Shafak
For as long as I can remember, my father often spoke to me about the world beyond.
The first time he mentioned the outside, he described a delicacy called honey-orange pastry, a specialty of his hometown. He told me that the crust and filling of this pastry were colors known as "yellow" and "orange." These two colors existed only in my imagination, because Madelia was composed solely of the purest two shades: black and white. I pressed him for details about what those colors looked like, but he was evasive. And so, in my mind, orange and yellow became varying mixtures of black and white—I truly couldn’t conceive of anything else. In Madelia, honey was a clear white, oranges were a glossy light black, and freshly baked pastries were a mouthwatering jet black. The thought that there were colors in the world I had never seen filled me with curiosity and planted a seed of longing for the outside. I confided this only to Stevens (he was my friend)—back then, there was hardly another soul in the city who knew colors beyond black and white existed.
Yet, in the end, I never left Madelia, and my father grew old there as well—he was likely one of the earliest travelers to arrive in Madelia, at least forty years before the later waves. He came and never left, marrying a white-haired girl—my mother.
I’ve always loved gazing out the window in the evenings. I loved the desolate streetlights, the tightly packed alleys, and the hurried pedestrians with their heads tucked into raven-winged top hats. As night slowly descended, an overwhelming emotion (my father called it "melancholy") would wash over me, utterly intoxicating. My mother would be wearing her cream-white robe, calling for my father and me to hurry to dinner. Twilight took hold of Madelia, and pinpricks of white light spilled from the windows of concrete apartments and old wooden houses, each one hiding a happy family behind it. By the time darkness fully enveloped Madelia, I was already asleep, dreaming old dreams, dreaming of a world of three thousand splendors. I couldn’t bear to part with this kingdom of light and shadow—though I yearned for color, I never resolved to leave. I no longer longed for the outside.
Of course, another reason was that Madelia was easy to enter but hard to leave.
It wasn’t until my eighteenth birthday that I learned minors were forbidden from leaving Madelia. The truth was, Madelia was a city hidden who-knows-where, encircled by a smoke-white barrier. The barrier welcomed everyone in but permitted only one person to leave each year. So, we spent our entire lives within a square of black and white, like pieces on a chessboard. Those who wished to leave had to register early, and when the first chime of the New Year rang out, they would draw lots to decide who could depart. Every year on this day, my father would set off fireworks to bid farewell to the leaver. That was how we saw Stevens off—he went to see the outside. I often wondered whether my father ever wanted to leave himself, to return to his homeland. Perhaps, once, he did. But now he had my mother and me, ties that bound him here. At most, he would gaze at the barrier, a faint chill passing through his heart.
Now, I am far from Madelia. No—there’s nothing more to say. My father has been gone for many years.
So it goes.
Memory has a way of romanticizing the past, so it’s no surprise that I often feel my youth was the most wonderful era of Madelia.
Before I turned eighteen, I often wandered the streets and alleys, breathing in the plain mist. The houses on Dilongdo, Meidardo, and Agilulf streets were originally white but had faded over time to a shade somewhere between stone and charcoal. If you walked through them in the morning, you’d often be swallowed by the black-and-white smoke—who knows where it came from. Dogs, their fur the same color as the houses, darted in and out of the smoke, nearly invisible as they weaved around your feet. Around nine in the morning, the construction crews would shoo the dogs away to repair the roads. They had exactly one hour to finish: prying up broken bricks, laying down new ones, smoothing them over. If they failed, the complaint letters would overflow the mailbox. I was always there—whether watching the repairs or the complaints, both were entertainment for a child.
Other places, like Zembla or Batukgrad, were filled with massive stone structures, their towering domes or spires gleaming under the sun. Singing girls in hats of varying shades wandered about, while the men—rarely seen in casual wear—mostly wore solemn black suits and carried walking sticks. Perhaps this was the proper attire for a black-and-white city: slightly humble and rigid. But Madelia wasn’t entirely like that. What I remember most clearly is my home. I remember the scattered black-framed photos on the walls, the haphazardly placed black-and-white leather chairs, and the four characters hung on either side of the door: "auspicious" on the right, "fortune" on the left (written by my father—these were the words of his homeland).1 I also remember the ten straight days of heavy snowfall when I was fourteen. Most of the residential areas in Madelia were probably like my home. So, in this way, the Madelia of the past remains etched in my mind, unforgotten. It tells me: this is how we remember a city.
No doubt, when my father thought of these things, his longing for color took a backseat.
Bishop
I will die today. Or perhaps tomorrow—it makes little difference.
There used to be a man in his early forties living across from me, named Shafak. He might still be there, but I haven’t seen him since last December. Before the last wave of visitors arrived, we once rode bicycles together, sharing a plate of scones (pale as mist, the butter gleaming) by the roadside, watching trains at the city gates come in packed with people and leave empty. Then, in December, the plague came. I was the first to fall ill, and I’ve been bedridden ever since. Since then, the birch and sycamore trees outside my window have stood without Shafak beneath them. I suppose he moved away with his family—but where could he go? Not beyond Madelia. After the plague, the neighborhood across the way has decayed; the white walls and black tiles I remember are now ruins where ivy creeps, many of them scorched by fire. Perhaps it was to eradicate the last remnants of the plague, or perhaps to clear the wreckage and restore Madelia to its former self.
It has been nearly ten years since I came to Madelia. When I first stepped into its two-toned realm, I was forty-three, still in the prime of my scholarly career, brimming with longing for an unfamiliar land. Back then, whispers of Madelia’s existence had just begun to spread among travelers: the city of black and white, a place of pure aesthetics. Hearing those rumors, there inevitably came a moment—just as it did for me—when one would dream of an ideal realm. I yearned to discover the poetry hidden in its streets and eaves, to watch the muddy waves of the freshwater river cutting through the city, to grasp the ethereal, lilting language of Madelia, to fathom the soul of this place drifting in the damp air… I am glad I decided to come.
It’s hard to imagine what kind of people built Madelia. They must have foreseen the crowds it would draw years later, for they constructed the city so vast and splendid. Even now, in Longsha or Satlet, you can find rows of empty townhouses and villas waiting for visitors. In the past, after dinner each evening, I would take out a bottle and mix myself a margarita, drinking alone as I gazed out the window: stone streets threading through shadowed alleys, towers spiraling into attics, moonlight shifting, the evening breeze carrying a sense of infinite distance. “Beautiful melancholy” would be the perfect name for this feeling—except it isn’t quite that.
Many strands of hair, half-black and half-white, litter my pillow. After lying in bed for so long, I dearly wish to get up one last time before I die. My servant Wenze is nowhere to be found; the house is silent, the carved window open, letting in the faint scent of osmanthus. I wonder if I still have the strength to rise. I remember how, in spring, birds would perch on the window frame, chirping before flitting away, their white feathers flickering. If I left the window open, a little later, the sound of flutes and Madelian folk songs would drift in. The syllables, crisp on the tongue—what a beautiful language!
If I could, I’d wish for time lag syndrome. Right now, I lie here on my deathbed, certain to close my eyes today or tomorrow—but if I wake, I might find myself back on that first day in Madelia ten years ago. It was a cool summer night, cicadas silent, the river clear and empty, the black-and-white world before me as if newly born. Back then, though travelers had already begun pouring in, there was no need for registration or control, nor had the dedicated entry trains been built. The me of ten years ago could never have imagined that blind wanderers would bring disaster to Madelia, leading to its eventual lockdown.
I try to turn over, only to tumble out of bed. Well, there we go. Wait—I’m surprised to find I can just barely stand. So I have gotten up, after all. Moving unsteadily, I close the small carved window and shuffle to the larger one, sitting down beside the table. Two gauze lanterns cast a dim glow; outside, the world is a clean, blank white.
I exhale slowly, unable to straighten my back.
By my second year in Madelia, the city had begun regulating the entry of travelers. That same year, the dedicated trains—two per week—were built. Clearly, no one had anticipated just how vast Madelia was. As I mentioned earlier, there are still so many empty houses here. Back then, I became close friends with Shafak’s father (we talked about everything—our shared nostalgia for color, even arguing over how French escargot should be prepared—I prefer them baked). He was twenty-one years my senior and passed away two years later, after which Shafak took his place as my friend. We would go to watch the trains arrive twice a week. By the ninth year, the influx of travelers peaked, and the plague followed. Wenze rarely tells me about the outside world, so I don’t know if the plague has ended.
I am gravely ill, nearing my end—likely in a matter of days. Despite its name, this plague does not bring a horrifying death; mine will be a quiet one.
As a child, I was the weakest in my family. Sometimes, after being knocked to the ground by my brother or father, I would lie there all afternoon, imagining my own funeral with sorrow—then, thinking of what people would say, how they would mourn and pity me, I’d feel inexplicably happy and start giggling. In Madelia, I’ve attended over a dozen funerals. I remember Shafak’s father’s burial: the coffin in the grave, not yet sealed, as we tossed in handfuls of white petals until they nearly overflowed, covering the body so completely the lid could barely close. The headstone was jet black, solemn and dignified. The air was thick with floral scent, attracting swarms of butterflies whose fluttering wings scattered iridescent dust—a sight of breathtaking beauty. I hope my funeral can be like that.
Now, I sit at the table, writing these words you see before you. A few soap bubbles float past the window, crystal-clear—some child at play, so carefree. Wenze still hasn’t returned. I’m growing drowsy, with little left to say. The wind chimes sing, like music from the heavens.
Stalo
Stalo
The old man who used to come watch the trains arrive every day has been absent for a long time—perhaps fallen ill. The middle-aged man who often accompanied him has also disappeared. And since the plague began, it seems no one has been entering Madelia anymore; the train station has become desolate.
For lunch, I had sausages with roasted potatoes, drizzled with a slightly spicy homemade sauce—a perfect pairing. I’ve eaten this same meal for all eight years I’ve worked as a train driver. Back when travelers were plentiful, my job was to extend the train cars outward twice a week (careful not to push the cockpit beyond the barrier, or people would be pressed against the windows), wait until they were full, then bring the train in, circle Madelia once—letting the newcomers familiarize themselves—before finally returning to the station. Now, with no one entering Madelia, if the plague doesn’t end soon, I’ll likely be out of a job. I must admit, I rather miss the old days, before the plague was even a shadow, back when I wasn’t yet driving trains.
Before becoming a train driver, I was a chimney sweep. I’d often eat my sausages and potatoes perched on rooftops, blackened by soot like some strange bird. Madelia has many old households that still use traditional fireplaces, and plenty of chimneys remain intact, requiring regular cleaning. Occasionally, when I emerged from a chimney at dusk, the last rays of sunset would cast their glow, and from the high rooftops, I could see the scattered lights of much of Madelia, a few fishing boats drifting on the freshwater river, and sometimes even the ghostly glow of fireflies—utterly enchanting.
Every day, countless gazes would drift upward, some lingering on the charcoal-colored spires of Zembla, but most settling on the city’s myriad chimneys: some outrageous homes had chimneys that curved like periscopes from travelers’ picture books. The more extravagant households would install false chimneys adorned with intricate, barely noticeable carvings, making their homes appear both grand and quaint. Come spring, swallows would nest in these chimneys. Once, while cleaning one, I nearly stepped on a nest, and the hatchlings inside pecked at the soles of my boots. Thunderstorms were common in this season, and on those days, I didn’t work—a paid holiday of sorts. When the storms came, St. Elmo’s fire2 would often dance around the chimneys, clusters of eerie white light. Madelia seemed especially serene then, with only these fiery spirits leaping between the chimneys. Sometimes, when driving the train to welcome travelers during such weather, their gasps of awe were priceless.
Sweeping chimneys in summer, however, was nothing short of torture. Spiders became unbelievably active under the scorching sun, weaving thick silver-white webs inside the chimneys that clung to my face and body, itching unbearably and trapping the heat like a furnace. Wrapped in that sticky layer, it truly felt like descending into hell. And when the webs built up thickly, scraping them clean took hours—exhausting just to think about. After finishing, if it happened to rain on my way home, the stench of spider silk and sweat would seep into my clothes, rendering them unwearable. Thankfully, the chimney owners were kind folk; most would invite me down for a drink and a brief chat after I finished. If it rained, they’d let me wait it out. I often thought of my former coworker Anselmo, who later became a writer. In his book, he wrote: The people of Madelia know that while they rule the world below, the realm above the rooftops belongs to the chimney sweeps.
Autumn was the best season for sweeping chimneys, at least in Madelia. For some reason, during autumn, all the sausages in the city switched from pork to duck. Logically, they shouldn’t have tasted as good, but eaten atop chimneys with roasted potatoes (so warm and comforting), they took on a strange, delightful flavor. I struck a deal with the passing birds, sharing my dinner—tossing tough casings to the ravens and burnt bits to the jackdaws. By the end of autumn, I could sweep every chimney in the city single-handedly, and every bird knew me. If, like me, you’d swept chimneys in Madelia for ten years, you’d learn each chimney’s temperament too: the easy ones, the gentle ones, the irritable ones, the labyrinthine ones, the hollow ones, the motherly ones—every kind. So, on the last day of autumn, I’d always perch on the chimney of the Agilulf Factory—the tallest in the city—and gaze down at the black-and-white sprawl below, tracing every smoking “living” chimney and abandoned “dead” one like a map, feeling a crisp, quiet joy.
Winter in Madelia usually brought light snow, but if it persisted, the drifts grew deep. Driving the train, hauling a carriage full of travelers with a thick blanket of snow on the roof, slowly circling the city—it was dreamlike. And when I was still a chimney sweep? Darkness fell early in winter; by the time I climbed out of the last chimney, night had long since settled. Some households—whether forgetful or just plain cruel (and, with a touch of personal bias, downright sadistic)—would, after I’d notified them and begun sweeping, light their fireplaces while I was still inside. Instantly, I’d be choking, like a rat in a sauna, scrambling out in a panic, torn between laughter and tears, left clutching my singed backside with a sigh. (I *wanted* to curse, but shouting obscenities from someone’s rooftop just wasn’t proper.)
One winter, the snow fell especially heavy, great clumps sliding from pine branches with soft thuds. Inside the chimneys, the light was faint, and farther down, pitch black. Working in such conditions, it was easy to forget whether you were in a chimney or a well. So I’d imagine the snowflakes drifting down from the sky, settling on the ripples of the freshwater river, the white stone streets, the spires of cathedrals and the chimneys of old houses, on the soft black scarves of dark-haired women. Often, I wouldn’t even notice when the snow stopped, lost in thought until suddenly, no more flakes fell. By then, the chimney would be clean, the world outside dark, and looking up, the eaves would seem impossibly distant, like a tear in the sky.
Then I’d climb out and see the stars—blindingly bright.
Stevens
I wonder, when I took my first step out of Madelia all those years ago, did I ever imagine that many years later, I would return here and find myself longing for everything from that time?
The spot where I stand now was once a restaurant, where the clinking of cutlery filled the air during meals. But now, in the depths of winter, Madelia is blanketed in snow—a vast, white expanse. For a moment, I thought I’d wandered somewhere else—Siberia, perhaps, or Alaska? The snow-white emptiness is broken only by a single black pillar, standing crooked and alone. Tiny snowflakes drift endlessly through the universe, falling upon the monochrome earth. Beyond that, nothing is visible.
I step on a wooden board, its surface covered in frozen moss, the patterns resembling the carvings on a marble railing.
Over the years, I’ve traveled to many places. The most beautiful was Sevmut, followed by Prague, then Zurich. My mind is crowded with memories—the graceful women strolling leisurely down Moriae Street, the intricate melodies that seemed to follow Pei Lengyi everywhere, the ruins of Machu Picchu bathed in the glow of sunset—so much that there’s hardly room for anything else. Of course, I remember the light and shadows of Madelia, though they’ve grown somewhat hazy, indistinct. More accurately, Madelia feels like an illusory homeland I’ve built from memory, a precarious city of glass, its existence impossible to confirm.
I trudge forward aimlessly, my boots kicking aside the dirty snow clogging the road, revealing the neglected pavement beneath. This is Dilongdo. Or maybe Meidardo—somewhere around here, at least. When I was a child, these roads were repaired daily. I still remember the nimble packs of black-furred dogs that darted about. Later, whenever I saw a city launch some grand campaign against strays, I’d think of them. I’m nearing the freshwater river now. The banks are dark mud, the water flowing slow and eternal, with jagged rocks lurking beneath the surface like the backs of crocodiles.
The Madelia in my memory was never this cold.
When I left Madelia, I was certain I’d remember everything about it for the rest of my life. But I was wrong. As the years of travel piled up, bits and pieces of Madelia began to slip away. Then, even the most vivid memories of my childhood started to fade, the details blurring at the edges. Eventually, half the pieces of Madelia’s puzzle were missing, and I tried to fill in the gaps—perhaps with imagination, perhaps with fabrication, perhaps with pure invention. And so, here I am, unable to tell Dilongdo apart from Meidardo.
I pick up a flat, white stone and skip it across the water. One, two, three, four—plunk. There’s a Madelian legend that if you skip a stone exactly nine times, the river god will grant you a wish. How quaint. Back in elementary school, Shafak and I often skipped stones here, but we never once hit nine. Unnamed insects scuttle around my feet, their curious antennae twitching, heads bobbing. I turn away from the riverbank.
I still remember that afternoon fifty-nine years ago when Shafak told me about the existence of other colors, which led me to leave for distant lands eight years later. That day, Shafak’s father set off fireworks to see me off—pale blossoms blooming in the sky. It’s the thing I remember most clearly. I try to find our old school now. But it’s gone. All that remains are empty buildings with peeling plaster, rubble-strewn lots, and doors hanging ajar, marked with pale X’s. Some still bear half-torn quarantine notices: Occupant: and the rest is illegible. Where I remember a factory, there’s now only a field of dark ashes mixed with snow and dead leaves, filthy and lifeless. Beneath a leafless sycamore lies the stiff corpse of a cat, its fur matted. It was the same in Furia, where I once fell asleep and dreamed of Madelian snow.
According to my notes, over fifty-one years, I’ve passed through 1,953 cities. As proof, in each one, I bought a bookmark or a local postcard. In cities too poor, still stuck in primitive times, I’d pluck a leaf as a keepsake. Over the decades, the bookmarks, postcards, and leaves filled an entire box—a lifetime’s worth of memories. I’d meant to bring them back to Madelia, but age has made me forgetful, and I left them on the train. Now, I realize I can’t remember where Shafak’s house was, or even my own. I’ve lost myself.
Some things I can’t recall at all. Why did I return to Madelia? Just to ramble like this?
About forty years ago, I first began telling others about my hometown, thinking it might shore up my failing memory. I repeated the stories over and over—here, there, to children, to elders. And so, the truth dwindled while fiction grew, until one day, it was others telling *me* about Madelia. My nostalgia bled into every place I passed through, until everyone knew of it. They told me Madelia—that land of fantasy, that paradise on earth—had grown far more prosperous than I remembered. A butterfly enthusiast once mentioned that a scholar in Madelia had discovered a new species, and that the two specimens were among the rarest in the world. I took comfort in that.
But where are they all now? No one can leave Madelia, no one can cross the barrier! Where have they gone?
Clumps of snow slide from the branches, and ominous clouds still drift overhead as I stumble forward, alone, my feet numb, unsure of where I am. A false chimney on a three-story building has collected so much snow it overflows. Outsiders think white is just one color, but that’s not true at all. The clouds, snow, and walls of Madelia are three distinct shades of white. And black—there are many kinds of black, even more than white. Ahead, a road sign is obscured by snow, unreadable. The snowfall suddenly intensifies, pellets stinging my face. I think I’m lost. Further on looms the shadow of a grand building, its sign gradually coming into view: St. Pexurri Hospital. The gates are rusted shut, impossible to open.
All of a sudden, I can imagine it—the plague raging like wildfire, consuming the pale, flammable city.
I remember many years ago, in Hangzhou, a woman walking briskly with her face covered, her high heels clicking sharply against the pavement. She moved so quickly.
Childhood again. Always childhood. My childhood has only just ended. Back then, Madelia had people dedicated to shoveling snow—the roads were never this hard to go across. Past St. Pexurri Hospital, a left turn leads to Batukgrad. In front of the hospital, there used to be a fountain that changed its water patterns at 8 AM and 8 PM. Every evening, you could hear singing nearby, accompanied by wind chimes. Inside the hospital grounds stood withered dead trees, their trunks blackened—the third from the left was one Shafak and I planted together. And over there… over there… over there… over there. Piece by piece, the Madelia of old comes back to me. I remember now—I came here to find the Madelia of my memories. If only… if only I could get a little closer, just a little, catch even a glimpse of it, maybe then I could recall Madelia’s light and shadows, everything about it. The winter wind sweeps across the empty grounds, brushing past the buildings. I look up into the sky, and everything around me is a silent, boundless void, nothing but empty white as far as I can see.
Madelia is already far away.