The Ruins of Utopia

The old road runs through a tangled forest. Rounding a bend, we reach an opening. On the right, a deserted shore, tufts of yellowed grass nearby, dwindling to sand or mud, and then water, flat as far as the eye could see, until the distance becomes a blurred mix of sky and sea, without horizon. The light is diffuse, the sky a white sheen, the land-sea surface a duller metallic color, bright in nacreous patches that are hard to look at, obscuring the boundary between what is solid and what is not.

On the left, next to the road, is a low-rise, or series of attached structures. It's empty and in a state of decay -- broken stairs, peeling walls, faded paint, and gaping black holes for windows. It sits by itself, looking out, like a corpse, over the leaden shore.

We turn off the road, onto a narrow, winding lane that takes us away from the shore, and into a jumble of small wood and brick buildings, decrepit, overgrown by the enveloping forest, and all appearing as empty as the one by the water. We stop the car and get out. The silence is overwhelming. It makes us hesitate to take a step, but eventually, necessarily, the breath lets out and we move. It's darker here, much of the silvered sky covered by the dark green, mossy limbs, but our eyes adjust, pupils expanding to enable us to make out details, shadings. Off to the right, though, there is a small gleam of light, almost lost behind thick vines. It's anomalous, but a soft, light orange, and we make our way, carefully, toward it.

It's coming from a window, one of the few left with glass, and we stand back enough not to be visible from it. It's small panels are begrimed, but even from our distance we can see that the interior is well-lit, and that there are figures, people, moving about on the other side. Slowly, we venture closer, drawn by the warmth. We start to hear voices, human sounds, but faint, thin, and delicate as lace against the gloom and the enormous quiet.

Through the window, darkly, the figures resolve into individuals. A child appears, a young girl, hurrying behind what looks like a kitchen table, and the sound becomes her childish laughter, still faint but clear. A boy comes next, perhaps chasing her. In the background, working at a counter, are taller, adult figures. Their dress is practical but colorful, their activity accustomed, and the picture is one of domestic peace, contentment.

Then the girl, suddenly looking out, spies us. The expression on her face is one of surprise, but not shock or fear. Nevertheless, she quickly turns away from the window, and says something to the others. They look too, their faces calm, but the peace is disturbed. Silence descends like a shroud. And, slowly, the light dims, the dark of the wood seeping back to fill its space.

Hurriedly, ashamed, we return to the car and leave.