the corridor. Without hesitation, I turned the doorknob and opened the door. I stepped through onto cobblestone which lay as the footing for a long bridge. Lights lit along the railing, I looked around. Just when I started to think that I was alone, there was a buzzing sound. It was quiet, barely audible — there was a man. Or more the silhouette of a man. He was standing near the railing. I walked over to him. He did not seem at all surprised by my being there. He stood, shoulders squared off, back straight. He made little movement if any movement at all aside from adjusting the reel to the fishing pole he was holding. Line cast to the sea below.

I thought for a moment that maybe he did not notice I had come to stand next to him. He was rather stocky built. Muscular, and had a strong face, and a thick black mustache. He wore a dark beret on his head of black hair. He was focused,  perhaps even a bit tired. He simply looked down at his reel which strung down to a black pool with the slightest tint of crimson. Looking down at the murky darkness, I couldn’t help but notice there were giant gray statues giving stoic expressions embroidered in leaf crowns of gold mounted upon the outer edge of the bridge. I followed the long row of faces with my eyes until in my peripheral I could see what looked to be the rest of Paris. I could see why one would enjoy this place. Though dark and quite ominous, just as this world seems to be, it imprinted itself on me. Heart now pounding, I put my hands on the railing, and looked down once more. Something so slight had moved me to such an extent that I began to feel things turn inside out. 

I heard a sigh. I looked to my companion with eyes that pleaded for an explanation. To my surprise, he nonchalantly turned his head to me, still without exuberance. He said nothing. He then turned his attention to his line and began to slowly reel it in. Once he had reeled in, he held his pole in front of me. Carefully, I grabbed hold of the handle as I presumed he wanted me to do. After I took it from his hands, he pointed to the open air out in front of the both of us. I drew the end of the pole back and cast the reel to descend it to the pool below. We sat there not exchanging so much as a glance. I was far more concerned with wondering what it was that was causing me to feel sublime. Before long, I felt a tug coming from below. I began reeling in swiftly. At the end of my line was a small fish. My companion grabbed the line for me with a single movement of his left arm and placed it on the ground. He handed me a knife.

He stood there. Staring at me blankly. Stiff. I took the knife from him, though I felt the fish was already dead as it did not move. I knelt down to cut it open. However, when I did, it flinched. Alive? I couldn’t help but feel surprised. Looking at its head I could see it was looking at me.

“We’ve grown old.”

I looked up over my shoulder to see my companion looking down at me. Yes, no doubt; we age. His arm moved ever so slightly to point to the head of the fish that lay beneath my pressed hand. I looked at it. I knew how to cut a fish. I had done it before. Many times. Yet when I looked down, I lost all my wit. For it, he, was looking at me. Sheer horror filled his eyes as he lay weighed down waiting for the blade I wielded in my other hand. From the time he was born, he never thought this would happen. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t move. My heart was beating harder than it had for so long. Until eventually everything left him. I stumbled and sat on the ground at the feet of my companion. I wept.

He took the knife from me, walked over, and cut. He was just a fish. I finally stood up, and I walked back to the door from which I came. He did not even notice me leaving him until I turned to look over my shoulder. He held the knife in one hand and a carcass in the other. Blankly, he watched me step through the threshold and close the door behind me. Still drunk and now weary, I trudged to the door across the hall from me.

Stepping through I was met with confusion. Was this door an exit? In front of me was a single street light on a corner. I was now outside. There was a deafening silence to it all. I was alone. Yet within a few moments, I began hearing what sounded like slow footsteps coming from around the street corner. The sound of my soon-to-be guide’s feet hitting the ground made a clopping sound. This sound was accompanied by a single clacking sound every two steps. I listened carefully, as the footsteps got louder and eventually ended when it sounded as though they were standing right in front of me. There was no one there. 

I heard a slight chuckle from behind me. I whipped around. There stood a young man of average height, maybe an inch or two shorter than me. I could tell this because he was only a mere few inches from my face. I jumped back. He did not react. He stood there with that familiar yet alien stare. He was dressed in a gray suit, a tie of the same yet slightly lighter color, and a white blouse underneath with thin red stripes. On his right side, he held the head of a slick cane which was clearly not used for practical purposes for it was far too expensive. He had a thin vulpine face, very white skin, and was cleanly-shaven except for a thin jet-black mustache above his upper lip. His hair, which was greased back, was the same color. Blacker than black. What was most peculiar to me about his face were his eyes. They were unusually lively; almost jovial. He had them open wide almost as though he were shocked by something or another. But upon inspection, it seemed to me that there was something jaunty about him. He did not smile, but his eyes were smiling. He wasn’t shocked by anything at all. He was mad.

Yet what was odd and quite off-putting about it all was that, in realizing his madness, I was quite at home with him. He extended his hand, and when I raised mine so as to shake his, I froze. I watched as my hand began to change shape, warp, stretch…melt. I felt nothing. Not so much as a tingle. Yet it continued to melt as though it were morphing into a thick oil. There were droplets of me beginning to hit the ground. Both of my hands were changing. I held them up close, inspecting them. But when I held them both to my face, the substance no longer flowed down with gravity and began to flow upwards. Slowly. And Wwhen the flow began to reach above my head, it receded into nothingness, as though the dark crisp air devoured it before my eyes. I knew better than to think that the alcohol was to blame.

I heard the abrupt clack of his cane hitting the pavement of the sidewalk. I looked down and noticed what he wanted me to see. The sidewalk no longer looked like it did not a moment ago. It now had a dark chasm separating each section of it. The road next to us began to do the same. The darker color of the road seemed to have shifted places with parts of the opposite sidewalk across from us. It resembled a chasmic checkerboard. There was absolutely no sense in any of this. A pit formed in my stomach. What was left of my hands was shaking. Then I heard that chuckle again. I looked at the face of the man. He had that same wide-eyed look of jovial insanity. Except now he appeared to be far gayer than before. He began trying to catch the flow of my hands in his. He looked like a child trying to catch bubbles. The more I watched him, the less I shook, and the less deep the pit in my stomach became. He was unfathomably happy and most comfortable. I couldn’t help but laugh. Such innocence and peace with the strangeness of it all. Not a lick of fear. Complex and strange this all is, yet he continued to play.

Then the ringing. When I heard it, he heard it too. We both froze and looked again to the door. I looked at himand without looking back at me, he took a step back and ceased to play. He then turned to the tall building next to us, placed his right foot with the foot of his cane on the wall, and began to walk upwards as though gravity did not exist at all. He ascended as he walked with poise towards the dark sky. I headed for the door. I heard the sound of his cane hitting once more. I looked up, and just at the boundary of light from the streetlight, I noticed him take a slight bow of the head. I held up my hand — now inexplicably intact — to say farewell. He then walked up sideways into the night. I then left.

I followed the ringing to the door to the right of me. Before entering, I looked to the entrance from which I had first entered. I was now close to the end of the corridor. However, this did not deter me. I walked right through the door into what looked like a gardening shed. It was dark and slightly dank. The air smelled strongly of lilies and wet soil. Exiting the gardening shed I found that I was surrounded by plants of all different sorts. Mostly flowers. The breeds and colors of the flowers were very difficult to make out in the darkness, of which there was almost a complete absence of any light. I tried my best to navigate through the shrubbery. I did this until I was finally able to find another path that seemed to move towards a beam of light in the sky. When I finally looked to see what the light was, I was astonished to find that it was the moon.

The moon illuminated the rest of the path which led past the trees to a bridge. I walked over to and stood on the bridge looking for any sign of yet another stranger. Then, across the pond over which I stood, in the light of the moon, stood the silhouette of a man. From where I was standing, which by no means was close, he looked to be of average height and a just slightly heavier build. He looked to be standing with ease, with a hand in his pocket, and the other was held down at his side from which I could see a red glimmer of light flicker when bringing his hand to his mouth. I then saw his arm with the red glimmer gesture to the water. I looked down and I saw that the water was not water at all but was that familiar deep red color which I had seen so often. There was movement. Ripples perhaps caused by fish and other sea creatures in its depths.

The wind began to whistle as though the wood was speaking. My hands rested gently on the railing. Then, in time, I decided to look up from the dark pool, and I saw the moon, which had somehow gotten brighter. It began to reflect off the pond, which very slowly began to illuminate the garden and the trees. Then, within a few seconds, there was color, and I had just enough light from the red pool's reflection of the moonlight to see all the flowers and all their glory. It appeared that the reflection of the moon had become brighter than the moon itself. The sky was still dark, but the darkness against the pool's light only added to the majesty of it all. I was then able to see the waterlilies which I had never stopped smelling since I had arrived. The lilacs, carnations, roses, violets, and dahlias all layed about in striking contrast to one another. I looked to my side. He was now standing stiffly next to me. He wore beige trousers and an unbuttoned coat to match, both of which looked to be of cotton. He wore a white button-up shirt underneath along with brown dress shoes which matched the brown rimmed hat he wore atop his head of thin white and gray hair. He had a thick beard of the same color. His face was wrinkled with age but was of fine features with a masculine yet gentle nature. He brought to his mouth a cigarette which upon inhaling flickered red at the tip. He made not a sound and he too rested a hand on the railing. We both stood there together for no apparent reason at all other than to be in one another’s company.

We didn’t just look at the pool. We looked all around. He stood with the stiffness characteristic of the silent watchers I had encountered, and I didn’t try to speak to him. There was no need to say anything. The light which was exposing the complexity of our surroundings. I could hear frogs in the brush hiding from birds and I could also catch glimpses of a family of squirrels in the trees playing. Small lights flickered in the trees which I believed to be fireflies. Whatever this was, it was far more alive than both the day and night. Remarkable. Ineffable. Extraordinary. I found myself wondering how the other places I’d been would have looked in this blend of light from the red pool below.

Then, as though to give a reminder, I heard those voices. Those I couldn’t forget. I looked to my companion who was no longer there. It was as though he had vanished out of thin air. Surely a man of his age couldn’t move that fast! I had just looked at him not a few moments ago. However, I felt I must move with haste and had no time to look for him. I followed the voices just as I had before. I followed them back to the gardening shed and through the second door inside it. When I found myself back in the corridor, I listened carefully. They were coming from the door at the very end of the corridor, mirroring the entrance to the building. Entering the room I found myself inside an apartment. Walking around the corner the living room was illuminated by dimly-lit lamps and a couple of gas lights. There was an assortment of old furniture of a red velvet color, which matched the rich red coloring of the walls. There hung abstract portraits on the walls, which made the room feel significantly less poor.

Tired and still drunk, I sank into the red armchair. When I sat I looked up and the room which was previously empty now had six others standing, blankly looking at me. Five of the six faces I identified as the well-dressed fellow from the pool, the Spaniard with whom I shared drinks, my fishing partner, the jovial one with the cane, and the old gardener. But the sixth face I had never met. They all stood around her, and they all looked at me. She was older as well, and had a large build, with short hair, and despite being round, had a sharp nose, and strong features. She dressed as though she were poor. She had a certain assertiveness to her disposition. She didn’t say anything. They all seemed to be perfectly silent, yet when I looked more closely, I noticed their mouths were moving. 

‘Of course! I thought to myself. How could I be so stupid as to think the voices weren’t coming from them all along?! They led me here. This was all their doing. I looked at them all standing there speaking, and soon I was able to hear them, upon listening more closely. Those familiar voices, once frightening, now oddly comforting. Though it was a strange comfort. The sort of comfort one sinner finds in another. 

After a good long while, I decided it was high time for me to bid them farewell. When I stood up, I held up my hand to wave goodbye. They all, in perfect unison, raised their right hands and watched me leave the room. I walked through the corridor, passing each and every door I had entered. I slowly trudged my way, through the old ally I had run through what felt like decades ago, and found my way back to the glistening rooftop. I went and sat down in my seat, where I had left my coat. Then, with a sudden gust of wind, there was lively chatter. No one seemed to realize what had just happened. I looked at the wine glass I had left half empty. I picked it up and inspected it. I dumped the remainder of my drink out onto the patio. I then picked up another bottle and poured myself a new glass. I watched as the wine glided out of the top of the bottle, forming a deep, dark, scarlet pool in my glass. I ignored my surroundings and focused on becoming drunk again. Frivolous conversation continued to occur around me. I looked around for something to direct my attention away from my own isolation. There was a napkin on the table in front of me. Then, on impulse, I dug into my coat pocket and found my old fountain pen that I had left in there a while ago. I took it out, popped the cap off, and allowed it to glide and bleed onto the napkin. No thoughts, no words. 

Yes. This is good. I’ll keep doing this. This is all very well.