The city was empty

A literary and a visual journey

In March 2020, the world had come to a standstill: Lockdowns had been imposed in many countries. So we decided, for once, not to stick to our usual approach of reporting on cultural exchange (in German KULTURAUSTAUSCH). Instead we opted to kickstart our own cultural exchange project. In a crisis situation, where states began cutting themselves off from each other, we wanted to forge a narrative connection across the continents: sending a story around the world. And so we invited eight writers to create a story together. Only the first sentence was set in stone: “The city was empty.”

From then on, a narrative unfolded, from Serhij Zhadan in Ukraine to Mathias Énard in France Tope Folarin in the USA, continue to Glenn Diaz in the Philippines, Patricia Grace in New Zealand, Yvonne Owuor in Kenya and Claudia Piñeiro in Argentina all the way to Ben Okri in Great Britain. The story charts a historic catastrophe that stretches far into the future - and which repeatedly snakes back to the present too.

One (Serhij Zhadan)

The city was empty. No birds even. It was like they’d been poisoned. Or scared off. But what could scare birds in a big city? Maybe large groups of people. Or their absence. Absolute absence.

Two (Mathias Énard)

She closed the manuscript; despite all her precautions, a flurry of yellowing paper fluttered down to the grey carpet. The text was literally crumbling to pieces. The city was empty. This paper is a librarian’s nightmare. In six months nothing will be left of it. No chemicals to restore it. The testimony would survive, though, carefully photographed.

Three (Tope Folarin)

Tomorrow I will die. —Somehow I thought that writing these words would enable me to understand what is about to happen to me, would somehow make it seem more real, but it still seems like an abstraction. I understand it intellectually, but I can’t imagine what will happen after the deed is done. As I sit here—in this austere room, on this austere chair, at this austere desk—I can say I have never felt more alive.

Four (Glenn Diaz)

“The forest. There’s always the forest.” The thought brought with it lightness, gave her pedalling an extra burst of speed, as if in recalling the woods she had summoned it, conjured up its healing air. As she moved farther and farther away from the National Library, Elsa couldn’t shake off a feeling of dread. Like an unbearable itch.

Five (Patricia Grace)

“Elsa.” The voice was unknown to her. She was about to turn and run when a woman of about her own age, stepped from the cabin, a woman with light brown hair and pale eyes. She was smiling. “Come and share food with us,” she said.

Six (Yvonne Adhiambo Owuor)

There are no certainties on earth now, not time, not even the guarantee of the arrival of the day. The signals had long been in place: the emptied streets, the silenced birds, the absences. The uneasy stillness of night, the half-dream state.

Seven (Claudia Piñeiro)

Elsa quickly got to her feet. She was aware of a murmur, exclamations of panic spreading through the cabin in response to her having broken the glass container. The Agha shouted: “Quick, a cloth and a clean bottle.”

Eight (Ben Okri)

... that's where a manuscript ended. Elsa, one of the avatars of the new times, found that she could swim. She found also that perhaps the water that Lev Smidovych was referring to was not just the water that you drink, the water that you can drown in. What if the entire manuscript of Smidovych was an allegory, indeed a set of secret codes.

„Nobody knows where this journey will lead”

Elisabeth Moch is an illustrator based in Berlin. She accompanied the development of the story and brought each chapter to life: „I hadn't encountered the idea of a chain story before. I was keen to see how the story unfolded bit by bit, and just like the individual authors, I didn't know what would turn up next. That fit into this strange Corona era, in which nobody really knows where this journey will lead either.” A conversation about new ways of working and escapism into nature

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