Arc
The one disadvantage of the placement of my desk was the lack of direct sunlight, which the owners likely considered an advantage. I'd often noted the partiality of folks in this part of the world for the shaded bower; not for them the glass houses and walls open to the horizon in the American Southwest. The shadows of the forest offer safety from the sun. My favorite park in Bucharest, which I think is everyone's favorite park in Bucharest, has a long mall (from pell-mell, the old game -- the origin of many straight main streets in many cities), and about halfway through, there is a small bower with a circle of stone statues of prominent folks from the past. The mall itself is an amiable place to read on a Sunday afternoon, though the ghosts might think it a bit presumptuous to sit in the circle and read -- even if Cioran or Caragiale is on the ebook reader.
But this desk in the small apartment was persistently in shade, partly because of the trees in full summer leaf. There was the morning chorus of birds, of course, the mixture of pigeons and ravens, and the occasional cry of a gull who had found the cliffs and dank ponds of the city a suitable substitute for the ocean.
The was one bird with a peculiar call. Occasionally, I would whistle back with a distinct call of my own. And after long hours of reading in the shade, sometimes I would follow the sound of the bird outside into the summer sunshine. Once, following it at night, I met a large sociably unsocial crowd heading to an anniversary nighttime edition of the the city's football derby. On another occasion, I found a large outdoor block party. Another time, there was the picturesque walk over the long bridge over the legendary rail line, between the mountains and the sea. Another time, a massive political rally in the city, with thousands and thousands coursing through the street, on the eve of the big rally to come the next day. In short, this bird led me to many strange and wonderful things.
Then, from circumstances too tiresome to mention, I headed to the great dark city for a very difficult winter. There was the dawn chorus, of course, before the snows began, and afterwards, in the spring. But somehow indistinct, as I was focused on the tasks of the day, and simple survival in newly difficult circumstances.
One day, walking through the traffic circle, the first place to which I had returned after my flight to the city, as I had walked up out of the subway there, I thought I heard the call of that same bird again. My mind puzzled it a bit, but I didn't stop, as one doesn't stop in the city for that sort of thing. I continued on past, though the memory of it haunted me for the next day or so.
Then, some days later, as I was trying to get past the tourist swarms who come to gawk at the walls and windows of the research library, I thought I heard it again. But again I continued on, and I didn't turn around to inquire into the event. It was from this, some days later, as I sat thinking about it, that I understood that the city of the power of darkness had me in its power.
"How did you know that understanding was true?'
Because it didn't make any sense.
"Wait, how much of this was real?"
Never ask a writer or an artist that question. As another fellow once said, there were a few things that I stretched, but mainly I told the truth.
"What did you do then?"
Tried to explain it. To myself, mostly. Thought about it. Conditioned my mind to that truth.
"And what happened next?"