Dark Paradise

With a start he realised that the sun was low in the sky, giving the city a difficult brightness. It would not set for a few hours yet, but he could hardly contain it: the anticipation. As always, it was not alone; he was also restless. They usually started to build, one on top of the other, in the middle of the week. By Friday, he no longer understood what anyone said to him, although it appeared that he still managed to hold conversations, just as he was now turned towards his friends, who laughed and met his eyes.

Det, who was closest to him, had a problem he kept bringing up.

‘I know it’s all about the big picture.’

‘Yes.’

‘I read this thing about accumulation. Things accumulate. And we need to be in control of the accumulation. It’s just my problem is patience, I get fed up, you know? And I can’t save money, but maybe a little...’

‘I started doing early mornings in the warehouse, it pays a little extra because they don’t do the insurance.’

‘Right—and you never know, if they know you, and a position opens up...!’

‘At least more hours—if they like you. There’s this manager I talk to, and we get on. He’s only a few years older than us and has just bought a house.’

Det was impressed by this information, as were the others. They often talked about how to improve their lives. It was compulsive to think of schemes that would correct the lack of money and other things, and sometimes it seemed very easy. But the small flat contained them neatly, just as the one across the road did with the people who lived there. He leaned forward on the sofa, looking first at the window as if he might want to jump out of it, and then back at his friends. He felt in his body again the small breaths that stay at the top of your lungs. It was important not to waste time, and if a good feeling could be set up quickly, there would be less hovering and less agitation.

‘Let’s go to Frank’s.’

‘Already?’

‘What...? Have you got anything else to drink?’

‘Who cares? Listen, things always get out of hand at Frank’s.’

‘We don’t have to fucking talk to him, do we?’

‘You don’t have to work with him every day of the week though... He’s not, he’s not right.’

‘It’s true, and where does he get all that money from?’

They argued for a while.

As they walked the five blocks, the sun was so low in the sky it hit only the highest part of the buildings, four or five stories high, melting into sharp points on windows and gutters. When they walked they spread out over the pavement and half the street, and people moved out of their way.

There was a lot of noise coming from where Frank lived. Walking through the gate, they saw that people filled the courtyard; looking up, speakers were fitted in the lower windows which released their sounds to bounce between the interior walls of the block. He decided to stop thinking for a while. He concentrated on drinking at the correct pace; too quickly was dangerous, but too slowly brought its own disadvantages; headaches, and a nagging panic that the next week was looming.

They stayed only for long enough to gather a small following. Sar, a girl he knew from other nights like this, took the lead; she knew of a new place which she called the Paradise.

‘They are not particular about who they let in,’ she said.

He had never heard of it and found the idea risky. There were places only around the corner which they knew well—where they often lost a sense of time until the very early morning, and after which he could sleep for a whole day. But looking at Sar something else came to mind which made him temporarily pathetic, although he remembered too little of when it had happened. He looked around and gave some instructions—above them, a young girl twitched her curtains. ‘Fuck Frank,’ he thought.

Beginning their journey, the group was boisterous. Sar moved them skilfully in the direction of the high street, where all the usual places were filling up. This narrow band of street was rarely not crowded: it tied together a place which had outgrown it but which from every direction channelled into it.

Over there was the path leading to the bus station—he followed its curve and took pleasure in not having to walk that way. He does not know that later in life he will think of it often, close his eyes and walk it in his mind, unlike the journey now, which he will forget. A car passes very closely on his right and in the tinted windows he sees the old buildings of the high street, many with scaffolding. He has the sensation of a great tiredness, brought on not only by the strain of the week, but by the knowledge of boredom that can surprise you at the beginning of something new and that, perhaps mercifully, keeps you in check. But, just like that, it was too late. And, then, the sun dropped out of sight.

Turning the corner from what was familiar, it did not take long before insecurities and obstacles began to present themselves. Someone was hungry, another ran into people they knew, exchanged looks turned into a heated argument. He needed the cashpoint, and walked away. The thought occurred to him that he could still walk back. After his errand was done, he froze to the ground, looking this way and that at other groups very much like his own. But the money in his pocket urged him not to falter: if he turned around now, he might as well be at home, watching a game show.

An orange rolled past him on the ground and distracted him. Wanting to help, he moved slowly towards the elderly woman whose groceries were littering the pavement, trying to alert her to his presence while looking gentle and open. To his surprise, she was unbothered, and stopped to lean back against a wall as he picked up her items and off-loaded them into her well-worn shopping trolley. Stooping for eye contact, he asked in clear, quiet tones if she needed help getting home. She took hold of his wrist, reached deep into her dress pocket and brought out an egg which she placed in his hand. He held it carefully until he caught up with his friends, the sight of who brought a roar back in his chest.

Back together, the pace of all involved seemed to quicken. It was now truly dark, and they began crossing a carpark without any lamps; the gravel ground underfoot like bones in the mouth of a giant. He almost crumbles, then; the anticipation slips, and he knows nothing good can come of such expectation. Then they emerge: a small doorway radiates its light for those near enough to see. People conspicuously line the pavement; they slip in after a few well-chosen words from Sar to the doorman.

‘Dark Paradise’ radiates in pink over a stage of sorts; around this people move and move, laugh and whisper. They also move, deeper into the basement and fan out; the bar is to the left, down a narrow alcove. He needs a drink. His mouth and throat are dry, as if he has travelled for hours in hot sunlight. It shocks him for a moment to see Det already at the bar—had they not left him at Frank’s? Det’s face unfolds in front of him, but he turns, instead, towards the young woman next to him.

‘Strange space to find underneath some apartments.’

She looks at him blankly, makes up her mind and replies.

‘They were everywhere when this area was first built. But they decided to lock them all up... The official reason being noise pollution.’

‘And the unofficial?’

‘People were enjoying themselves too much. You see, they didn’t build the estates for people to feel at home... There is a conspiracy to upend authentic ways of life.’

He does not know how to reply to this, so splutters for a while, which does not matter as the music is loud enough. He glances to the side and sees his shadow move in the mirror. It is a very strange place to find in this part of the city, he thinks, again, and the room expands in size and darkness. His companion’s face is bright in front of him.

The music rumbles his stomach, and the correct dimension of thought kicks in: he does not believe in mystery. But he is disturbed by the realisation that his image in the mirror did not look back at him, instead carrying on its business as the Paradise shifted its dimensions. It makes sense as an arrangement of oppositions: life out here, and something else in there, receptive but closed, needing to shroud its actions tenfold to make sure nothing can be anticipated, that even the most benevolent action will find itself undermined. It does not need to turn because he knows its look, he knows it with the same knowledge that he knows cold, hard power, which he does not want to know.

Turning away from this annunciation, he goes to find the others to regain a sense of equilibrium.

He finds them at a secluded end of the dancefloor, where the pink light traces their skin and bodies as unreality. Sar and two other women move rhythmically at the centre of the group, eyes closed and relaxed; the others keep a slight distance, moving with unintentional clumsiness, eyes focused on nothing in particular. He finally feels empty of desire, relieved that no mirrors are there to reveal him to himself. Taking a few steps, he sees infinity stumble across everyone’s extremities: hands, knees, eyes, genitals; soon, from every pore. So incredibly banal, this basement underneath the city, the impossibility of freedom. He remembered many things in the scope of a few seconds: the hidden, black sky. The difficulty of unpacking your own body, into the great mass, the great labyrinth.