Absurdistan

I’m in pain. My body aches. I don't know which part—everything hurts. I wake up on wet grass, pierced by the harsh needles of a pine tree leaning over me. Brilliant sunbeams pierce my eyes, and around me, there’s a violent stench of mud, alcohol, urine, and tobacco—not necessarily in that order. With my head pinned to the ground, I manage to pick up my starved, battered body, barely able to move. I feel a desperate need to run away from here, wherever "here" is.

Mandala. Where am I? India? No cows. Mandala on the wall. Mural. I remember discussing mandalas with some kids last night, who were mystifying art—stubbornly obsessed with tattoos, murals, drawings, and other static forms of mandala as an idea—completely overlooking the fact that the whole point of a mandala is to be erased with one stroke. Kids. They told me that this wall, which was randomly painted with a symbol of India, was the cause of a generational conflict between them, and the reason for the conflict was: “Whose wall is this?” Primarily, one youngster had painted some dead theater bard here, which was then defaced by adding a big dot. Then another young man painted over “Whose wall is this” and added something else. This led to a city argument, and the wall was repainted and covered over twice more. Still, considering some of the kids from last night, the conflict “Whose wall is this?” seems somewhat healthy. Away from these confused children arguing over the ownership of art, a few lives away, a young man aimlessly waved an axe, while in another corner, a girl rolled in the grass as if Carlos Castaneda had written it. The wall is the least of the youth’s problems.

I stand up, my pants down to my groin. Am I in the Bronx? No. No Black people. I barely drag my feet out of the city park, which I remember is called “Ace Bar”—not “ace” as in the number, but “ass” as in the anus, they explained. Taking one last look at the last mural, I notice that this city youth’s wall actually belongs to the city library. Then to whom does a library belong? Alexander the Great? No, this isn’t Egypt. On the library’s entrance door, there was a poster announcing a literary evening with the local satirist, Mr. Psychiatrist. The poster read: “Every intentionally shattered illusion has its price.” Am I in a delusion? No pink elephants. I like how this Mr. Psychiatrist thinks. Have I finally arrived in my own city? But which city is my city? I still can't remember.

I turn around to see if anything could signal where I am. My gaze freezes on something that looks like a city square. Or at least it used to be. Maybe I'm in a dystopia? But everything seems to be in its place. The massive stone surrounding me confuses me. Gray, enormous buildings, asphalt, stone, and marble steps. I would say it’s under communism. On one of the buildings, there is a mosaic of some kind of winner. What did he win? Did communism win? Am I in Moscow in the 1930s during the building of socialism? But no. I’m neither a bricklayer, nor is this Rio de Janeiro. (reference to The Little Golden Calf by Ilf and Petrov)

I descend the uneven stone steps and directly reach the main entrance of the theater. I like this city; everything is located in one place—the anus, the city wall, the library, the theater… The cinema, concert hall, and brothel must be nearby too.

At the main entrance of the theater, a sign says: “Pig performance is canceled. Chicken plays.” The pig was just crossing the street at the pedestrian crossing in front of the official entrance of the theater. It doesn’t look sick. That pig really is a pig—it lies that it’s sick. On the bulletin board were pictures from one of the performances where the chicken is on stage. What could the chicken’s role be? I just hope it’s not lying.

As I ponder the various possibilities of breaking the fourth wall with the chicken on stage, a strong male voice, unfortunately muffled by gentle mumbling, reaches my ear. “Do you have a cigarette?” the voice asks, confusingly masculine. I turn around and encounter the first city character of this unknown city. The gentleman introduces himself as Fisher, in a long elegant but old black coat, shoes, and shirt. Perfectly bald, with high blood pressure visibly marked on his flushed face. In his hands, he carries a bag with some groceries and a Bible. “Do you have a cigarette?” he repeats, interrupting my profiling career. Everything I had was drunk and smoked the night before, and I feel a little sorry that I can’t help. Instead of an emotional outpouring, only one dry word escapes me: “I don’t.” “Thank you,” says this walking legend. I can’t let him leave. “Mr. Fisher,” I call to him, “can you tell me where we are?” He laughs loudly in astonishment and replies: “Good heavens, good man, you don’t know where you are, and I don’t know who I am!” He walks away while I ponder whether he has a fish in his bag and why the name.

As I watch him in confusion, the scream of folk music reaches me. The sound is getting closer, coming from a taxi covered with Superman’s symbol. The driver stops in front of me, and visually I understand that he’s shouting, but the folk music overpowers him. Now I’m shouting too. I ask him to turn down the radio a bit, but now he’s beaten the folk music into my brain. “Sorry, but I can’t! If I turn it down, I can’t turn it up later! Do you need a ride?! Sorry! A ride?! To Palestine!” “What?!” escapes my mouth. “I’m Superman,” continues the man who isn’t dressed as Superman, but there’s no reason not to believe him. Who among us knows who Superman is? I don’t claim to be him, but it’s intriguing that Superman has never been in the same room with me. But if this man claims to be him, then I certainly am not. “Come on! A ride to Palestine!” Why Palestine? Are we at war? Superman waved his hand and accelerated, perfectly matching the loud folk music. I had no choice but to cross the street and approach that marble expanse.

In the middle of the square, I heard someone calling, “Karlo.” Karlo? Italy? But there’s no boot. I turn around just as a woman with a child stops next to me, and they talk like best friends. She also speaks of Karlo. The boy is seeing him for the first time. “Do you see that man?” she asks. “I see him,” the interested little boy replies. “Well, you see, son, he’s a psychiatric patient, but none of the citizens have ever seen him as problematic—uncultured, heard him shout, or behave in any way improperly. He’s a quiet man. Look, it is 40 degrees outside. He’s in shorts, a t-shirt, and slippers. He looks normal, doesn’t he?” “Quite so,” answers the still interested, but now slightly puzzled, boy. The woman continues: “And do you see that woman who just passed by him? She’s wearing a festive, formal mini-dress, high heels, artificial eyebrows, eyelashes, lips, and breasts, and she’s carrying a Chinese butt implant. Even though it’s daytime, her evening makeup is dripping down her face. Now tell me, son, who here isn’t normal?” The little boy smiles triumphantly and says, “She isn’t.” “That’s right, dear. None of us really knows who is normal and who isn’t. And whenever you see Uncle Karlo, greet him and wish him a good day.” I don’t doubt the words of this charmingly peculiar woman. Karlo is certainly one of the city’s most important figures. And I’m beginning to notice interesting characteristics of this city’s mentality. But which city is this?

From the bottom of the square to my left, I see a building with a sign "Belgrade" on the first floor, "Newyorker" on the second, and "Beijing" on the third. A little further stands a building marked "Paris," and next to me, the arranged terraces of cafes unmistakably point to Blue Lagoon. Panic starts to set in. Or hysteria. Or anger. These people are mocking me! It’s impossible to navigate, to find or regain a sense of belonging when even the citizens of this city can’t agree on where they belong! I sweat rapidly, and now I no longer feel weak but an intense desire to understand the incomprehensible. Perhaps I am battling something abstract!

Now, from the bottom of the square on my right side, a powerful gray skyscraper looms threateningly over me. The picture and likeness of a perfect dystopia. At one moment, I notice that its doors don’t lead to a dystopia but something even worse—to Hell. On top of this building, there were illuminated letters spelling “hotel,” but most of the letters were turned off, so only three glowing letters remained—“hel,” although some people surely speaks English here. Am I in London? No, there’s no Queen here.

Between New York, Paris, Beijing, Belgrade, and Blue Lagoon, my curiosity drives me with hurried steps to Hell, thinking that answers must surely be found there. I rush into the lobby of Hotel Hell and start laughing hysterically because Sartre was right all along—Hell is truly empty. Silence, darkness, cold. God, how little we know. In this silence, in the dark, some of us would live wonderfully in Hell. Suddenly, I hear a warm female voice reciting numbers: 13, 20, 3, 30, 1... Not understanding where these Bingo numbers are coming from, I place this occurrence into a strategy of torture. You sit in Hell while a warm-cold female voice-tone recites numbers for eternity.

In front of me, an exhausted face of a butler—no, a waiter—approaches. As he waves a pure white cloth in front of me, I wonder when the war actually started and when it would end. Instead of voicing my internal question, I ask, "Excuse me, where am I?" "Looking for the restroom? This isn't a public bathroom; it's a hotel," the waiter replies, still waving the white flag of surrender. "Sorry, why is there no one around? Where are the guests? Where are the receptionists?" "You seem to be from somewhere else. You're strange." The waiter provides me with a personal description, and we enter into a more intimate phase of conversation. Why have I deserved this? The man interrupts my thoughts and continues: "This is a hotel, but there are no rooms." "Then how is it a hotel?" "Simply, it has rooms." "So, does it have rooms or not?"

"Theoretically, yes, but practically, no. There are rooms, but they are not for rent. The restroom is downstairs." As I breathe in to repeat that I don’t need the restroom, a shadow of a similar architectural shape to the Hotel Hell looms over me.

I turn around while standing at the base of a massive monument of some great conqueror. "You need to leave," says the conqueror. "If you don’t leave, they will take you." "Who are 'they,' Sir Great Conqueror?" "They, the citizens. In my time, I proudly stood in the middle of the square, and the city wore my name, but some of them preserve history while others change it. They can't agree, so they have temporarily hidden me behind a museum for 30 years." "Sir Great Conqueror, what is the city called now?" Sir Great Conqueror sings: “Video killed the radio star. And now you must leave.” The conqueror turns back behind the museum. "Excuse me, Sir Great Conqueror, just one more thing—where is the airport?" "The airport is up the hill, but it doesn't operate because we have no planes. Go across the river." And the conqueror departs.

Everything I wear is soaked. I no longer feel panic or hysteria—this is paranoia! Thoughts race through my mind like an Australian mouse: "A hotel without rooms! An airport without planes!" I start running wildly, trying to preserve my one remaining brain cell. Fortunately, the river was nearby. I dart past the “Progress” building, which clearly looks like “Regress,” across the asphalt bridge they call the “Wooden Bridge,” and by the river they call the “Children’s River,” because they say the Turks threw children into it. I burst into the bus station building as if I had slammed into a wall.

Inside, the atmosphere is just like the hotel: silence, darkness, and cold. Where are the workers? Where are the passengers? In a room the size of an appliance box, a greasy-mustached woman sits. My heartbeat slows as I approach her, despite my fear of what she might say. "Good day," I greet the lady. "When does the first bus from here to anywhere leave?" The greasy-mustached woman, without lifting her gaze from the blank papers before her, barely replies: "There are no buses." "But is this a bus station?" "The bus station is indeed here, but it doesn’t operate because we don’t have any buses. Try the train station right next door." I don't ask further questions.

Dragging my feet and with a drained brain, my thoughts intermingle in a fog-like speed: "India, Egypt, delusion, dystopia, Moscow, Rio de Janeiro, Palestine, Italy, Belgrade, New York, Beijing, Paris, Blue Lagoon, Hell... A hotel without rooms, an airport without planes, a bus station without buses..." Absurdistan.

I feel unwell. As I climb the empty stairs of the train station, I no longer feel anything. When I reach the platform, it doesn’t matter to me anymore. I sit on a bench and remain still and silent for a few hours. Nothing happens. The night lights turn on, and some mist rises halfway up the hotel without rooms. At the highest point above the mist, "HEL" shines beautifully.

Finally, a gray-bearded old man in work clothes, who I now realize had been standing near me all day by a small refreshment kiosk, approaches me. He sits beside me and almost silently asks, "Man, are you okay?" I no longer have an answer to that question, so I don’t reply. Silence. The old man tries gently to call me again, asking, "What are you doing here?" Words pour out of me as if I no longer have breath: "I’m waiting for a train from here to anywhere..." The old man exhales. Silence. "Son..." the man cautiously whispers, "Trains neither depart from here nor stop in it." This does not surprise me. I have no more feelings. The old man continues: "That’s why I opened this kiosk, where no one buys anything. Whoever is born here or finds themselves here—never leaves." And he remains silent, sitting next to me.

Thoughts begin to swirl again, and as the next day dawns in this strange city, I ask myself: "If those who come or are born here never leave, then it’s clear that I am from here. But why don’t I feel that way? Why do I feel like a stranger in my own city?"