Paris Noir
and Other Stories and Pictures Celso Bressan 1
Paris Noir and Other Stories and Pictures Sometimes, mostly a tale; other times, mostly illustrative. Definetely, words surrounding pictures. Or, is it the opposite?
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Mind Ga
Small Bug, Big Problem
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Paris
ames
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Noir
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The Key
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A Bench in the Park
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Small Bug, Big Problem
Who doesn’t want to go back to the past to uncover mysteries, try to change History’s terrible facts, fix some personal problems and, why not, buy that lottery ticket we just learned was drawn yesterday? I also would like to swindle the Time, but I recognize there are two problems, one really big and another very small. Starting off, there is the huge challenge of building a machine capable of conquering the folds of Time and traveling faster than the speed of light. Simple and plain, there is no such technology available yet. But, assuming I would have such device ready for me to step in, there are other prosaic difficulties, often disregarded, like the language barrier, the proper attire and money, all to allow me to be adapted to the place and epoch. Can you imagine visiting China from 500 years ago without talking a single word in Mandarin? (There are around 200 distinct dialects there, most not related to each other). As per clothing and money, you could… well, “find” something right there, at the side of the road. (No, I am not suggesting it: first, because it is illegal; second, because you are interfering with the past). In movies, it’s so easy as every single person incredibly speaks English, in any place of the world, in any time of the presence of people in the world! If these issues were not enough, there is something rarely discussed: time travel does not mean space travel all at once; that is, if I walk in a time machine at home to go back 100 years in time, I am still circumscribed to the physical space of my house as stated by H. G. Wells[1] in the classic The Time Machine. If there was a river there, I would probably drawn myself upon my arrival, sink my machine and be trapped forever in the past. If, 2,000 years ago, there was a thick forest in my place somewhere in America, I would have to sweat a lot to get to the Holy Land to witness a moment in Christ’s life. Unless, of course, I would backpack my discrete time machine everywhere before jumping to the past. Again, still assuming I am able to get over these problems, who would believe I really did such an odyssey? To prove it, I would have to bring something back. Pictures, who believes in pictures these days with all the manipulation tricks? Comes in the little problem I mentioned in the beginning: in fact, a butterfly. I am talking about The Butterfly Effect or The Chaos Theory by Edward Lorenz[2], a meteorologist saying, in 1961, “Does the flap of a butterfly’s wings in Brazil set off a tornado in Texas?”. Ray Bradbury[3] built a clever situation in his science fiction short story named A Sound of Thunder, in which he explained why you should not change the past, once known the future, because the consequences could be disastrous. Undoubtedly, this rosary of roadblocks made me leave the idea of time traveling aside, but left me an interesting thought though: to take pictures of the past, just like when an old pic-
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ture is found in a forgotten box. As far as I know, photos don’t “wear out” the subjects being photographed, which means I wouldn’t be altering anything back there. Being a photographer and a writer, I would always have fertile and fresh material for all occasions. I would easily guarantee success, fame and money, as long as I would keep my mouth shut and would be discrete in not publishing anything notoriously known. However, how to take a picture from the past without going there? This question bothered me a lot until I remembered I had a Chronovisor[4], a strange machine invented by Father Pellegrino Ernetti, that I bought in a small antique shop in Venice. The clerk told me the thing was idiotic, didn’t work and almost gave it away for me. It was forgotten in my basement for better days and the day had arrived. After some hard work researching about the father and his work, it took me a while modernizing it with the current electronics, Internet, high resolution monitors and computer. Finally, the first image showed up, then one more and one more… If you don’t know what a Chronovisor is, the explanation is quite simple although, for obvious reasons, I cannot reveal its details. Similar to the Akashic Records’[5] concept, the chronovisor captures the light emanated from happenings to create an image on a sensor with the same principle of digital cameras. I just need to introduce the coordinates of the Time and Space I want to investigate, press a button and I get a picture of that place at that time. My pictures aren’t as good as I wanted because my Chronovisor is a lightweight one, powered by an outlet at home; but if I build one fed by half of a power station, I would get perfect images in high resolution. But, then, the bill would be probably a lot higher than my neighbors, which would call some unwanted attention. I started my work. A picture from Japan at the beginning of the last century became a photography article with moderate repercussion. Another, taken in one of the Columbus’ ships, got a writing make-up impressing a few critics. Slowly, my success built up and my official explanation to all was “my imagination and a lot of skills in Photoshop”. Some critics even doubted my overpowered creativity, but nobody was able to prove anything as I meticulously took the precaution of not publishing anything relevant to any living beings. One day, I decided to find out who was the mysterious woman called Babushka Lady shown in some pictures during Kennedy’s[6] assassination in Dallas. I set my chronovisor to face her and shot some pictures. What I saw rendered me frightened. She was not known to me, but contrary to the general belief, she was not taking any pictures; rather, she was talking on a very modern walkie-talkie with a clear marking from a current vendor, which meant she was… a passenger of time! I took several pictures in sequence, like a movie, and noticed she was saying “Now!” in two distinct moments, exactly before each shot hitting Kennedy. There-
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fore, she was guiding whoever was or were the shooters from the distance. I was shocked! Someone traveling in time to kill Kennedy? Why? Was Kennedy going to do something terrible and someone decided to stop him? Impossible to know it now and I conclude that History, as we know it, is no longer the History we should have experienced. I am wondering what else has been modified without us knowing the real facts? So, Time Travel was not only possible, but it was happening, with the future being changed and right in front of my nose! I thought I was cautiously peering through the folds of the past without leaving any tracks, but some people were manipulating it! And, I had the proof of it! I published a long and convoluted invention about it, hitting a big success, so much that the conspiracy theories about Kennedy’s assassination raised substantially in volume. I enjoyed people theorizing and talking this and that about it until I got a visit from a couple in their middle ages, whose woman I recognized being the one on the pictures. I was frozen to death! They were very brief in their words, not giving me much time to think. “Live everybody, we were also enjoying your articles. We knew they were too good to be true and decided to investigate your tricks. We stayed silent and let you work as your publications were opening some doors for us too. However, with Kennedy, you went too far and we don’t want you eventually changing History. You are about to kill the Butterfly, Writer; you have no idea how serious this thing is and you will not be able to handle this wave in the future. To avoid unpleasant annoyances to everybody, we offer you the chance to go back to Paris, in 1847, get acquainted with a young writer called Jules Gabriel Verne[7] and enrich his ideas about the future as distant dreams. Our team there will help you to settle down without changing anything there”. They paused for a moment looking at me. I didn’t move a muscle. “One more piece of information before you take the decision: we know the past in all its details; therefore, we can anticipate, with a very high degree of precision, how future is going to be; by changing the present, without affecting the past, we can shape the future. That’s exactly what happened to Kennedy: our people at the time foresaw he was unconsciously concocting something of terrible consequences and decided to talk to him, just like we are talking to you now. Unfortunately, he was convinced he was the future. Long story short, given the complexity of the operation, we had to help the guys there and the rest is just History. Are you coming with us?”. Facing such convincing arguments, what would have you done?
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References [1] Herbert George Wells or ìH. G. Wellsî (1866-1946), English writer, mainly Science Fiction. Some of his works are ìThe Time Machineî, ìThe War of Worldsî, ìThe Invisible Manî and others; [2] Edward Norton Lorenz (1917-2008), American meterologist, awarded with many prizes for his compelling works on Earth and planetary sciences; [3] Ray Douglas Bradbury (1920-2012), American writer in horror, science and mystery fictions. He penned ìFarenheit 451î, ìThe Martian Chroniclesî and many others; [4] Chronovisor, a time viewing machine claimed to be built by a priest called Pellegrino Ernetti (1925-1994), although there is no proof of the existence of such device yet, although conspiracy theories suggest it was seized by the Vatican as to avoid the revelation of compromising thruths; [5] Akashic Records are, according to Theosophy and Anthroposophy, a compendium of all human events, words, thoughts, emotions and intents ever occurred, encoded in a non-physical plane of existence called etherical plane. In theory, after oneís death, all facts about oneís life could be retrieved and reviwed for learning and research; [6] President Kennedy assassination. Photos taken during the assassination show a mysterious woman called ìThe Babushka Ladyî due to the way she was dressed. This woman never revealed herself and was right in front of Kennedyís car, appearing to be taking pictures of the crucial moments. [7] Jules Gabriel Verne. French writer (1828-1905). With a fertile imagination, he wrote the greatest fictional histories like ìTwenty Thousand Leagues Under the Seaî, ìJourney to the Center of the Earthî, ìAround the World in Eighty Daysî and many others.
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These two images represent the chaotic state of a future that was messed up by a travel in time without taking the proper pecautions.
Mind Games
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“Hi, Ron, remember me, Cratte, C-R-A-T-T-E, Cratte?”, without being invited, a man sits at the table where Ron was having a dinner. “I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone called Cratte!” “You do! Actually, it’s the main character of your bestseller and a big movie that made millions for you”. “It’s not a real person. It’s just a character in a story as you said”. “Cratte is me. I am that character! Greg wrote that story based on my liking for mind games. I didn’t know, Greg was good in writing, but timid. He created “The Great Cratte Story”, a fantasy about a famous diviner far more powerful than my abilities of doing cheap tricks like moving forks one inch away. He, showed his story to you because he wanted to make some money for us. You promised to help him. Instead, you twisted the story and transformed me into a monster capable of destroying people with my mind. Your book was a success but you never talked to Greg anymore. You stole his story! He was so devastated as he couldn’t prove anything against you”. “I’m sorry, I don’t know Greg, I don’t know you and I don’t know whoever is this Cratte, even if it’s you. And, now, if you excuse me, I am dinning”… “In spite of that, Ron, he continued with me in our ridiculous show in filthy places. Nobody ever believed I was really moving those forks without using any hidden magnets. But, it was our show, Ron. Yes, our show because Greg was my brother and he’s now dead! After your movie was released, everybody later laughed at and made fun of our show because Cratte, in the movie, was capable of doing marvelous things and Cratte, in our show, could barely use magnets”. Cratte caught the breadth again, face transformed, and continued, “Can you imagine, in the last days of our show, the rare spectators calling me “Cratte, the false?” He paused, in a broken voice. “When nobody wanted to see our show anymore,
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Greg told me about what happened to the book. The next morning, I found him hung in the cubicle we were living in. A note begged me to forgive him. Forgive him for what? Greg died because of you, Ron, and I will not let his memory vanish!” Ron was starting to sweat, visibly uncomfortable with the conversation. The food was not tasting the same anymore. “I don’t know how I survived in the following years, but I decided to improve my abilities. Do you want to see one of them”? Cratte looked at a knife on the table and it moved swiftly to pinch Ron’s arm. He moved the arm in a reflex and the knife followed the arm until the knife fell off the table. Ron didn’t know what to do, just holding the little wound on the arm. “Do you remember, Ron, how Cratte dies at the end of the movie?” Ron’s face expressed fear and horror. “Yes, Ron, you now felt the terrible fate of Cratte. All forks and knives at that banquet started pinching him until he died in a poodle of blood. And you created that monster, Ron! You invented his perverted acts just to have more prestige and money. But, I am not like that, Ron. I just wanted to perform my act with my brother Greg, Ron. We just wanted to have a decent life maybe with a family one day. It’s all gone now, Ron, thanks to you!” Both men remained silent for brief moments, Cratte staring at Ron, which was looking at his arm. “After all, your movie was inspiring and – guess what – Ron? I worked hard to learn how to make people do things I want them to do, just like Cratte in the movie. But, I kept it for myself, because it’s not good and I am not bad. However, I am going to make an exception, Ron, just and only for you. You are a privileged guy because this is going to be my first and last act of the kind and then the curtains will close forever for me”. Cratte paused, stood up, gently arranged the chair back to the
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table, leaned closer to Ron and, in low voice, said, “I am the Cratte from real life and this Cratte is not bad, I insist. You must be happy for it as I don’t want your money. Enjoy life, Ron! Enjoy restaurants! Enjoy banquets and enjoy the beautiful company you have in memorable food events! Or, at least, while you can because your mind now has the Cratte Effect, Ron. It may take days, or weeks or even months for it to take full place, like a virus slowly contaminating your mind, Ron! Every time you would come close to forks and knives, your body will attract them and they will pinch you. Nothing really serious, nothing deadly, nothing like the Cratte in your movie. Can you imagine the inconvenience, Ron?” Cratte prepared to leave, turned around and said: “By the way, Ron, sorry to say, but I didn’t have time to practice a way to revert the effect and The Great Cratte, as of this moment, is retiring from the show!” “Enjoy your meal, Ron!”
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Paris Noir 18
One can view Paris from its famous landmarks; somebody else can enjoy Paris by visiting its famous restaurants and from its gourmet side. Its architecture; its History; its love; its people‌ I am enjoying it from a dark perspective, not dark in the sense of gloominess, but seeing Paris in monochromatic tones. It has been said that Rome is eternal (Sempiterna Roma). Its almost 2,800 years left us a legacy that spans culture, law, engineering, architecture, war affairs and language. Take, for instance, our codes of Law inspired in Roman’s ones. Take Via Appia Antica, still a working road after more than 2,000 years. Take various aqueducts in different parts of the world that are still working. Let me open a parenthesis for a small question: how come these engineering feats from thousands of years still work whereas our roads need repairs after two or three years and become unusable after 15 years if not constantly maintained? Close parenthesis. It has also been said that Paris is the City of Light due to its culture that seemed to be a light beacon to open our minds not only figuratively because it was one of the first cities, if not the first, to have night lights on the streets. Although not as old as Rome, around 15 centuries younger, it is still a city that emanates its own character and charm that makes it one of the most attractive cities in the world. Incredibly, Paris is around 10 times smaller than Rome and can be ridden using one of the those famous 20,000 Velib bicycles spread around the city in 1,5 hours North-South and 2 hours West-East. Why am I talking about city longevity? Recently, I had to travel to Paris to deal with family matters but I did not have time to enjoy the beauties around as my focus was solely on the family. Nevertheless, while hopping in and hopping off the various metro lines, I could have enough time to take a few pictures that I decided to give them a noir effect. Therefore, I hope that Paris still lasts another couple of years as I want to go back again and profit from all the city could offer to me. Let us agree on something though: I hope not in the next 1,000 years!‌
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The Key
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“If I was not there, I would have not believed what happened to entirely change our lives!”, Jimmy was saying to me over a pot of coffee and freshly baked croissants with homemade strawberry and orange jellies.
The expression “meaningless life” was pretty close to describe my feelings about everything happening around me...
Jimmy and I were friends since the school, in a friendship that was not demanding. When we wanted to hang out for a beer, to check out the girls or to do some school chores, we were there for each other. We could spend a month away but, when we got together again, it seemed yesterday when we met for the last time. When my father passed away and, shortly after that my mother did it as well, I felt that I had no place in the town anymore and I parted to a different direction. Twenty years had passed without having any news from Jimmy while I went through a broken marriage and some uninteresting jobs. My son, last time I heard from him, was trying to save maggots from pollution in some rain forest that I have never heard off. The expression “meaningless life” was pretty close to describe my feelings about everything happening around me and I did not resist any longer the idea of going back to my hometown just to revive memories and see if I could still find some anchors in my miserable existence. Some parts of the town have changed and with it, the house of my childhood and youth was gone, its place taken by a highrise. People on the streets were simply faceless and not helping to bring back any emotions from the old time. Even the air was different, not because of the pollution that was already noticeable, but that air impregnated with sweet and familiar smells that I was accustomed to feel when walked by a particular house or a particular shop. I was a stranger in my own hometown until I saw a bold banner on a shop reading “JIMMY’S HARDWARE”. That should be it!
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Jimmy always had the ability of describing hardware tools in details and functionality although I rarely saw him using one. That was his father’s ability; he would do wonders with the tools but, invariably, they would be lying all over his repair shop. Jimmy would then step in, put them back in their proper places so that his father would start another repair later. “That was a comedy and a tragedy at the same time”, he continued. “My father and my mother were getting ready for this important night and, as it was their ritual, he would take a very small key from the upper drawer of the dresser, open a a precious little wooden box, pick the pearly necklace from it and put it around her neck. I said ritual because I could see in their eyes the enjoyment of doing this. It was gesture of gallantry from him and a gesture of femininity from her. This time, the ritual was forever broken because my father, after getting the key, swallowed it with some peanuts that he was eating. As you know, he was crazy about peanuts and had them in some places of the house.”. I laughed because when I wanted to ask a favor to Jimmy’s father, I just needed to offer him a bag of peanuts. He said: “Yes, I started laughing too but what followed was not for laughing. My father stood still while my mother looked at him speechless for a moment that seemed to be an eternity. Her face was becoming red, her neck tense and her fists clinched. The words came like a wave lambasting the rocks. Bad words and accusations. Things that might have been kept inside her as I have never seen my parents raise their voices or cursing. This time, it was like a pressure pan exploding!”. He took a breath and I did not dare moving a single muscle. “She threw us out of the bedroom and slammed the door. We were shocked but did not say anything to each other as though there were a code of silence between us. In the next few days, from one side my father was restless trying “to get the key back”, for the other, I did not see my parents talking. When he finally “got the key back”, he put it where it belonged to but the ritual did not happen anymore and the box and the key disap-
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He would pick the pearly necklace from a precious little wooden box and put it around her neck...
peared shortly after that.”.
My life, that I thought was a procession of bad moments, was an ocean of happiness in comparison...
“A few weeks later, my mother yelled and screamed again, this time at me because I parked the car a bit on top of the grass. These scenes started repeating over and over until the doctor diagnosed her with a progressive dementia. At this point, my parents still did not talk anymore to each other but my father, with my help, was trying to do his best to relieve the situation. We lived terrible moments until my mother’s heart, that was never being strong, failed on her.”. His voice was becoming more and more emotional almost to a point of crying. “My father was devastated but resisted, every day a bit weaker. Years later, he was diagnosed with Alzheimer and became increasingly unaware of me and the surroundings. He did not touch his tools anymore and stayed hours on end sitting in the same position staring something at the horizon. Those were very difficult days because I have to deal with him and with the store. Eventually, he passed away and here we are.”. “And here we are”, I said, as a conclusion. Jimmy’s story hit me profoundly. My life, that I thought was a procession of bad moments, was an ocean of happiness in comparison. I could not imagine myself in his position for years on end. I had nothing to do in my hometown anymore and I parted again to a different direction. As for Jimmy, I believe he is still among his beloved tools.
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A nightmare for the authorities maintaining heritage, these locks may seem a sweet demonstration of love, but may weight tons and may damage the place. Lovers throw out the keys which makes the cleaning task quite difficult. 30
The little key hole was very old, but still functional at the gate of this castello close to where Juliet lived in Verona. Yes, Romeo and Juliet did exist and their fate, as romanticized by Shakespeare, was not at all far fetched.
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A Bench in the Park 32
Evenings, Paul would sit exhausted on a bench in the park. The daily conflicts with his work mates, his wife gone without trace taking with her his beloved kids, bills accumulating, the car wreckage… The park was an island of relief, away from the traffic and away from the expressionless people rushing through their destinations. Although he deeply loved children with their cheerful noise, at that time they would not be there anymore and those were moments that he would just could use to stay quiet meditating about his problems, continuously recollecting them, all the same, all the time, without a solution in sight. Many times he saw the greens blooming in Spring like his problems cycling through the seasons every year. Often, sitting on another bench, he would see a man, perhaps on his seventies, dressed with care although in simple attires. He would sometimes bring a book to read; now and then he would throw seeds to the pigeons or any other bird still not ready for the night; or, he would sit still there, letting the time slowly go by until dark, when he would eventually leave.Neither men would make any effort to approach and talk to each other. To Paul, he would not need to share his difficult life with anybody; perhaps, the other one would also have his own load of problems? Everybody has one; the difference is in the way we face it and this man would seem to be at ease with his own load. Stoked by curiosity, Paul eventually decided to talk to the man. To his surprise, he was very welcomed and they started talking like old friends up to a point his problems would seem so far away. It was almost difficult to say goodbye already dark night.Their constant talks would marvel Paul by the open-minded man, knowing exactly what he was talking about like he would have already lived every single word he has saying. When Paul would talk about his own problems, the man would remain silent even though he would have heard for the tenth time the same stories, only occasionally interjecting with a few encouragement words here and there. One day, the man invited Paul for a walk while talking. At some point, they were in front of a junkyard with loosely organized piles and piles of unimaginable pieces of everything. In a corner, protected by a decaying fence, Paul saw his car, or what was left from his car, twisted by the accident and rusty by the time. “Phew! That was close! What an impact! I am really lucky to be alive!”, he said. “Indeed, you are!”, replied the man. In the following days, the man did not show up and Paul took the time to think over his problems, now added by the frightened images of his destroyed car. It seemed that the acci-
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dent was yesterday but, evidently, the rust on the car indicated years of weathering. Years? That would explain why the leaves of the park trees were changing with the seasons but would not explain why his wife simply vanished without a word. Those were scaring thoughts that needed to be discussed with the man as soon as possible! When the man eventually came back – “Urgent matters”, he apologized – the talks resumed. Paul wanted some answers for his confusion but the man, calmly, always directed the conversation to the surprises life would present to us and the need we would have to be alert and serene for the sudden changes our lives would have in consequence. To Paul, the man was being careful with his words as though he would be trying to say something between the lines. The talks acted as therapy sessions as his problems seemed now to slowly fade away and reduce their importance. He could almost feel heavy knots in his chest being undone, he could walk lighter and he could see the colors of the park in brighter tones. In one of their regular walks, they faced a graveyard. Paul observed from the distance the tombstones, thoughtful for a moment and, with clear understanding, said to the man: “My name is somewhere there, isn’t it?” “Yes, it is!”, replied the man. “And it was placed there by your wife and your kids with all their love for you. Don’t you want to see it?”. “No, I don’t think so”, said Paul without hesitation. “I don’t know why but I very much prefer the park and its season changes”. After a few seconds, he remarked, “While I was there, you were there as well. Are you my guardian angel?”. “Names and positions are not relevant but you can call me the way you prefer the most”, replied the man pausing for a moment. With a serene look on his face, pointed the road ahead and said: “It is about time for us to go as many joyful and rewarding journeys are waiting for us”. And concluded, “Besides, there are many other Pauls and Marys in need to sit on that bench in the park!…”.
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Watching Life to go by from the best place in the world: the front row!
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CELSO BRESSAN www.celsobressan.com