A CITY OF GHOSTS

First it comes for those on watch, whose eyes become uncontrollably heavy. They will close them - only for  a second - but that is long enough. When they open them again, they see that the desert is quite different from how they remember it.

THE FIRST NIGHT

The Spectral City appears atop a shimmering sea where once there was sand. The tide laps gently at the travellers' feet, but they are quite distracted by the sight of the city itself: slender towers lit by white and purple light, dancing to a music of such uncommon beauty the spectator finds themselves hopelessly transfixed. They know that it probably isn't real, and that if it is, it is of a nature beyond their understanding, but they do not feel fear. They feel nothing but joy.

The sound of ghostly music awakens their companions: startled, they beseech the watchers for an explanation. None is forthcoming, and soon they too are hypnotised. Somehow, though the city seems far away, they can see the beautiful, diaphanous-skinned couples in pale luminous garments walking arm in arm along its splendid boulevards. They watch a carnival of barges, piled with silken cushions, encircle the cities walls, helmed by ghostly young men and women blowing horns of delicate sound.

And it will all be too much for one of them to bear any longer. At first hypnotised by the spectacle, they will snap from their reverie and, overcome by a desire to join in, will either call out to the occupants of the barge, or wade out into the water. As soon as this happens, the music stops, and the citizens of the Spectral City will affix the interloper with expressions of such disappointment that the individual will show no reaction other than hanging their head in profound shame.

Presently, the city fades from view and the ocean evaporates into the cold night, leaving behind nothing but a sea of sand and the incredulous expression of the weary travellers. They do not speak,; neither do they return to sleep. Instead they sit in silence, contemplating the void the city has left in the desert and also in their hearts.

As dawn breaks, they may crawl back to the shade of some palm, or whatever cover they have already erected; they may drink a little of their water, if they have any left; such will be the full extent of their actions. Their only desire now is to wait for the city's return.

THE SECOND NIGHT:

Long after dusk is their wish granted, though later recollecting the precise moment proves impossible. The same gleaming spires and beautiful ghosts materialise before them, but this time it is as thought their revelry has been amplified: a true spectacle of the carnivalesque unfolds before their very eyes. Fireworks of wonderful intricacy bloom in the sky: laces, nets, starbursts of red and green and blue and silver. The promenades throng with  gay processions of outrageously costumed ghosts, dancing and marching to the unearthly music of the Spectral City.

Again, overcome by the sheer jubilance of the sight, one of the travellers is unable to resist temptation, and edges forward into the water. This time the carnival does not grind to a halt: the revellers are oblivious. Buoyed by this, the traveller will edge forward a little, wading into the ghostly waters, but something holds them back: they do not belong there. Glancing to their left and right they will see that their comrades have joined them, standing knee-deep in this illusory ocean, captivated by a carnival city of ghosts.

Here they remain, until the city and its seas fade with the rising sun.

Once again, the party are overwhelmed by torpor, and retire to positions around their camp where they might better await the coming night. But for one of them, there is a memory of another purpose, another journey they are supposed to be making. They remind their comrades of this fact, but are unable to rouse them. They pace the length of the imaginary shoreline, and the brief moment of clarity experienced begins to fade, as they contemplate a large sand dune that might afford them an evening grander view of the Spectral City come nightfall.

Here is the moment of truth. All hope for the travellers rests upon this one soul: this is their last chance for salvation. In exploring the site, even only absentmindedly, the traveller increases their chance of happening upon the desiccated remains of their predecessors. The mere sight of a mummified corpse sticking out of the desert sand will be enough to break the spell totally, and it will only take a few strong words for them to likewise rescue their colleagues.

Yet two days have already passed, two days in which the sun has shone and no food has been eaten and no-one has slept: there will be members of their party too weak to leave of their own volition, and decisions will have to be made. Do they try to carry the invalided with them, or leave them to their fate? They will receive no encouragement from those so incapacitated, whose dry lips intone that they will only slow the party down.

All to often this is the case: the party leaves at least one of their number as a sacrifice to this wicked vision, and continues their journey across the desert in bitter silence. It is a silence born not only of guilt, but also of envy: part of them wishes they could see the city too, just one last time.

THE THIRD NIGHT

Her eyes closed, just for a second, and when they opened it was just as she expected and more. An enormous silver moon bathed all in its luminescence: the towering spires of the Spectral City; its beautiful, ghostly inhabitants; its grand barges, like floating palaces. Unlike before, now she finds herself almost completely submerged, and she begins to tread water in the cool sea around her. Gondalas drift by, its passengers urging her to swim towards the city. Atop its walls the beautiful ghosts are calling to her to join them and, in time she will.

She feels a joy like no other when she is lifted up by one hundred hands, and held aloft to watch a sky erupt into a chaotic ballet of iridescent fireworks, but is brief. Her exertions have bettered her, and within she descends into oblivion.

LATER...

Perhaps her former colleagues will come by this way again. They will not have forgotten the Spectral City, even if they have forgotten their companion. In spite of knowing the dangers it poses, part of them will yearn to see it again. Perhaps they will.

If they do, they will notice amongst the throng a familiar figure: she will be more youthful and more alive in appearance than they ever remember her being, in spite of her non-corporeality. They will want to join her (foolish) or try to rescue her (even more so), bu tit is not her. It is the ghost of her final moments, a trace of her animating spirit that knew such glee in its final moments. Her soul, that which was truly her, was utterly annihilated long ago.

Inspired by The Pilgrims in Jack Vance's Eyes of the Overworld.

Contains paraphrased passages and quotes from that work, not cited. Fair use etc.

PHẠM NGŨ LÃO

In Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities, Marco Polo describes a series of imaginary cities to the busy Emperor Kublai Khan. Yes, Kublai Khan was very busy indeed, ruling an empire that covered approximately 20% of the world's inhabited area. Yet his incursions into southeast Asia were largely unsuccessful. Three times his armies were sent to invade Vietnam, and three times they were repelled. During two of those campaigns Phạm Ngũ Lão, a military commander in the Trần dynasty Royal Guard, was instrumental in defending Đại Việt against the foreign aggressor.

Phạm Ngũ Lão caught mid-bow, presumably not in front of Kublai Khan

One interpretation of Invisible Cities is that each city Marco Polo describes is in fact Venice. This could be a nod to the revisionist interpretation of Polo not as great explorer but armchair fantasist, or it could be presenting the idea that in every city exists an infinite number of possible cities, and that these theoretical cities can exist in a multitude of different geographic locales simultaneously. These are intereting ideas to explore in Vietnam: as has been mentioned in a previous post, Vietnamese streets in nearly all her cities conform to a naming convention of national heroes. Perhaps it is possible to walk down Hùng Vương street in HCMC and Đà Nẵng simultaneously.

Marco Polo's family receiving a helping hand from Kublai Khan... or is it?

I have spent a great deal of time on two streets in Vietnam named for the hero Phạm Ngũ Lão: one in Saigon and one in my present home, Huế. The hypothesis that all cities are one of the same might be born out by the superficial resemblances between PNL Saigon and PNL Huế. Both are considered to be the centre of their city's backpacker/western district, though the former eclipses the latter in terms of size and scope for debauchery. It has been noted by many (including a blogger over at The Saigoneer) that it is ironic that a man renowned for repelling foreign invaders now gives his name to two streets full of...well, foreign invaders.

My occasional perambulations about the city of Huế rarely take me down the street of Phạm Ngũ Lão: it is a good place to get a western meal, a passable cocktail and a late(ish) drink on other occasions, though not somewhere one feels the soul of the city is on display. This casual disdain for the apparently inauthentic is, of course, delusory: whatever one's misgivings about neocolonialism, it is ignorant to reject the importance of this street to the tourist industry and consequently the whole of Huế. Nonetheless, on one early evening, when I was still accompanied on my walks by my (missing, presumed consumed) dog, Huệ, I did happen to wander down the street of the great Trần Dynasty general.

"Hello teacher! came a cry from the outside the restaurant opposite. The source of the exclamation was not, as might have been inferred, one of my students, but a member of the waiting staff. I crossed the street to say hello, recognising him as someone I had played football with once or twice, before the rainy season ended the soccer season.

"How are you? I was wondering if you could teach me something."

I asked him what he wanted to know. He was already smirking.

"How to get a girlfriend."

I was halfway through my protest that this was something with which I would be unable to help him when I realised he was, of course, being ironic. In Vietnam an umarried thirty-five-year old teacher is not someone one would ordinarily approach for relationship advice.

"I'm JOKING! I need help with my English. What does..."

Muscle memory kicked in and I adopted an expression of sincere concern, listening carefully and expecting to be asked a straightforward question about uncountable nouns, though I prayed that I would not be interrogated about a complex grammatical point. Again, however, he surprised me;

"...what does 'life is a tale, told by an idiot' mean?"

Now it was my turn to smirk. I'd never studied Macbeth at school, but was familiar enough with the full quote to respond:

"Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more: it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing."

...and I went on for a little bit, talking about absurdity outside the context of Macbeth itself, but to reassure him that I knew of the quote's provenance:

"...and of course, it's from..."

"Macbeth," he said, completing my sentence, "I know what it means too- I was testing you!"

He smiled and petted Huệ.

"You have passed the test! Well done!" 

Someone called him back to work, he said goodbye. 

A tale told by an idiot. Maybe. The three act structure might not apply to anything offstage, and the narrative thread is want to meander, but where it leads us... wherever it leads us, humans will impose patterns and structure and character arcs. So it came to pass that my dog and I were spellbound for a moment or two, trying to tie the threads of Macbeth and Phạm Ngũ Lão together. Both men were famous generals who had successfully resisted conquering forces, both men were close to their king. Phạm Ngũ Lão was loyal, however, and his reward was a bride of noble status (well, the adopted daughter of Prince Trần Quốc Tuấn) and a lifetime of war ending in a peaceful death at the age of sixty six...

...and possibly thousands of streets across his homeland named in his honour.

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This is part of an ongoing series of articles concerned with the origins of Vietnamese street names, and the myths and legends attached to them. You can find the story of how this project came to pass at Huế Street Names.

Alternatively, you can look up all articles labelled street names