Fiction: The Treachery of Images

René was stuck.

This was nothing new. He got stuck a lot when he was dreaming. Though he started off this time being able to pass through any object he wanted horizontally, it now seemed as though he couldn’t keep moving forward. Or backwards either. He was stuck. Only his head stuck out of the wall now, and it remained caught there, in a curious sideways tilt. He stopped struggling and looked straight ahead. He was suddenly looking outdoors. Or had this wall always been an exterior wall? There was nothing outside except for an eerie silence, an endless expanse of flat sand, and the same sky that was in all his dreams, a delicate shade of robin’s egg blue that grew darker and darker as he looked up until it was indistinguishable from black overhead. Then, he heard a voice whisper his name. It seemed to be coming from behind him, but he couldn’t turn around, so he continued to stare out into the desert. The voice became louder with each utterance of his name until it was like a screaming in his ear.

“René!”

Ah, it was someone trying to wake him up.

“Let me sleep!” he wanted to yell, but his mouth with fused into the wall as well. He felt a sensation like a finger tapping him, then a hand pull on his shoulder, pull him free of the wall.

René woke up. He blinked indignantly, but his expression softened once he saw his friend Alberto’s eager smile.

“Come on René, we’re going to be late!”

“Late for what?”

“We have a dinner date, remember? Shelia and her friend.”

“I wish you’d stop dragging me along on these dates. You know how upset Georgette gets about them.”

“Yes, but they won’t agree to the date unless you’re there! Don’t be too late today, as a favour to me.”

“Alright, alright. Where are we meeting today?”

“At the Folies-Bergère.”

Alberto took a seat at the foot of his bed, a watchful parent ensuring their schoolchild did not return to sleep. René slumped back over.

Paris was ruining him. He had come here to paint, not to go to Montmartre ever night. Yet the talent in Paris was immense. The Swiss playboy sitting at the foot of his bed studied under Rodin, and was one of the best Surrealist sculptors in the city, and therefore the world. Meanwhile, he was stuck. “Just paint your dreams,” André had said, but his dreams were dull. Trapped in a wall, immobile? Who wanted to see that?

An hour later, he was in the crowded bar again. Both Shelia and her friend were leaning towards the smiling Alberto, while he sat quietly at his end of the table, drunk on cheap wine. He had put in some effort in conversation, but his heart just wasn’t in it. He knew Alberto was just trying to cheer him up, in the only way he knew how, but he wasn’t feeling very cheerful. Abruptly, he stood up.

“I need to go to the washroom,” he said to no one in particular.

No one in particular noticed as he slunk out of the crowded main hall into the lobby. Unfortunately, the plush armchairs he was looking for were all occupied. It was just so loud there, and he wanted to rest somewhere quiet. Maybe he would have to go to the washroom after all. He scanned the lobby again, looking for somewhere else to wander into, when he spotted a heavy-looking door that he hadn’t seen before. It was slightly ajar, and had a warm orange light coming from the opening. René stumbled towards the door and slipped inside, as gracefully as a man with a bottle of wine in him could slip inside anything. When he slipped through to the other side, it wasn’t the peace and quiet he had been hoping for. No, if anything, it was much louder. People were milling through the lobby, all towards the main hall. He followed the crowd. When he reached the doors at the entrance of the hall, a man stuck his hand out at him.

“Ticket?”

“What ticket?” he asked, confused.

“For the show. If you don’t have one, I will have to ask you to leave.”

René fought back through the throng of people, towards the front of the lobby. He had enough of this night, this noise, and certainly enough to drink. When he pushed open the doors, there was also this loud sound outside, this snarling noise. Suddenly, something sped past him on the street, accompanied by the roaring noise and a loud screech. Startled, he fell backwards. Then, one after another, shapes sped past him on the road, roaring as they went by. Dumbfounded, he stared at them, still on the ground.

After determining that the creatures on the street seemed only to move in straight lines and wouldn’t attack him, René pulled himself back up. Paris looked strange to him. Firstly, there were lights everywhere. Everything was lit up at night like it was the Lafayette display at Christmastime, but it was just another sordid bar street. But the street was clean as well, devoid of physical garbage and offensive smells. The people on the streets were strangely quiet, hurrying along their way without much regard for the monsters on the roads. And how they dressed! Many of them were wearing shockingly tight blue pants, some of them wearing shorts out in public, and women with exposed legs and midriffs. Incredible. They all seemed to have their own source of light as they walked along the streets, looking into the palm of their hands in rapt attention. Where was he?

At least the road he was on was still the same. He wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t know how to get back to Opéra. A left, a right, and then another right, then he continued straight. Opéra would be familiar enough. Except when he arrived there, it both was and wasn’t. The wide, tree-lined boulevards were exactly as they should be, but there were more strangely dressed people, weirdly clean streets, and things moving up and down the streets. Except there were so many of them now that they were moving very slowly, so he could get a closer look. They were on wheels and looked like a stagecoach of some sort, only without a horse. A bit like one of those trolley cars they recently introduced, but smaller. Menaces.

This had to be a bad dream, René thought, he was stuck again. Eventually, he made his way down to the Seine. Alexander IV still looked the same as it did, though with more lights than he remembered. Below, there were many revelers enjoying their Friday night along the Seine. He didn’t normally meet people in his dreams. He wanted to ask them if they were dreaming too, but was a bit hesitant. Fortunately, one of them made the decision for him.

“Hey, you!” said one of the youths sitting by the water’s edge.

“Me?” asked René.

“Yes, you. Come over here and help us settle this debate.”

René tentatively made his way over.

“Who’s had the better career, Ronaldo or Messi?” asked the young man, obviously a little drunk.

“Who’s that?” asked René.

“Well, which one of them don’t you know?”

“I don’t know either of them,” said René tentatively.

“You don’t know Messi? How do you not know Messi?” asked the other young man.

“Well, who was he?” asked René, a little upset now.

“He was a footballer! The greatest of all time.”

“Couldn’t have been that great if I haven’t heard of him,” said René, a little relieved.

Frustrated, the youth reached into his pocket and pulled out a black slab, which had a silhouette of an apple with a bite out of it on its back.

“What’s that?” asked René, shocked.

“This? This is my phone?” replied the youth, “I was going to show you some videos of Messi.”

René understood none of this. Then he remembered that he was in a dream. It was a little better then. Still, it all felt so real. He leaned over and looked at the phone, whose surface lit up. On it, there were miniature men running around on a soccer pitch. They were moving like real people, but moving the ball in ways that he had never seen before. Enthralled, he kept on watching.

“So, what do you think?”

“He’s incredible, I mean, all of them are. How did you get them so small?”

The comment drew blank stares.

“How did you get the small men in your little box right there?”

“Are you trying to be funny?” asked one of the youths. “What do you mean?”

“Have you not seen a phone before? Have you been living under a rock for the last twenty years? Or a television?”

“I’m not sure what those things are,” said René.

“Where are you from?” “Bruges, but now I live in Paris.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m nearly thirty.”

“How do you not know what a phone is?”

“I can’t be expected to understand everything in my dreams,” said René calmly, as he remembered once again that it was a dream.

“A dream? Man, what’s your name?”

“René.”

“Well, nice to meet you René, I’m Pascal, and this is Denis,” he said, pointing to his friend who was in hysterics in beside them.

“What makes you think we’re in a dream?” asked Pascal.

“Well, there are impossible things that I don’t understand, but it all feels so real. Therefore I must be dreaming,” said René.

“Okay, other than my phone, what else is incomprehensible?”

“Those large things on the road with people inside.”

“You mean cars?” asked Denis, between bouts of laughter.

“Okay, René, when were you born?” asked Pascal.

“November 1898.”

There was another incredulous silence among Pascal and Denis.

“There’s no way,” said Pascal.

“Hold on, it might make sense,” said Denis, “That would explain why he’s never seen a car or phone before.”

“Well, what year were you two born?” asked René.

“1998.” René processed this well, as he was in a dream after all.

“So I’m in the future right now?”

“I guess that’s how it looks,” said Pascal, narrowing his eyes, “Unless you’re toying with us.”

“What do you do, René?”

“I’m an artist,” replied René.

“Have you painted anything famous yet?”

René shrugged and shook his head no.

“Ouh, who is the president of the republic?” asked Denis.

“Domergue.” replied René.

There was a brief pause as Denis took out a phone of his own and searched it up.

“He’s right. 1924–31. What else can we test him on?”

“Who was the most recent World Cup winner?”

“What’s a World Cup?” asked René.

They looked that up. The first World Cup was held 1930.

“What are you looking up on those phones?” asked René.

“The answers to all the questions we’ve asked,” replied Denis. “They’re all in there?”

“Well, this connects to the internet, where everything can be found,” said Pascal, looking at René’s widening eyes, “you know what, never mind. Yeah, all the answers can be found here.”

“Okay,” said René.

They sat in silence for a bit as each processed each other’s reality.

“Well, René, want to go out with us?” asked Pascal.

“Why not?” asked René.

This was the most interesting dream he had been in for a while. And what a night it was. They bought some wine with thin plastic cards, and continued getting wonderfully drunk at the side of the Seine. After an hour, one of them made some swipes onto his phone, and ordered a Uber, a type of those small trolleys on the road. It was surprising comfortable on the interior, and the gentle purring of the Uber combined with the alcohol nearly put René to sleep. Then they arrived at a club, and they had to get out. Here, they stood in line outside for half an hour. Everyone was on their phones, little apples in front of everyone’s face, held hostage by the glowing colours of the screen.

Inside the club was an experience René had never felt before. It was louder than anything he had ever heard, including fireworks. It was so loud that he could feel it inside his chest. And the music they played, such music, if you could even call it that. There was some singing, but the singers weren’t visible, but neither were the musicians for that matter. The focus seemed to be an a deep booming of the drum, that sounded like entz entz entz entz. It was a little like jazz, if jazz was bad. And the dancing, what dancing! Everyone was writhing with the beat, by themselves or with a partner, of the same gender or different. It was absurd. It was, surreal. If this was the future, he hoped that he would live to see it in real life and not just in a dream.

Pascal found him in the teeming mass of people, and made a smoking motion with his fingers. At least he hoped that was what it was. Who knew what it meant in this brave new world. He followed his two guides through the crowded throng, and he was outside again all of a sudden. His ears were ringing. Denis pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to René, who took it gratefully.

“I really needed this one,” said René, taking a drag. “I’m glad this is one thing that hasn’t changing in the last hundred years.”

Then he saw Denis sucking on a skinny black rod. He then exhaled a plume of smoke.

“You smoke pipes?” asked René.

“This? No this isn’t a pipe, replied Denis laughing.

“What is it if it’s not a pipe?”

“It’s a vape,” said Denis.

“Stop bulling him,” said Pascal, “it is a pipe of sorts, it just runs on electricity. Here, let him have a try.”

René took the vape to his mouth and gave it a suck. A curiously smooth sensation emerged. It tasted of cucumber, and it was as smooth as air.

“Wow,” he breathed, “This is not a pipe.”

Pascal and Denis were both laughing as they went back into the club, impersonating René.

“This is not a pipe! Wow! It is not a pipe!”

The strange music continued, thumping through his chest, and René danced all night long. At some point in the night, he lost Pascal and Denis inside the crowd of revelers. He looked and looked, but the music was too loud, and the club too dark. He stumbled out of the club, strangely sober, and it dawned on him that not only was he miles from home without any idea where he was, he was also a hundred years from home without any idea how to get back. So he walked, the dregs of alcohol in his stomach and tobacco in his system calming any anxiety he might be having.

Eventually René found his way to the Garnier Opera. He had never been out this late before in Paris. It felt so lonely and looked so cold. But where to now? How did he get here in the first place? The Folies-Bergère. He was at the Folies-Bergère. He knew where that was.

When he made his way back over though, the door was locked. No way to get in. He shivered. He would have to find somewhere to shelter for the night. He looked around, and saw a little booth with a door further down the street. He entered, the door shut behind him, and his sense of smell was immediately assaulted with an unbearable stink. He looked around, and saw a toilet bowl. He was clearly in some sort of washroom. He went back towards the entrance of the washroom, pounding blindly at the door. It did not open. He felt the nausea from the stench slowly build up, and the claustrophobia slowly start to overwhelm him. Then, suddenly, the door to the pod started to open again with a mechanical whirring sound. He blindly ran out onto the streets, gasping for air.

When he finally had time to look around, he realized that something had changed. The streets were no less cold or lonely, but they were less well-lit, and more familiar. The sky was glowing with the grey light of dawn, and René read the billboard in front of the Folies-Bergère. All the events were for 1927. he had arrived back home somehow. He took the metro to the edge of the city, walked home, and collapsed on the bed.

While he was asleep, his memories of the other Paris swam in his head, melding together and deforming. Monsters on the streets. People with apples in their faces. Sounds that became visuals and pictures that became noises. He woke with a start again, and Alberto at the foot of his bed.

“Where did you go last night? I couldn’t get with Shelia because her friend didn’t have anyone!”

René said nothing, and just grabbed Alberto’s hand. Alberto let him hold it for a moment before slowly withdrawing it.

“Are you okay?”

“I was in the future last night Alberto, I was in the future.”

“It sounds like you had to much to drink, my friend.”

“That’s not true Alberto, I saw small fast trolleys like you wouldn’t believe, music that was impossible but trancelike, and oh, you don’t know but the World Cup is coming.”

“It sounds like you’ve had the most magnificent dream, my friend.”

“That may be, Alberto,” said René sadly.

“Well hurry up and get dressed, we have lunch with Noémie and her friend,” said Alberto.

From a pocket of the jacket appeared a small, long, black object, which fell to the floor with a metallic clatter. Alberto picked it up.

“What’s this?” he said, more to himself than René.

“This is not a pipe,” said René, taking it out of Alberto’s hands.

“What?” exclaimed Alberto.

“I said I can’t go to lunch,” said René, “I have a painting I have to do.”