Damur is a city of papier-mâché, yet its paper palaces, built in the age of great fairs, have never wholly succumbed to rain or fire. As the fairgoers continued to arrive, the paper city became restless, even as its bones crumbled.
When it rains, Damur dampens and the walls become soft and dewy and primed to mold. But rather than let their city collapse, the citizens of Damur have covered the buildings in variegated tarps that veil the obelisks and the capitals, and hide the corroding Hercules above his imitation marble studded pedestal.
It is asked, time and again, why Damur does not throw off its tarps to reveal the moldings and the fake marble casts–that they might shimmer or glitter or shine, making Damur something more wonderful, something grand.
In time, as the casts rot and fall underneath, Damur will be a city of tarps and scaffolding projected between the streets and the buildings. There are those who have begun to ask if the paper maiche city, fragile as it was, was mere legend. Had any of the citizens seen it? Are the pictures of the fairgoers in their stovepipe hats a fabrication?
As a city of papier-mâché Damur was uninhabitable, but as a city of tents and tarps and scaffolds, it may last forever.