Past events leave traces in the memory like an ax chopping wood. Chips fly; they remain where they fall even after the wood has been used to light the stove. Trampled underfoot and rained upon, they slowly change color. If nothing can be preserved and saved, how are recollections supposed to resist changes? In this city of changes, ruled by memory, there had to be room for everything that memory has retained, yet every day its contents are reduced to shreds a little more. As if in a wardrobe where alongside an off-the-rack suit of low-grade wool there hangs a moldering yet good-quality uniform of a now defunct regiment, and between them a lady’s muff infested with moths.
It is for this reason that the spaces yawning inside heads are vaster than anything that can be thought up. Every one of the past and future cities thrust into the recesses of the world has its own star there, and it can also be said that each of these cities is the most important one. For is the world not composed exclusively of recesses? As is common knowledge some stars have been extinguished; a certain number of them were destroyed by stray helicopters. But the name guards the city against collapse, since it has the property of containing within itself all that was and is no longer and all that has been told to the marines.
Prey to longing and doubt, every night the unquiet city of recollections releases dreams — enchanted adhesive shoots that seek support in silence and darkness. Yet they find nothing but other dreams, and so the dreams attach to one another. They grow in all directions, creating knots and loops, twining around one another, merging together and then branching. There are dark dreams and bright dreams, beautiful dreams and horrible dreams. But their brightness always arises from darkness and their beauty from horror. The tangle of dreams, untouched by pruning shears, fills the whole world; it can even be said that it is the world and that the inhabitants of the city — along with their houses, their beds, their blankets, their recollections and their unanswerable questions — are only necessary for the dreams to be dreamed.
Only for dreams to be dreamed? What about maintaining order in the world? What about polishing floors, making repairs? Surely the reason why people sleep at night is to gather strength for the labors of the day? Well, in fact this is not so. It is not enough to sleep soundly and eat well. It would always transpire that bread from dreams is not filling, that water from dreams does not quench one’s thirst. Dreams — those merry or cheerless realms of unfulfillment — were able to open the inhabitants’ eyes to the whole truth which always escaped them in their waking hours: that the desire to maintain order in the world also arises from dreams. From strenuous dreams in which every object the eye lights upon finds its place, while five others are scattered and lost at the same time. But the dreamers cannot see this since they dream inattentively.
At dusk the city of dreams and the city extending in space become one and join in a murky whole crowned by the black silhouettes of office buildings against a reddish sky, giant edifices constructed not long ago yet already affected by corrosion and darkness. Nowhere is there any boundary marker, inscription or informational sign that would indicate the relative positions of dreams and waking life. Some take the ringing of alarm clocks in the morning as a signal indicating the crossing of the border. But alarm clocks which themselves belong to dreams cannot wake people from them.
In the depths of sleep the dreamers push their way into trams, from trams into offices, from offices into stores. Dreaming, they wander amongst the shelves and squint at the over-abundance of colors and shapes. The plenitude muddles their heads. In every item there dwells a promise; the future changes as the dreamers carry their shopping along. The immaculate beauty of an altered fate endures for a short moment after the parcels are unpacked, then melts away without a trace. But the everyday lack of hope lying in wait for the happy purchasers in the corners of apartments is not allowed in the city of dreams. Each inhabitant can have the sins of their life — their uncertainty and sorrow — accounted for by the unknown women and men who have a guaranteed livelihood on the vast surfaces of billboards. They live amongst appropriate slogans, calm and immobile. They are given assurances about which no one else is able even to dream.
In the city of dreams all the colors of cars are reflected in the glossy floors of automobile salesrooms. Passersby are thrilled as they look through the huge display windows: they admire the nobility and the power. The sales managers watch over the cars. Passersby who wish to sit behind the wheel and drive off must have with them a bag full of cash or a certified bank check. And so many inhabitants of the city of dreams, unable to count on their check being certified, instead wander day and night in search of bags filled with money.
It is they who crowd into buildings equipped with special openings in the roof and internal chutes to direct the rain of money directly to devices that count it and divide it, according to their needs, amongst those waiting for a miraculous decree of fate. Every number, color and card must win sooner or later. Thewheel of fortune spins only so that everyone should receive a generous share. Those who do not come empty-handed will not regret it if they wait long enough for their lucky moment and at just the right instant do not hesitate to put everything on a single card. It is precisely here — and nowhere else — that one can catch hold of destiny, by one’s own hand correct its crooked rudder without wasting time and energy on other actions that are indirect and of dubious effectiveness. But the game must be paid for. One single coin is needed, the lucky one. Whoever has already used up their coin will not win. It is better then not to raise one’s eyes so as not to be tempted to buy chewing gum, peanuts and beer. But those who play are certain of nothing, not even that. Everyone wasted their lucky coin long ago on trifles. That is why the rain of money from the sky that falls into the special openings in the roof is ultimately drained off into the sewers.
The city of dreams never forgets about money. In the evening its glow spreads across the sky over immense hotels. Elevators glistening with chrome and nickel bear smug foreigners in gleaming shoes and silk underwear, with fat wallets tucked in the inside pockets of their soft woolen suits. A mist of cologne mingles with cigar smoke and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. As high as the clouds, the skyscrapers stand in a row with walls made of huge sheets of glass, behind which lobbies filled with leather sofas and tropical greenery are lit in the glow of thousands of lamps. Whoever crosses the threshold of these hotels immediately becomes a foreigner and can leave forever for America, above the clouds, a lit cigar in his mouth. Yet if he reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket he will be disappointed — nothing is there.