But you read aloud words like no other
And I, a mirror, shared awhile your soul.
I found you in the city where I was raised, preparing carcasses in some antiquated butchers. The natural chaos of the rustic decor, the slam of large knives on bone and a constant huddle of faithful clients suited you. Of course you could adapt and turn up anywhere in disguise, as long as the occupation carried something of age-old importance; and your charm would propel you within days from any drudgery in the kitchens to the forefront of the performance, there, at the counter, with all the simpering customers who would quickly grow to love you, a servile young man with dark curls and a strong Italian accent.
Your cartel, all older men, cheeks ruddied and manners gentle, waited daily upon the townsfolk in blood-speckled aprons without rest nor complaint, and they seemed to welcome the younger man into their fold. His youth, after all, posed no threat, for his ways and manner of speaking were equal to someone more their own age.
I asked one of the butchers where you were. He stopped what he was doing and called to one of the other men, who slammed his knife into horse flesh and then replied brusquely, "not too sure. I think he's over in Loughton, isn't he?"
"Come and go fast, these young ones, they do," said the one serving me with a playful wink. "We'll get you an address, don't you worry. I'm sure he'd love you to pay him a visit."
I smiled, somewhat embarrassed, but grateful. Within minutes a scrap of paper appeared, scribbled upon roughly. Olde Bell Lane. Surprise, surprise, how typical of him to have an address that sounded noble and traditional, even if situated - as it was - in one of the most crass, modern cities in the country.
I said thank you to the butcher and eased past the thick queue of frazzled faces and bonneted heads, back out to the street.
The house was plain, and sandwiched between two other identical houses. It was flanked by a small square of astroturf that rolled out from the front door and lay entirely exposed to the road without a tree or fence in sight. It was what could have been expected from the city's architects, but still, I was shocked. This kind of lifestyle for a man who only read works by great poets, who only ate the finest food whatever the cost and spoke almost entirely in lofty platitudes?
For the hundredth time that day, I tried to process the fact that you lived in my city, and for the hundredth time, I felt a rush of disbelief. One of your dictums rang in my ears, the one you had said while sitting opposite me at the foot of the Colosseum: life is strange. Which now seemed an absurd understatement when compared to the banal little house in which you lived, only a short drive from my own - a dwelling place which was a far cry from your palazzo apartment in Rome, your mother's Milanese villa or the farmhouse you had once owned in the woods outside TromsΓΈ. Had you fallen on hard times? It had to be the only explanation. Why else would you allow your near-godly ego to enjoy freeze-dried coffee on an artificial lawn facing someone else's parked car? A territory that was altogether barely a hair's breadth bigger than a postage stamp?
The size of the stamp that I had placed on the envelope to you in Rome, begging for news.
Months passed, and as predicted, nothing. Eventually hope was shelved.
And I, a mirror, shared awhile your soul.
I found you in the city where I was raised, preparing carcasses in some antiquated butchers. The natural chaos of the rustic decor, the slam of large knives on bone and a constant huddle of faithful clients suited you. Of course you could adapt and turn up anywhere in disguise, as long as the occupation carried something of age-old importance; and your charm would propel you within days from any drudgery in the kitchens to the forefront of the performance, there, at the counter, with all the simpering customers who would quickly grow to love you, a servile young man with dark curls and a strong Italian accent.
Your cartel, all older men, cheeks ruddied and manners gentle, waited daily upon the townsfolk in blood-speckled aprons without rest nor complaint, and they seemed to welcome the younger man into their fold. His youth, after all, posed no threat, for his ways and manner of speaking were equal to someone more their own age.
I asked one of the butchers where you were. He stopped what he was doing and called to one of the other men, who slammed his knife into horse flesh and then replied brusquely, "not too sure. I think he's over in Loughton, isn't he?"
"Come and go fast, these young ones, they do," said the one serving me with a playful wink. "We'll get you an address, don't you worry. I'm sure he'd love you to pay him a visit."
I smiled, somewhat embarrassed, but grateful. Within minutes a scrap of paper appeared, scribbled upon roughly. Olde Bell Lane. Surprise, surprise, how typical of him to have an address that sounded noble and traditional, even if situated - as it was - in one of the most crass, modern cities in the country.
I said thank you to the butcher and eased past the thick queue of frazzled faces and bonneted heads, back out to the street.
The house was plain, and sandwiched between two other identical houses. It was flanked by a small square of astroturf that rolled out from the front door and lay entirely exposed to the road without a tree or fence in sight. It was what could have been expected from the city's architects, but still, I was shocked. This kind of lifestyle for a man who only read works by great poets, who only ate the finest food whatever the cost and spoke almost entirely in lofty platitudes?
For the hundredth time that day, I tried to process the fact that you lived in my city, and for the hundredth time, I felt a rush of disbelief. One of your dictums rang in my ears, the one you had said while sitting opposite me at the foot of the Colosseum: life is strange. Which now seemed an absurd understatement when compared to the banal little house in which you lived, only a short drive from my own - a dwelling place which was a far cry from your palazzo apartment in Rome, your mother's Milanese villa or the farmhouse you had once owned in the woods outside TromsΓΈ. Had you fallen on hard times? It had to be the only explanation. Why else would you allow your near-godly ego to enjoy freeze-dried coffee on an artificial lawn facing someone else's parked car? A territory that was altogether barely a hair's breadth bigger than a postage stamp?
The size of the stamp that I had placed on the envelope to you in Rome, begging for news.
Months passed, and as predicted, nothing. Eventually hope was shelved.
But then, one day, a miracle.
I had tenderly torn the thick envelope open with trembling fingers and tears at seeing your handwriting for the first time. It was neat and boyish, my name written all in capitals with some pressure, and the message brief but stretched across the page as if each word had to have space to breathe. I remembered the spiteful tendency you often reserved for me, and wondered whether your words would come with a masked insult or outright putdown. But as my eyes scanned the text, I was surprised to find the message deliciously literal. You simply explained that you had received my forwarded letter, and you now lived in England. And this was the place where you worked, the name of it. A name that saw me break down into near-silent sobs of disbelief.
I'm sitting in the car now, engine running as if to leave at any moment, with the black screen of a sunshade obscuring almost all of my view. I peek through the crack between the edge of the shade and the metal window frame, and I see you. The back of your head; the black curls that are too glossy and too virile to truly be the fruit of English skies. You disappear through the front door into the house.
But my attention is quickly snapped to the lady that has been left standing motionless on the front lawn.
Her features are gentle and perfect; the button nose, the bright blue eyes. Her mouth is the colour of roses and the even lines of her golden hair finish at level of her chin. There is extraordinary strength and poise in that chin, and she stands with it tilted ever so slightly to the sky: Athena radiant in the gaze of some invisible god. Athena stands on the lawn in light grey cashmere and leather sandals staring at the now-empty doorway without expression, but the longer she looks, the clearer it becomes that she cannot leave that moment. She is trapped, and her slender frame adds to the impression of her helplessness.
They were not, could not be in my city, where most if not all residents lived in ill-fitting sportswear and knock-off jewelery. Where each person looked almost identical, sounded alike and collectively felt the strain of which streets they should choose to cruise in their similarly shiny automobiles.
But in a breath, Athena on the lawn had made my childhood wasteland into a Renaissance portrait.
I had tenderly torn the thick envelope open with trembling fingers and tears at seeing your handwriting for the first time. It was neat and boyish, my name written all in capitals with some pressure, and the message brief but stretched across the page as if each word had to have space to breathe. I remembered the spiteful tendency you often reserved for me, and wondered whether your words would come with a masked insult or outright putdown. But as my eyes scanned the text, I was surprised to find the message deliciously literal. You simply explained that you had received my forwarded letter, and you now lived in England. And this was the place where you worked, the name of it. A name that saw me break down into near-silent sobs of disbelief.
I'm sitting in the car now, engine running as if to leave at any moment, with the black screen of a sunshade obscuring almost all of my view. I peek through the crack between the edge of the shade and the metal window frame, and I see you. The back of your head; the black curls that are too glossy and too virile to truly be the fruit of English skies. You disappear through the front door into the house.
But my attention is quickly snapped to the lady that has been left standing motionless on the front lawn.
Her features are gentle and perfect; the button nose, the bright blue eyes. Her mouth is the colour of roses and the even lines of her golden hair finish at level of her chin. There is extraordinary strength and poise in that chin, and she stands with it tilted ever so slightly to the sky: Athena radiant in the gaze of some invisible god. Athena stands on the lawn in light grey cashmere and leather sandals staring at the now-empty doorway without expression, but the longer she looks, the clearer it becomes that she cannot leave that moment. She is trapped, and her slender frame adds to the impression of her helplessness.
They were not, could not be in my city, where most if not all residents lived in ill-fitting sportswear and knock-off jewelery. Where each person looked almost identical, sounded alike and collectively felt the strain of which streets they should choose to cruise in their similarly shiny automobiles.
But in a breath, Athena on the lawn had made my childhood wasteland into a Renaissance portrait.
