Invisible Cities

Loneliness
A friend of mine would call Tretre a perfect city. She would walk down the streets and appreciate the sweeping views of distant mountains, the refreshing lack of noise and the fresh air. She would admire the tall trees that grew between the buildings built as far away from the road as they could be. She would marvel at the small tracks that served as the drives and roads to and from houses and banks and hotels, knowing that their small size and light use marked the infrequent passing of only a few people. She would spend her years there, finding herself a warm house deep in the trees, venturing out to meet the other reclusive members of her new circle of friends, spending the evenings in each house in turn, praising the lonely walks through the summer woods or the private dip in the hot springs in the deep of winter. She would find a man who also loves Tretre and would move into his home to raise her children, who would also to have a deep love of the quite city. Each of them would one day move into their own homes deeper into the woods, down their own tracks that the casual eye would miss, marry and grow old. One day, years after I had waved goodbye to my friend as she left the bustling city where we had grown up, before I had lost her in the dark northern woods, she invited me to visit. I never made it. For when I traveled the road she told me to follow, I stopped, filled with nothing but doubts as I stared at the track fading into the trees. I turned, defeated, for I couldn’t tell the difference between the city and the woods.


Faulty assumptions
When I walked into Avari I was thrilled. I knew that this was a place where I could find good friends, good food, and an intellectual climate that could not be contained in books and the libraries that stood out on the old crooked corners. There was a richness there that excited me, intrigued me, pushing me to peel back the layers in this mysterious city and revel in the secrets I discovered. As my first day drew to a close I lay in bed with a smile playing on my lips as I pondered the wonders in store for me.
The next morning I set out to discover the secret of Aravi. I walked first to the famous stairways that had been acclaimed by visitors for centuries. I gazed in wonder at the magnificent sweeping stone steps, but I was soon distracted by a young girl twirling a parasol on her shoulder as she flirted with a well dressed youth on the old stone steps. Next I turned to the ancient arenas, where thousands had lost their lives in brutal entertainments. But the vibrance of the place came not from the crumbling marble walls, but from the couples in the crowd who clung to each other, gazing fiercely into each others’ eyes, oblivious to the people around them. I shook my head and traveled next to the fountain that brings good luck to those who visit. But I found that the fountain’s secret lay not in the cascades of water, but in the lovers tucked into the numerous small nooks whimsically created by the sculptor’s chisel. Disturbed, I traveled next to the underground tombs, to the tunnels and caverns that housed thousands of the dead in sacred darkness. But even here, laughing girls and half naked boys fled from the light, claiming even the graveyards of Aravi as theirs. It seemed that everywhere I turned in Aravi I discovered another lover’s haunt, disturbed another secret tryst between young men and beautiful women. That night I returned to my room and sat in bed thinking. If this was the secret of Aravi I would embrace it. Even if it was not what I expected, I could accept and even flourish because of this discovery.
As dawn broke I was out searching. I searched over the city and under, beneath the burning sun and the in the soft glow of the moon. I looked in smoke filled bars and in clear-aired parks, along the banks of the river and on several crowded hilltops. Everywhere I looked I found couples, but I was never a part of one. And as I looked and looked I came to realize that this was Aravi’s true secret, it was a town built for other lovers. As I finally peeled back this last layer disguising this secret my heart broke. I found myself in my room, crying out at the darkness, and all around me I heard lovers laughing. In the morning I left Aravi. I would never come back.


Monotony

Three steps down, open the door, hear the lock click behind you. Walk down the street past the fish vendor and the jeweler’s door, around the corner where every morning at ten an old beggar clinks his cup against the stones. Halfway down the winding block you turn into a brightly lit and crowded café. The lady behind the counter recognizes you and sings out your order before you have a chance to think about whether you really want a café macchiato. Sometimes you ponder, quietly to yourself, whether you would prefer a café latte instead, just to be different, but every time you come to the conclusion that no, the macchiato is better. You sip your coffee next to the bar and listen to the women next to you talk about the upcoming sale and the outrageous price of spices at the spice vendor around the corner again. Once you are done you continue down the street past the man playing the accordion to turn into the small dingy courtyard and walk up three flights of stairs, each with nine steps. You turn into the third door and settle into your well worn chair as you reposition the typewriter in front of you. You pull the tray of receipts closer to you and pick up the first one. You type the information out, place the receipt in the tray on the other side of your desk, where, every half hour, the secretary from down the hall collects them to take them to the clerk in the office next to hers. After six hours you stand up at the ringing of the church bells, which consistently marked the passing of every quarter hour. You walk down the three flights of stairs and make your way back through the city streets, past the spice vendor packing up his wares and the restaurants setting out their chairs. You sit down in the corner table of the restaurant on the corner behind the fish vendor. You glance at the menu, consider, and order the gnocchi Ragu. As you sit at the table you watch the people who walk by every night, the lady with the Pomeranian, the man in his top hat, a great lady who is in love with an officer, the three girls from the University next door who giggle too loud. A little later, after the gnocchi is almost gone you know that the street lamp lighter would pass by on his way to light the streets of Nuovo, the town which, for you, never changes.


No Theme

Palmyra sits uneasily on a hill overlooking a rich green valley. For years the inhabitants of Palmyra had been watching the valley below them, envying the ways of the valley people as they steered their ox carts along the straight, tree shaded roads, past the fields of wheat and rye and summer squash. Palmyra watched and envied what it saw. Look at the valley floor, they would say, it is flat and straight, unlike our crooked city streets that wind about every which way. And look at their oxen pulling those huge carts. They are much better animals than the goats we have pulling our carts up the steep incline behind our houses. And the empty valley floor lets the people there build their large sprawling farmhouses over acres of land. We, on the other hand, have to build our houses so high that the block out the sun and threaten to topple and kill us all! They grumbled as they climbed up the staircases that encircled the houses like ivy, pausing at balconies to cast a longing gaze at the flat valley below. Day after day the inhabitants of Palmyra had only one topic of conversation, the glories of the valley below. From the windows in their high, tiered houses they sipped wine and discussed how the valley floor produced better grapes than their vineyards ever could. They sat around billiards tables and stared out the window, the game forgotten, because someone mentioned that the balls rolled straighter on the valley floor. And as parents tucked their children in at night they would look at them sorrowfully before whispering quietly in their ears, we are sorry you were not born in the valley.
Then one year a young boy asked his uncle why, if everyone was so fond of the valley, did they not live in the valley? The suggestion startled the uncle, and a flicker of hope shone in his eye as he considered it. That night he mentioned it to his drinking friends, who took the idea and swirled it around their cups thoughtfully before fully drinking it in. Live in the valley? Soon the entire city of Palmyra was ringing with the wonderful idea; we could live in the valley! We could get away from this wretched hill and live in the lush green pastures that we had always loved! The news rang from the high towers and flew off balcony railings, and within a week the people of Palmyra had decided they would inhabit the valley. Within a month they had swept out of their stronghold on the hilltop and slaughtered those who stood in the way of their rightful claims to the valley floor.
The people of Palmyra soon dispersed, settled in and faded. They intermarried with those who had survived the slaughter and a new race of valley people came to be. Eventually the years wiped away the memory of what had been and the new valley people looked at the old city on the hilltop, at the grand, if slightly worn alabaster towers, at the rooftops that shone with precious stones and gold inlay, at the windows that still held the last shards of real glass panes, and envied the people who had once called that city home.