Magasin d’âmes

Soul-searching in the city of love

Vishaal Pathak

On my umpteenth visit to Docteur Arnaud – his many reassurances notwithstanding – he joked to me about a possibility. I was desperate.

‘Well, they’re no Scientifique; people flocking to them anyway. Uhh, if anyone asks, you didn’t hear it from…’

I was out his door, jumping the turnstiles after nearly ramming into a cyclist. ‘Behind the café with the flickering neon signboard,’ he’d said. The Eiffel towered in the distance; each step towards the nondescript Magasin intensifying the hum of yet another protest. It’s the soul-sucking corporations and billionaires this week; war enlistment the week before. ‘You’re being lied to, controlled, manipulated,’ the placards always say. As if we don’t do to each other in private what they do openly. 

A young woman rolled her eyes, stomped on her cigarette butt and led me in. 

‘Package Basique comes with pre-programmed memories, Classique with memory upgrades. But Prestige,’ the salesman leaned in to whisper, ‘you create your own memories.’ Then softly, ‘All we need – votre âme.’

I had goosebumps.

My heart raced and sank at the mere thought of my memories. I knew no soul in ‘la Ville de l’Amour.’ Save random pat-downs and being shoved in dark alleys, knew no touch. 

‘So, post-procedure, I’ll have a wonderful family! What’ll my memories say where they are now?’

‘That they’re safe, awaiting your return from the Space War.’

I could do with that, I reckoned. A man dead inside can do with just about anything.

I looked at the unlikely scene unfolding. People were smiling, nodding at me. Beautiful memories were displayed on huge screens. Happy faces walked out, upbeat about their soul exchange.

‘Where do I sign up?’ I teared up. The salesman pointed to the testing counter.

Docteur Arnaud says I’m fit as a fiddle,’ I declared confidently, closing my eyes – manifesting the two kids, a Labrador and the loving wife as promised – as the staff hooked me to a machine.

Désolé …’ A voice rang in my ears, waking me up.

‘Is it about money?’

‘No, it’s just,’ his face dropped, ‘you got no soul to begin with.’

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Vishaal Pathak

is a

Guest Contributor for Panorama.

Vishaal writes short stories and poems, mostly about memories and travel. Some of his work has appeared or is forthcoming in ARTS by the People, Five on the Fifth, Kitaab, Ghudsavar, Panorama, The Kelp Journal, Vermilion, The Rush, Open Minds Quarterly, The Rainbow Poems, Antonym Mag, Good Printed Things and Metonym Journal.

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