Faadoun is a city of layers. The first is a layer of squares. Men walk from one to the next, meeting fresh vignettes- each a variation on the last, each special in its similar yet unique dimensions, proportions. There are squares, fountains, and trees, but never statues, never faces. This is a faceless city.
The next layer of Faadoun is a bazaar. Under crumpling arches and variegated, shifting tent roofs, shops and spice-peddlers meander from building to building and over the river, varying only in the goods sold, never in the color of the rugs or the manner of the salesmen.
The last layer of Faadoun is safe from inclement weather and inclement souls. The walls of its passages- connecting building to building- bear stained glass and colonnades and float above the city, rising and falling two or three steps at a time, accounting for the varying heights of the building floors. These passageways, first built for the mistresses of kings, then the kings themselves, and now a clumsy parade ground of the bourgeois, are a secret, hurried city above the real Faadoun. They are a shortcut from one banquet to the next, a gasp of air between clandestine stairwells and bedrooms and atriums.
Each of the three layers of Faadoun passes over and under one another, entwined yet separate, aloof and ignorant and disinterested of one another. There is a little known, less recognized fourth layer in the city of Faadoun. Here the ancient tributaries run, channelized and cupped, flowing among the squares and the bazaars and the banquets. Beneath the pavements, these ancient streams ripple faint, diffuse memories, lingering and slowly eroding the foundation of the layers above. Poor trinket sellers in the bazaars boast of catching trout in their baths, blessed by the gods, saviors of fishmongers and idiots. They have no memory of the ground beneath them, for theirs is the first layer of city, a layer they too feel is sinking, being forgotten, and that their faint cries are not heard in the atriums and stairwells far above.