The Darkroom -- Part III

Is it a loop?

Part I | Part II

Photo by Tine Ivanič on Unsplash, rendered black & white by me

The open door ahead was a black rectangle that absorbed light without giving anything back. I hesitated at the threshold, the air shimmering as though the very fabric of reality were straining to hold itself together. My hand reached out tentatively toward the worn wood of the doorframe.

I opened my eyes the moment a thin, firm, yet not in the least alarming voice whispered wake up! in my ear, and for a long while, I stayed in bed, supine, peacefully staring into the dark of the room, the details of the dream gracefully, unavoidably fading on the white of the ceiling like the finale of a movie right before the end credits. It wasn’t until I got up to splash water on my face that I noticed that the darkroom door, which I always locked before going to bed, was slightly ajar. A fine slice of red light, the safelight I’d evidently forgotten to turn off, cut across the hallway floor like a wound. I froze in the doorway. There, neatly spread on the developing table, were four new photographs. Not only had I not taken them, but this time, I hadn’t even developed them. And yet, they were there, fresh out of the chemicals.

The first shot was of the white house, as always, but now closer, as though whoever held the camera had walked the road I’d dreamed of walking. The sky loomed overcast and bruised. In the second frame, the old couple appeared again, still by the car, their gazes still fixed on something beyond the edge of the frame. The box the woman held was clearer now -- it was an old shoebox, its corners frayed with age, as though it had been opened and closed too many times.

In the third print, the old couple was gone. In their place, standing in the open doorway of the house, was a child. A boy, no older than six or seven, wearing shorts, a white collared shirt, and suspenders. His face was turned toward the camera, though his features were blurred, distorted, as if they refused to be captured. Behind him, the darkness of the house spread like ink.

The fourth photograph was a close-up of the box. Open now, its lid set to the side, revealing something inside. I squinted, leaning closer, but whatever was in that box seemed to shift, almost ripple, as though the photo itself rejected my attempts to see it. And yet I knew, with absolute certainty, that it contained something I had seen before.

When Viviana arrived later that morning, summoned by a rushed, cryptic phone call, I handed her the photographs without saying a word. While outside the city moved on without us, the distant honking of cars and the chatter of pedestrians drowned beneath the silence in the room, she took her time with them. So you’re positive you’ve seen this before, she said without looking up from the shot of the shoebox, uncharacteristically still. And the boy, she continued, tapping the third photo, is it you? The question felt like it was being asked through her, not by her. I didn’t know what to answer. It was impossible to tell from the photo. The details were warped, as though viewed through imperfect glass, but I couldn’t deny the growing unease that this thought ignited. The white shirt. The suspenders. The skinny legs out of the shorts. The smallness of his figure. All so familiar.

It’s not just a destination, she said finally, her voice low and deliberate. It’s a loop. A loop?, I said. Think about it, she continued, you’re developing these photos, but you’re not taking them. Or at least that’s what you seem to be sure of. Granted, you can’t rule out that, at night, you sleepwalk to places you’ve never been and take pictures, although admittedly that’s pretty far-fetched. For one, we’re in the city, and that looks like a place in the Alps somewhere, give or take. It’d be a long way to sleepwalk there, I guess. Also, these photos are taken in daylight. So, we can safely assume you’re not the photographer. And apparently, after these last four shots, you’re not even the developer. Not always, at least, it seems. But what if you’re the subject? What if the house, the road, the boy -- what if it’s all tied to you? To something that already happened? Or something that’s yet to happen?

Her words settled heavily in the room. You know, she went on, like Nietzsche’s idea of the eternal recurrence. I said that I wasn’t sure I followed. The eternal recurrence, she repeated, or return. Nietzsche spoke of it. Imagine you’re doomed, or blessed, to live this life again and again. Every moment, every choice, every regret. What if time isn’t a straight line, but a circle? Imagine this moment -- this room, this exact conversation -- happening again. Not just once, but endlessly. Every detail repeating. The scrape of that chair. The way your hands shake when you hold the photos. Even your disbelief. But why, I said. What’s the point of everything repeating endlessly? Why does the sun rise, or set?, she said, answering the question with another question. Maybe life repeats because that’s its nature. But if it’s true, I ventured, why don’t I remember? Maybe you’re not supposed to, she replied. Maybe forgetting is part of it. Or maybe you do remember, but it’s only a feeling, a sense of unease. Like when you look at these photos and something inside you recoils. You know, deep down, but you can’t name it.

That voice in the dream, saying that life makes no sense. Was it that guy speaking, the guy who urged me to pick up film photography and, later, learn to develop? I tried to make a connection that felt increasingly improbable the more I applied myself to it. And Nietzsche. Sure, a great thinker, I thought, but his was just a theory that hadn’t gathered any empirical evidence. Not that I knew of, that is. I mean, who could ever prove that time is circular and life repeats itself with no end in sight? As compelling and thought-provoking and elegant as they may be, explanations of life’s inner workings aren’t necessarily true because great philosophers developed them. Was I being arrogant? Was I dismissing a possible, probable way of making sense of life that was right before my eyes? Viviana said, in the end, that Nietzsche’s eternal recurrence was in fact a provocation, or an exhortation. A litmus test of an individual’s capacity to affirm life, she quoted. In other words, if the idea of living your life in a loop forever feels dreadful, then this would suggest that it lacks meaning and purpose, that you’re burdened by regrets and unresolved conflicts. If, on the other hand, you could embrace the idea of living your lives repeatedly, it would compel you to make every choice, every moment count. I don’t know, does this make sense?, she asked.

It kind of did, I thought. But I also thought that there must be more to the way we were trying to force-fit the situation at hand into this whole Nietzschean framework. A situation where photographs that I hadn’t taken developed themselves overnight while I was peacefully dreaming of going up an unpaved road to a mysterious white house that contained I had no idea what, but certainly something that was being put in front of my eyes in every way possible, and that I should, at this point, dedicate my fullest attention to. Those photographs were a message, a destination, and a loop, all in one, we decided.

Viviana stood up suddenly, her chair scraping against the floor. You need to go there, she said. I remained silent. Then, pointing at the photographs, as if delivering a crucial message that hadn’t gotten across, she said: this place, wherever it is -- you need to find it.

[To be continued]

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