Through the world’s mirror

«You lost your voice, kid,» Jean-Pierre said when Michael finished looking at the album. «But you found another way to speak. Don’t betray your gift. Keep shooting, keep searching, keep speaking with your silence.» He sighed, and his eyes gleamed. «Remember, a true artist sees not what is, but what could be. Look for that ’could be’ in every shot.»

Jean-Pierre walked to the window and looked at the city plunged into night darkness. «The world is full of reflections,» he said. «You just need to learn to see them. You need to learn to look beyond the surface, to seek the hidden meaning. You know, as Oscar Wilde said: „Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.“ You must find your own beauty, your own meaning, and tell about it.»

That evening, Michael realized he had met not just a stranger, but a true friend, a mentor, a teacher. A person who could help him find his path in life.

He felt a fire of hope ignite in his soul. He was no longer alone. He had Jean-Pierre. He was like a lighthouse in his life’s storm.

He looked at Jean-Pierre and said with his eyes: «I will shoot. I will search. I will speak with my silence.»

Jean-Pierre smiled and nodded. «I know, kid. I believe in you. And now, let’s have some more tea and discuss your plans for the future.»

Chapter 4City of Sins

The gray dawn slowly blurred the blackness of the night as the bus, rattling, drove out of his small provincial town. Michael sat by the window, clutching his old camera. It had become his talisman, his weapon, his voice. Ahead lay the metropolis, the city he had heard so many contradictory stories about, the city that beckoned with its lights and frightened with its unknown. The City of Sins.

Jean-Pierre, seeing him off, had said: «Remember, my boy, the city is like the sea. It is cruel and beautiful, it can shelter you, or it can swallow you. Don’t fear the waves, but don’t forget your compass. Look for reflections. They will tell you the truth. Remember the words of Exupery: „It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.“»

Jean-Pierre’s words echoed in his head, instilling both hope and anxiety. He felt like an explorer setting off on a dangerous but exciting journey.

The bus, like a huge whale, made its way through the night streets, cutting through them with its headlights. Outside the window, lights, people, cars, signs flashed by… Michael, pressed against the glass, greedily absorbed the new impressions. Skyscrapers, like giant mirrors, reflected the city lights, creating an illusion of infinite space. The lights of advertisements, like bright spots on a night canvas, blinded the eyes.

He remembered Jean-Pierre’s words that photographs were a way to stop a moment, to capture the truth. He took out his camera and started figuring out how he would shoot.

Soon the bus entered the very center of the city, and Michael was overcome by a feeling comparable only to panic. Noise, bustle, smells – a mixture of exhaust fumes, cheap perfume, and fried food – assailed him from all sides. Huge crowds of people scurried back and forth, like ants in an anthill, each with their own affairs, worries, dreams, and fears.

Michael got off the bus at a huge square. Street musicians played lively music, their melodies intertwining with the hum of cars and the voices of passersby. Vendors called out to customers, outshouting each other. The smell of roasted chestnuts mixed with the aroma of shawarma and exhaust fumes.

He felt lost, lonely, adrift in this seething chaos. But then he remembered Jean-Pierre’s advice and pulled himself together. «Look for reflections,» he whispered to himself.

Taking out his camera, he started shooting, as if trying to grasp the elusive reality. He shot the reflection of a huge building in a puddle after the rain, showing its grandeur and fragility. He shot the tired faces of passersby reflected in the windows of expensive shops, capturing the contrast between rich and poor. He captured street musicians reflected in the polished shoes of a passing businessman.

Suddenly, his gaze stopped on a girl standing at the entrance to a nightclub. Her bright red hair, like tongues of flame, stood out from the crowd. She was dressed in a black leather jacket and faded jeans, and her whole appearance exuded a kind of defiant beauty. She was smoking, slowly exhaling smoke, and seemed to be watching him specifically. Her gaze held curiosity and something else he couldn’t understand.

He pointed his camera at her and captured her reflection in the club’s mirrored door. She immediately smiled, as if understanding his intention. She looked mysterious and unattainable, like a heroine from a noir film.

It was at that moment that Michael realized: the City of Sins was not only darkness but also light. Not only dirt but also beauty. He understood he had something to tell this city. «Art, like life, is a reflection. It reflects you and opens up the world.» – Jean-Pierre.

The girl, noticing his interest, pushed off the wall and headed towards him. Michael froze, his heart pounding wildly. His muteness, usually a barrier, now turned into a shield, hiding him from the unfamiliar reality.

She approached him, stopping a few steps away. Her gaze was piercing, as if she saw right through him. Her smile was both challenging and disarming.

«Hey, photographer,» she said, and her voice sounded hoarse, as if she had smoked her whole life, «Did you like my reflection? Or do you prefer shooting shadows?»

Michael, unable to utter a word, just nodded, not taking his eyes off her face. He studied her features: high cheekbones, expressive eyes, thin lips touched with lipstick. He saw in her not only beauty but also a mystery.

«Interesting,» she said, examining his camera with genuine curiosity. «Old school. I thought such things were only in museums now. What’s your name, quiet one?»

He took a notepad and pen from his pocket and wrote his name.

Scarlett read his name, nodded, and smiled. «Michael… Sounds nice. I’m Scarlett. Nice to meet you, Michael. You know, I have a special sense for people like you. I’ve always loved photographs. There’s something in them that no painting, no word can convey. You can stop time, catch a moment, look into a soul.

As one genius of photography, Henri Cartier-Bresson, said, «Photography is the recognition both of what you see and of how you feel.» Anyway, I adore photographers.»

She fell silent, looking at him appraisingly.

«Listen, Michael,» she said suddenly, «I work at this club. Tonight we’re having a crazy party, a real shindig. Maybe you’ll drop by? Take some pictures? We need fresh faces.»

Michael hesitated, thinking it over. He had never been to a nightclub, but for some reason, he felt he needed to. There was something attractive, though frightening, about this place. It was a chance to break out of the usual routine, to see a new world that would open up new possibilities for him.

He nodded in agreement, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks.

«Great!» Scarlett rejoiced, and her eyes sparkled. «Then I’ll expect you. Come at ten. Ask for Scarlett at the entrance. It’s always a mess there, but it’s fun.» She winked and, turning around, slipped into the darkness of the club.

Michael remained standing on the square, feeling both excitement and trepidation. He knew that tonight something special awaited him. He took out his phone and wrote to Jean-Pierre about his new encounter.

There was a lot of time until evening, and Michael decided not to waste it. He went wandering around the city, as if hoping to find answers to his questions in the reflections.

He went into an old church, where multicolored light fell through the stained-glass windows, creating intricate patterns on the floor. He shot the reflection of the vaults in a puddle after the rain, seeing in it both the heavens and sins. He looked into an abandoned house, where graffiti on the walls mixed with glimmers in broken mirrors, demonstrating a world that was crumbling. He went into a cheap diner, where a rumpled waiter in a stained apron seemed frozen in eternal sadness, reflected in the murky window.

He shot and shot, feeling his muteness recede, giving way to the language of photography. He understood: Photography is the art of seeing what is hidden. Photography is a way to speak when words are powerless. His journey had only just begun.

In the evening, he returned to the square where he had met Scarlett and headed to the club. He felt a mixture of fear and curiosity. He took a deep breath and went inside.

Loud music, bright lights, crowds of drunk, cheerful people – it all hit him like a hurricane. He felt stunned and lost, but… intrigued.

He went up to the bouncer and asked for Scarlett. The bouncer, looking him over appraisingly, pointed to a girl standing behind the bar. She was even more beautiful than during the day. Her red hair shone in the spotlight, and her eyes sparkled with mischief and some wild energy.

She noticed him and, smiling widely, waved.

«Hey, photographer! Glad you came. Ready to dive into the madness?» Scarlett shouted over the roar of the music, which seemed to make his insides vibrate. She waved to the bartender, and he immediately brought Michael a glass of mineral water and her some poisonously pink cocktail that looked like window cleaner.

Michael nodded, feeling adrenaline mix with timid curiosity. Stepping inside the «Venus» club, he immediately immersed himself in the thick, intoxicating atmosphere of the night world. The bass shook his chest, strobe lights hurt his eyes, and the crowd, consisting of all sorts of characters, moved in some disjointed rhythm.

The club was packed: there were sleek types in expensive suits, dressed-up girls on stilettos, punk teenagers with piercings, tired waiters, and bouncers with stone faces. The air was thick with the smell of cheap alcohol, sweet perfume, cigarette smoke, and sweat.

Scarlett, noticing his confusion, took his hand and led him through the dance floor, deftly maneuvering between dancing bodies. «Don’t be afraid,» she shouted in his ear. «There are rules here, but basically it’s simple: be yourself, do what you want, and don’t worry about other people’s opinions. And remember: everything you see here stays here.» She winked and added, looking at his mineral water: «What, allergic to alcohol? Come on, everyone’s a little crazy here. Relax!»

She led him to a small table in a secluded corner. «This is my observation post,» she explained. «Great view of all this madness.» Then Scarlett leaned towards him and said confidentially: «But keep your eyes open. This city is like a jungle, and here, at the „Venus,“ all kinds of predators gather.»

Michael sat down at the table and took out his camera. He started taking pictures, as if trying to capture everything he saw around him. He shot dancing couples whose bodies merged in an ecstatic dance, he shot laughing people whose faces were distorted by unrestrained merriment, he shot the tired faces of bartenders wiping glasses, he shot reflections in the mirrored ball spinning under the ceiling. He tried to capture the essence of this place, to capture its atmosphere, to show its truth.

After a while, he saw a fight break out on the dance floor. Two tipsy guys, shoving each other, suddenly snapped and started throwing punches. The bouncers immediately rushed over and broke up the fighters, but Michael managed to take a few shots.

These photographs evoked mixed feelings in him: on one hand, disgust and disappointment, on the other – interest and even sympathy. He thought: «What made these people lose control? What is hidden behind their aggression?»

Soon a singer came on stage. She was dressed in a sparkling dress that seemed to be made entirely of sequins, and her face was hidden under a layer of bright makeup. She began to sing a song about unhappy love, and her voice held so much pain that Michael couldn’t help but sympathize with her. He photographed her, trying to convey the tragedy of her image.

But his gaze was suddenly drawn to a girl sitting in a darkened corner of the club. She wasn’t dancing, laughing, or drinking. She just sat there, silently staring into emptiness. Her eyes held such sadness and hopelessness that Michael couldn’t look away. He felt he had to go to her, talk to her, learn her story.

And then she noticed him. Their eyes met, and Michael felt a strange connection arise between them. She slowly approached him, and he noticed that she was beautiful, despite the sadness frozen in her eyes.

«Hi,» she said quietly. «I saw you taking pictures. You’re a photographer?» Her voice was hushed, as if she was afraid of being heard. She spoke with a slight accent that Michael couldn’t place. He felt her gaze penetrating his very soul, as if she was studying him like a rare exhibit.

Michael nodded, feeling goosebumps run down his skin. Her presence affected him strangely. She seemed to emit a special energy that attracted him like a magnet. He caught himself wanting to get to know her better.

He handed her his notepad, and Lisa read what was written: «Michael.»

«I’m Lisa,» she repeated, smiling slightly. «Nice to meet you, Michael. Have you been in this city long? It’s like the song says, ’everyone chooses for themselves’ – a woman, a religion, a road.»

Michael, trying not to look her in the eye, nodded again, confirming her words. He felt awkward and helpless, unable to sustain a conversation. His muteness made him a passive observer, depriving him of the chance to express himself.

«I haven’t been here long either,» she said, as if reading his thoughts. «I came to start with a clean slate. You know, as my grandmother used to say, ’a new home – a new fate.» But so far, it’s not working out very well.» She smiled sadly, and a shadow crossed her eyes.

Michael looked at her sympathetically. He understood her feelings. He, too, was looking for his path in this big, foreign city.

Lisa was silent for a moment, then asked: «And what do you photograph? What do you want to say with your photographs?»

Michael thought about it. He had never asked himself that question before. He just photographed what he saw, what he felt.

Taking the notepad, he wrote: «I want to show the truth. The truth about life, about people, about myself.»

Lisa read his words carefully and nodded. «Truth,» she repeated. «That’s very difficult. In this city, truth is the hardest thing to find. Everyone here plays roles, wears masks, hides their true faces. But maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s in this chaos, in this lie, that the real truth is hidden.»

She hesitated slightly, as if choosing her words, and then suddenly said: «Will you show me your photographs?»

Michael, without thinking, nodded and took an album with his works out of his bag. He was a little nervous showing them to her. He was afraid she wouldn’t understand him, that she wouldn’t see anything special in his work.

But Lisa looked at his photographs with great interest. She peered intently at each image, as if trying to decipher some complex code. She asked him questions, asked him to tell her what he felt when he took those shots.

«This photograph, where the old man is reflected in the shop window,» she said, pointing to one of the shots, «it’s very powerful. There’s so much pain, so much loneliness in it. It’s like a mirror reflecting an old man with sad eyes.»

«And this one, where the two lovers are kissing in the park in the rain. Did you want to show love, or show that you can’t do that?»

«And this shot, where the street musician is reflected in a puddle,» she continued analyzing his shots, «it’s just amazing! There’s so much hope, so much faith in something better in it.»

She understood him, felt him, saw his soul. She was the first person who truly appreciated his talent.

Noticing the photographs of reflected buildings, Lisa asked him a question: «People build houses, but they don’t build relationships, so why do we need houses then?»

«Photography is like a letter you write to the world,» she inserted a quote, as if knowing that was what he wanted to say, and that she was well-versed in it.

He felt incredibly happy.

Then Lisa took her tablet out of her bag and showed him some of her own work. On her screen were photographs of the city, photographs of people, photographs of nature. Her works were bright, unusual, and a little strange.

Michael looked at her shots with interest, and she explained what she wanted to say with them: «Look, here I wanted to show the chaos that happens in the city, in this metropolis. And look here, in this one, I wanted to show that beauty can be in the little things.»

They sat talking in the language of photography until morning. They had found a kindred spirit in each other.

When the first rays of sun broke through the curtains, Lisa said: «You know, Michael,» she said his name tenderly, «you’re a talented photographer. Keep shooting, keep searching for your truth. And don’t be afraid to be yourself. The world needs people like you.»

She smiled at him in farewell and left the club.

Michael was left alone, but he no longer felt lonely. He had Lisa, Jean-Pierre, and his talent. Now he had something to live for and something to tell the world.

Lisa’s words fell like seeds onto the fertile soil of his soul and began to sprout, filling his heart with warmth and inspiration. He was determined to prove to her that he was worth something, that his photographs really could tell the world something important.

The sun, peeking over the horizon, painted the city in soft pastel tones. Michael, leaving the «Venus» club, took a deep breath of the morning air, trying to clear his lungs of tobacco smoke and the smell of cheap alcohol. He felt a little worn out after a sleepless night, but at the same time filled with a kind of frantic energy. He wanted to create, to shoot, to tell stories.

He had about three hundred dollars left in his pocket – all he had managed to save working in his hometown. That should have been enough for the first while, but he needed to find a job as soon as possible.

Jean-Pierre, seeing him off to the city, had advised: «Look for housing in the old districts, my boy. The atmosphere there is special. There you will feel the pulse of the city, its history, its soul. And remember, the most important thing is the people around you. Neighbors can become your family.»

Michael decided to follow his advice and went looking for a suitable place to live. He headed to a district where, according to rumors, artists, musicians, and other creative types lived. It was an old neighborhood, with narrow streets, dilapidated houses, and an abundance of graffiti on the walls. An atmosphere of freedom, creativity, and a certain anarchy reigned here.

He went into the first real estate agency he came across, hoping for luck. In a small, stuffy room that smelled of dust and cheap air freshener, a plump woman with dyed red hair and a haughty expression sat at a desk piled with papers. She was engrossed in reading a glossy magazine, paying no attention to the newcomer.

Michael waited patiently for her to finish. Finally, the woman, tearing herself away from her reading, looked at him with a displeased expression.

«What do you want?» she asked in a sharp voice.

Michael took out his notepad and wrote: «I’m looking for a room.»

The woman shrugged indifferently.

«A room? Let me see. Who are you, anyway? Where’s the money from?»

Michael wrote again: «I’m a photographer. I have money.»

The woman, squinting, gave him an appraising look.

«Alright,» she said. «There’s one little room. A shed, really, but it’s cheap. Five hundred dollars a month, plus a deposit. Suit you?»

Michael, without thinking, nodded. He understood this was his chance.

«Well, then come on, I’ll show you,» the woman grunted, getting up from the table.

They went outside and walked a few blocks. Finally, they stopped in front of an old, dilapidated house, its facade covered in cracks and graffiti. There were no curtains in the windows, and the front door creaked like an old gate.

«Here we are,» the woman said, pointing to the house. «Your «Parisian evenings’ will be here.»

They went up to the third floor on a creaky staircase lit by a dim bulb. The hallway smelled of dampness and mold.

The woman took out a key and opened the door to a small room. The room was small and shabby. Peeling paint on the walls, an old bed, a wobbly table, and a lopsided wardrobe constituted the entire furnishings. In the corner stood a well-worn armchair upholstered in worn velvet.

The room’s only decoration was a window overlooking a courtyard where an old tree grew, dotted with birds’ nests.

There was nothing special about this room, but Michael felt it had been waiting for him. He felt a special atmosphere here, the spirit of the old city, the spirit of freedom and creativity. Here he could be himself, create, dream.

«Well, what do you say? Taking it?» the woman asked.

Michael, without hesitation, nodded and wrote in his notepad: «I’ll take it.»

The woman took his money, handed him the keys, wished him «a pleasant stay,» and left.

Michael was left alone in his new room. He looked around and smiled. Yes, it was far from perfect, but it was his place. It was his beginning.

He made the bed and unpacked his things. He took out Jean-Pierre’s photographs and hung them on the walls to fill the emptiness a little. Then he sat by the window and looked out into the courtyard.

Soon he met his new neighbors.

In the apartment across from him lived a young artist named Chloe. She was eccentric and sociable. She often dropped by to see Michael, told him about her life, showed him her paintings, and treated him to homemade cookies.

On the floor below lived an old jazz musician named Bill. Every evening he played the saxophone, filling the house with magical music. Michael often listened to him, sitting by the window, and dreamed of one day becoming a famous photographer.

And on the floor above lived a strange couple who constantly argued, shouted, and stomped their feet. Their voices could be heard throughout the house.

His life was getting better.

One evening, after a long walk around the city, he returned to his room. He looked out the window and saw his new home reflected in the moonlight. It was old, dilapidated, but it was his home.

Taking out his notepad, he wrote: «Home isn’t about the walls, but about the people who surround you.»

The morning greeted Michael with a cacophony of sounds: the cooing of pigeons outside the window, the rumble of passing cars, and, of course, the enchanting sounds of old Bill’s saxophone. The music flowed from under his windows like thick honey, filling the room with sadness and hope simultaneously. Michael went to the window and looked down. Bill, as always, was standing on his balcony, clutching his old saxophone. His eyes were closed, and his face expressed bliss.

Michael thought: «What power there is in this music! It can heal the soul, comfort the heart, give hope. Art is like a medicine that cures all diseases.»

But right now, he needed to think not about music, but about his daily bread. The money he had brought with him was melting like snow in the sun. He urgently needed to find a job.

He went downstairs and knocked on Bill’s door. The old man opened the door, dressed in a greasy bathrobe and worn-out slippers. His face told a whole story, full of joys and losses.

«Ah, it’s you, kid,» Bill said, recognizing Michael. «Something wrong? Is my music bothering you?»

Michael smiled and shook his head. He took out his notepad and wrote: «Thank you for the music. It’s very beautiful. It inspires me.»

Bill grinned, revealing a gap-toothed mouth. «Music is my life, kid. It’s my love, my pain, my passion. Without it, I’d just die. You know, as Louis Armstrong said, „If I don’t play, I don’t live.“» He paused, then asked, as if reading his thoughts: «And what are you doing here? Are you a musician too?»

Michael shook his head again and wrote: «I’m a photographer. Looking for work. Almost out of money.»

Bill thought, scratching his gray stubble. «Work… Hmm… Maybe I can help you somehow. I have a friend, Alex, owns a cafe. A good place, cozy. Maybe he needs a photographer. He’s a young guy, creative.»