“A woman’s voice is audible far away. She’s singing opera but the sound is so warped and distorted by blocks of intervening architecture that the song has become plaintive and ghostly. This sound, the orange light, the long shadows, the smell of ash in the air – one finally has a brief glimpse of antiquity, of winding alleys lit by fire only, windows that open into ancient chambers aglow with red lanternlight.”
The shops and restaurants on this street have mostly closed for the evening. The proprietors sit chatting on the cobbled sidewalks, drinking beer and sucking cheap cigarettes down to the filter. But the air is pointed with a different flavor of smoke tonight – the unmistakable tang of an autumn bonfire.
Though it’s only mid-August, fall comes early in this part of the world and the crisp, pointed air lends a certain ghostliness to my evening walks. On nights like these I prefer empty, lightless backstreets to main thoroughfares. Along these winding ways the trees and shadows and shopwindows suggest an illusion of days past, though this far north an illusion is all it is – a smoke-tinged ghost of a past that never was.
Around a bend the night comes alive with a dozen or so small fires, some in the middle of the street, others in the gutter, others yet in unavoidable formation along the sidewalks. Around each crouch a cluster of people, heads lowered in meditative silence.
Tonight, according to old tradition, the spirits rise from the underworld and roam among the living, who in turn burn hell money and joss-paper offerings to honor and placate their ancestors.
It’s hard not to be taken aback by the scene. Joss fires are not an uncommon sight, but so many gathered so tightly is a thing of quiet, meditative beauty. These vulgar streets have an air of the sacrosanct about them tonight: no one is shouting or laughing, the street markets are empty save vendors selling bundles of hell money, and everywhere there’s a certain stillness that, on any other day, would be entirely unknown here.
I walk onward, but more slowly than usual, trying to make myself small and unobtrusive. Some streets are nearly impassable and I navigate open flames as if making my way through an ordeal of fire.
Wisps of ash curl through the air, pulsing orange once and again like fireflies. Some drift emptily off into the night, others catch in tree boughs and glow briefly before expiring.
A woman’s voice is audible far away. She’s singing opera but the sound is so warped and distorted by blocks of intervening architecture that the song has become plaintive and ghostly. This sound, the orange light, the long shadows, the smell of ash in the air – one finally has a brief glimpse of antiquity, of winding alleyways lit by fire only, windows that open into ancient chambers aglow with red lanternlight.
Only an illusion, of course: this city is quite young by most standards. Illusion and nostalgia or maybe the same reverence for the past that sends folks out every year to burn offerings at every crossroads.
I lose my way soon enough and tonight I’m happy to. When I finally find the way back to my building I remember the list of byzantine precepts one must attend to avoid being followed home by a ghost. Have I observed all of them? I can’t say for sure, and it’s with strange unease that I let myself into my flat.
I light a stick of incense. It’s the best I can do, and as I fall asleep my thoughts are with the dead.
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