A sudden jolt tore me from my stupor.The flask of Scotch—responsible for both my sleep and my migraine—slipped from my fingers and fell onto the carpet with a dull thud. I cursed.
I staggered back to my feet, rubbed my eyes, and found myself surrounded by the impeccable furnishings of my room, wrapped in half-light. Against all hope, it hadn't been a nightmare: I was still there.
I opened the windows, and a vermilion glare stabbed my eyes. In the sky, looming and immeasurable, hung the same black hole I had seen from the beach—now so close it nearly brushed the zenith. Blood-red reflections flashed from its spirals, tinting the world with a sinister glow. I picked my jacket off the floor, tried to smooth it out with my hands, and headed for the door.
What spread before me stole my breath: an entire city seemed to breathe, crushed around a vast gulf lapped by a blood-colored ocean. The buildings, scattered and uneven, tangled into a maze of alleys and crooked lanes; only two enormous arteries cut the city into four sectors. In the distance, an acropolis with a colossal palace, a pyramid, and a series of Egyptian-style temple-granaries. A sight as grand as it was threatening.
The spell broke at the sound of grunts behind me."Hey! You! Didn't you hear? Get down! Your new home awaits!"
I turned and saw two little demons—small but brimming with arrogance—standing at the top of the stairs. They were dressed like nineteenth-century British explorers: colonial jackets, khaki pants full of pockets, and from every piece of clothing stuck out a long tail ending in a bulbous tip shaped like a lightbulb.
"But of course," I said, forcing a smile. I slid quickly toward them, avoiding their gaze. A bony hand seized my sleeve.
"You!" growled the first.
My legs shook. So did my voice."Y-yes?"
"The Master told me to tell you he awaits you at the Rose of Virtue, whenever you wish." He paused, as if trying to recall a lesson. The tip of his tail lit up and rummaged through his pockets. "Ah! And he said to give you this." He placed a card in my hand: Tarot number XII, the Hanged Man. "You'll need it to enter."
I accepted the gift meekly.
"One thing," I ventured.
The second little demon—a scaly knockoff of David Livingstone—sighed."Speak."
"We're in Hell, right?"
"Many call it that." His thin voice vibrated as though about to crack.
"So… which circle have I ended up in? And for what sin?"
They stared at me with glassy, soulless eyes. Then, in unison:"You are here because everyone ends up here."
Those seven words hit me like a boulder. If it was true, my father and all my relatives had fallen here. Clara herself, one day, would walk these infernal streets. I felt my breath desert me.
"Is there a way to find someone?" My voice broke.
They laughed—a cruel snicker that froze my blood. Then, as if nothing had happened, they turned their backs."Wait! I still have questions!"
"The Master ordered us to answer only three," one replied, already descending.
"Stop!" I grabbed a shoulder, but in an instant cold fingers were around my throat.
"Do not touch me again, soul."He hurled me to the ground.
I stayed on my knees, heart pounding like a hammer. My hands trembled. Panic. Even here, after death, panic existed. I reached instinctively for the inhaler in my jacket pocket—but it wasn't there. I can't die here, I told myself. I must not die here.
I forced myself to breathe, fixing my eyes on a carved motif on the railing until my heartbeat slowed. With difficulty, I got back up, nearly slipping over the edge. I followed the opal steps down to the pier, blending in with the other souls.
The port boiled with chaos: bewildered souls, screaming little demons, red galleys ready to depart. Many of my fellow unfortunates—the contract signatories—were being funneled toward those boats at the far end of the dock. Among them, the charred clown sprouted like a crocus. I watched for a few minutes, then decided to head inland.
I was almost disappointed. Hell, I thought, should have been torture, rivers of fire, screams. Instead, it looked like the center of Genoa a few centuries ago: markets, stalls, people haggling. An urban jungle where money was the true god and demons its clerks.
The city rose along a slope: medieval shacks beside modern buildings, Roman insulae with colorful porticoes, Japanese stilt houses, Greek pediments. An impossible patchwork. I stopped beside a marble Herma—head and penis proudly displayed—while a man nearby, guitar in hand, strummed Knockin' on Heaven's Door. Passing women touched the god's phallus as if it were a good-luck charm.
That was when a man addressed me: gaunt, bearded, dressed in leather and worn furs."You're new, aren't you?"
I stared at him, unsure."Are you talking to me?"
"Who else? I see you're well dressed. I'll give you a few pointers."
And so he explained the first rules of survival."Never ask where the 'Others' end up. Whoever boards the red boats never comes back. Keep your belongings close. And finally, if you want a safe place at a low price, there used to be an inn: the Inn of Rama, at the end of the Decumanus Maximus. Tell the keeper Olaf sent you."
So much information, combined with finding myself in unknown territory, had left me disoriented. Maybe a safe place to settle while I tried to grasp my new reality would help.
"Where do I find this inn?"
He pointed to a distant spire rising among the city's asymmetric rooftops. It looked like a lighthouse in the fog of my uncertainty."It once belonged to an ancient far-eastern temple. You can't miss it."
"And how did it end up down here?"
He snorted, annoyed."Everything that disappears in Midgard reappears here in its original form. Buildings, roads, objects. Human beings. Our decay is bound to this place. Now promise me you'll go to the inn."
I promised, though without understanding, and he laughed in satisfaction."I'll drink to you during your Sjaund."
It was a word I had heard before, probably Norse, and it stirred conflicting feelings. I had no time to reflect: the city was already swallowing me.
I took the main road—past mosaics and processions, votive niches, statues draped in straw dolls, women kneeling beneath lotus umbrellas. Their gestures struck me: despairing mothers seeking gods to reunite them with their children.
Then a piano melody froze me in place. Pure, bright notes cut through the cacophony of the alleys. A fragment of civilization in the infernal babel. I approached a Venetian Renaissance building and focused on the music drifting from its second floor. A Nocturne. Chopin. I closed my eyes—but an abrupt scream tore the air.
"NO! NO! AND STILL NO!!!"
A piano stool flew out the window and grazed my head, hitting a passerby in a kimono. The man collapsed lifeless, painting the cobblestones crimson. Above me, a pale, lanky man shrieked from the window. The crowd chuckled and muttered: Frédéric the madman is at it again.
The corpse on the ground interested no one. People stepped around it as if avoiding dog shit on a city sidewalk. That was Hell: a society that ignored ethics and let compassion rot. I got back up, heavy-hearted with that realization, and resumed walking toward the spire.