Pennyville is a city of space; spaces between the dwellings, high and low, that are linked by footpaths and airy, arching structures joining the dwelling pods one to each other, these pathways defining more space themselves. The Pennyvillians abhor pastel colours, and their city appears crystalline from a distance, a fragile, rainbow-and-blue structure, light chasing round and through the hollows, throwing a pattern of light and shade. The city looks as fragile as the inhabitants are.
The unwary traveler, walking around Pennyville might notice that the inhabitants keep themselves apart. No rowdy groups of clasping, grabbing girls in the street, no children tumbling over mothers, no young lovers sliding up and down each other, barely able to contain their need. There are no ebullient gangs of young men, pushing their fellows in lieu of affection. There are no old couples sitting in the sun, side by side. There are no touches and outstretched hands held up in hope, no caresses, no kisses, no cuddles.
The Pennyvillians have evolved the gift of empathy, some more than others, and their daily life is one that avoids all unnecessary closeness. There are no secrets in this city. Nothing is hidden in the spaces; everyone knows everything. Thus the man who cheated at scrabble; his shame is broadcast to all and he receives, in return, varying degrees of favour or of disapproval of his actions. The woman who would lie about her weight cannot, and neither can she ignore the thoughts that recall for her how much thinner she was before. The children cannot claim that they have forgotten their homework; the teacher cannot pretend that they do not find her boring. The president of the company cannot avoid scrutiny of his expenditure; neither can the worker pull a recuperative sick day. The lover cannot whisper sweet nothings to one partner while wooing another; and neither can either partner be unaware of their importance to the lover in comparison with the glory that is the lover's love of himself. There can be no modern jazz; every musician can anticipate every other musician's intent with complete accuracy. There can be no jokes; the audience knows the punchline before the comic has uttered it. There are no secrets.
The Pennyvillians, have, in response developed a social system which adulates privacy. As the empathy is lessened by distance, they live apart and avoid each other on the street. The gift of empathy has not affected the nature of a person, and should one Pennyvillian bump into another in the daily course of things, he or she is assaulted with the essence of the other; the shames, the fears, the jealousies, the irritations, the grumbles and the self-regard.
There are, however, some compensations for the Pennyvillians' enforced commitment to honesty.
The bumps on the street can also result in an immersion in the kindnesses and strengths of others; of their joy in the weather, their pleasure in a new pair of shoes, or of the comfort they find in the old. Each moment of contact leads the contactees to experience the secret loves and hidden pleasures that illuminate the other; everyone exudes the essence of a rainbow.
Furthermore, lovers can know that their faults are not hidden and that the other loves them entirely for themselves. As a result, there is very little divorce (and very little marriage, as well). There is no crime, and no advertising. Entrepreneurs are scrupulously fair, and teenagers cannot avoid an intimate understanding of the short term consequences contingent upon every teenage action. Politicians are believable, and trustworthy. There is no gossip. There are no lies.
And best of all, there is no modern jazz.
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