The voice in the small room
Atlas of Curiosities Part 3:
It was a small room. Inside, it was dim and filled with smoke. There were people, yes, and we could see them at first. Someone remarked upon the crowd; they were silent, staring, waiting. The music began with old fingers hitting old drums. The men playing them told us later that the rhythms they played had been passed down since the time of the Prophet; these were older than words, older than poetry and music and custom. The men were the first to vanish, though we didn’t see them disappear. The man with the cymbals let them rattle together and he began to spin: slowly at first and increasing at his own pace.
A spotlight was turned on, and she moved from a corner to the middle of the crowd. Her dress was both bright and dark, and it was laced by with coins from civilizations long vanished. She stood, she sang, and my eyes changed, making everyone but her appear as silhouettes. Only she was visible, even my own form had been obscured by the smoke and the sound of her voice in the small room.
Had her voice had a magical effect? Had we been bewitched, intoxicated? Or had their bodies always been nothing but outlines, and we the parties changed, our eyes aged as if by time at the sound of her voice
