20 Lukas Elstermann: Saro

Lukas Elstermann

Saro

When her parents died it did not mean that much to Saro. The brown waters of the Seine were her mother. Pont Neuf was her father, the black bell-towers of Notre-Dame her grandparents. The sick on the street her brothers and sisters. The rain, her closest friend. Saro realized, calmly, solemnly, that the Seine had always been the better mother. Pont Neuf had always been the better father. When she died herself, there was only one thing on her mind, raw and unshaped by any language, just a cloud really: Please, help me. But the Seine, it had many other daughters and Pont Neuf, it had many other sons. They never knew them either. So Saro died and then opened her eyes again.

This was the land of the dead and it was an echo of the world above. There were no people here, only voices. There were no fires, only heat. No love, only longing. You could feel the wind on your skin, but no hair was ever moved by it. You could see the rain fall, but it would never reach the ground. This was a different Paris. It seemed empty and Saro thought the city to be completely hers. She went to see Pont Neuf, and stared at the river below. In the other Paris, the one she knew well, Pont Neuf was wide and as beautiful as only old bridges can be beautiful. But here, it was missing many stones. There were trees growing on it, and the water below it made no sound.

After a while, she started seeing other ghosts. Their skin was grey and only appeared in certain angles, like smoke in sunlight. She saw the many ghosts of Paris as they met here on Pont Neuf, touching each other’s invisible hands, watching the light that came from the land of the living as a whisper. They watched the sun that set here as well, but its light was blue and not red. They watched the other ghosts as they danced on the rooftops, as they danced in the hallways of the Louvre, as they danced on water. Saro was watching also, for she was one of them. And her heart started beating once again. No heart could have ever been so dead. And in the Pantheon, there lived three hazelnut-spirits. Their names were Ru, Nu and Blu, and they had found a mask near the Sorbonne and they passed it around, pretending to have a face. The monkey-god Onkkp lived in Notre-Dame. The Louvre was for the witches.

Then, Saro noticed something strange. She could talk to the ghosts, for there was still a little life in her. Her death had been recent, after all. But they only answered in echoes, for that is what they were. “Hello,” she said to the witches in the Louvre. “...llo,” they answered. More was not possible. “Where am I?” Saro asked. “...m I?” they answered. “What happened to you?” she asked the soldiers, walking on the waters of the Seine. “Happened to you,” they laughed and walked away.

After a while she thought of a way to communicate. She did not realize what every other ghost had figured out and she still thought of her language as something natural, something beautiful even. “Are you in pain?” she asked the fallen kings and queens who often resided in now silent cafés. They gave no answer. “Are you in no pain?” “No pain,” they said. “Is this forever?” “Forever,” they smiled.

Not everyone was as happy. Some were not able to forget. She found a student in a restaurant, where there were faint noises from the other world. Faint voices, in the world above they were loud and full of life. Here, however, they were whispers. But still, better than silence for some. The student was crying and, without being able to make any sound, asked Saro for help. “What is the matter with you?” she asked. Silence. “Do you want to say something?” “Say something!” “Do you want help?” “Want help.” “Do you want to be free of this?” “Free of this!”

Four hundred years later Saro had forgotten that she was once able to speak. The newly dead arrived and, confused as she had once been, came to her and asked for help. “Who are you? What is this place?” “This place?” She smiled and thought of how stupid she had once been. How these noises had come out of her mouth. Disgusting. Instead, she went to the soldiers and danced with them on the water. She visited the kings and queens and the witches in the Louvre. And she talked to all of them. In different ways, in wonderful ways not known to any living soul. Their conversations lasted deep into each evening, when the light of the moon came from the other world and every ghost knew that somewhere up there it was night.