gades

No matter how fiercely the stone is wounded, it bears no grudge and harbors no plans for revenge over its chipped side. It just lies awkwardly in place, cracked at its most visible point, steadfastly enduring the gazes of passersby. Ten years will pass, and moss will creep up its summit, completely enveloping its cold, scarred flesh. Then, wrapped in a fluffy green cocoon, it will conceal from everyone the very existence of that chip. It will know of it alone, quietly coexisting with the thought of its small imperfection. An enchanting imperfection.

The reborned city will cherish its scars from a distant past as if they were its greatest treasures. I have spent enough time here to confidently call them trophies.

I remember every crack in this road; every pattern of peeling paint on the corners of buildings that aspire to perfection in their height and flawless geometry. Echoes of a past that roared through this street half a century ago still hide within the minor imperfections of seemingly repaired walls. I vividly recall how this alley was cleared of fallen concrete blocks from the tower. I know well that at the intersection of two houses, in the very corner, lies a modest meter of granite cobblestones that cracked on that very day and was left unreplaced due to the inaccessibility of that nook. The new road looks splendid. These streets live their lives, their bright present, yet unobtrusively remind us of their past.

A musician by the entrance of a small shop is as old as the world itself. He was old when we were young, and he has played the same songs all his life. Their tender melodies have become part of my own consciousness; they cling to my mind so that I hear this music even on days when the old man with the weathered banjo does not come out to play. Strolling down this street always feels serene, almost perfect.

This path, starting from my own doorstep and ending at the gates of the Academy, I could traverse with my eyes closed, never stumbling once. This road is the least of what one can learn over more than fifty years of relentless repetition. Whether it rains or shines makes no difference, I will never lose my way here. It seems that even if all the cobblestones were shattered to pieces, I would still be able to walk blindfolded. All these paths have been explored back and forth, and the only thing that changes here each day is the faces of people. Countless happy and sorrowful, young and old, in love and lonely. Some faces I do not recognize, but many — mostly those of children — seem very familiar to me. I knew their parents as children when we were young. These beautifully diverse people! I look at them with the same thoughts.

Of all the fears available to them, which seems the most dreadful? A girl bitten by a stray dog now fears dogs. A heartbroken lover, since being left behind, will fear trusting others again. Meanwhile, the greatest fear of all is missing something. Every crack in this road. The pattern of peeling paint on building corners. The nagging thought gnawing at the weary mind of a dear one. Failing to notice it once can suddenly reveal that this thought can no longer be extracted from someone else’s head. Indeed, that head has become entirely foreign; it is the very head you manage to memorize along with every strand falling onto the pillow in a shared bed. The face becomes unfamiliar too. The gaze changes. As it reaches a fever pitch, that insistent thought hits its limit and becomes the sole source of movement. And how can one abandon it when moving has become so arduous?

Life goes on. The city has healed and forgiven all its offenders. It has not reproached anyone for its sorrow and has grown anew upon its own ruins. How disheartening it is that people cannot do the same.

My body has renewed itself thousands of times since it all happened, yet with each new gray hair and thread of wrinkle, I feel as though the past refuses to let me go.

Thousands of nights help to coexist with the past, but they do not allow for complete reconciliation. My mind was not mathematically inclined, and even after all these years, I am unable to approach the solution to the mysterious formula. The formula according to which that intrusive thought should have resolved itself in someone else's head. Perhaps it all comes down to the nature of the mind.

I turn around at the quiet thud almost automatically, no matter where in the city it echoes. An old man, bent under the weight of years, walks alongside me. Unable to discern the sound of his footsteps, I distinctly hear the rhythmic tapping of the metal tip of his cane.

The most understandable and sweet sound in the world.

Intermingling with the soft, creaky voice of a musician and his battered banjo, this thud itches somewhere deep in my chest. It is a melody from a long-gone past when both we and this city were still young. And if the city can still proudly stretch its countless concrete backs into a stately posture, I can no longer straighten my old shoulders. Side by side with this giant, we have been stretching in different directions over the years: the city upwards, and I towards the ground. We know each other better than anyone else. I greet every crack in this road and every pattern of peeling paint on the corners of buildings; and in return, the city greets me with a symphony of the most familiar sounds. It knows me well.

The shortest route to the Academy lies through the old market. Long ago, it was built perfectly: bright stalls, resembling one another and always impeccably clean, stood in neat rows without any garish variety. Many years ago, this city would not have tolerated excessive diversity even in its trading rows, and now there is a delightful fair every day. Small imperfections have given this place a special charm, visible in the colorful flags on now so different stalls and the great variety of goods from two cities. It is no longer necessary to display products in straight lines. It is not essential to adhere to the strict color palette of the city. And it is these inaccuracies that have infused the place with life.

As I walk along the very edge of the fair, not diving into the crowd, I habitually stop next to a stall where bags of nuts are displayed at face level. I lower my dry palm into the pistachios. I pick one up. Bringing it closer to my face, I squint. With age, my vision has become quite cloudy. This can be reconciled with when you know the city by heart, but some things still deserve to be examined thoroughly for the tenth or even hundredth time.

In a crack of the pale shell, a green side of an aromatic kernel has appeared. Without this crack, this little charming imperfection, would the bright nut be visible?

I still do not understand how I failed to notice it at first glance. Sometimes it seems that time has lost its count; my time is also nearing its end, and yet I cannot grasp so many things. When you are very young, it feels as if just a little longer and all the complexities of the world will become clear, that this understanding will inevitably come with age and experience. And here I am, already over seventy, still as bewildered as I was at twenty. And the morning is just as it was at twenty.

Crossing the gates of the Academy for the thousandth time, I do not hurry to enter the building. Not far from the entrance, a pedestal with tall, proud statues has recently emerged. I stand before them feeling quite small and catch myself thinking that now I truly feel tiny.

— Beautiful, isn’t it? — A voice sounds behind me, and I don’t need to turn around. The hoarse yet lively voice brings me back to my senses. I merely shrug. — You don’t like it?

— You know better how monuments should look, Ekko.

— Everyone decides for themselves what the monument should look like. — He concludes, standing very close and politely offering his elbow. — Really, Miss Dean, what don’t you like? Indeed, a cane and stoop are not the best epithets for a statue; that’s why they weren’t included.

I shrug again. He is the only person who speaks to me about these things as if nothing has happened. And he is the only one I am grateful to for it.

— It’s not about the cane.

— Then what is it?

The empty gaze of the statue looks into the distance, at the rooftops of the city. I don’t remember exactly, but his gaze must have looked the same way.

I never think about it at all. Never. I am deeply concerned only with the details of this city. Why should I remember anything else? And yet…

— Not a single mole on its face. There should be two, actually.

Ekko is silent, then he pats me on the shoulder. If I had retained my youthful boldness, I would lament this. He used to pat me on the shoulder with a lively cheer, as if teasing; now these comforting gestures do not touch me.

— Forgive the sculptors their little inaccuracy.

The city forgives everything.

— This is a beautiful work. The Academy was missing something monumental. Besides the huge building, there should have been something to make this place breathe.

Ekko leaves. He is not interested in long, candid conversations where one must piece together some deeper meaning bit by bit. He fears touching on certain things not so much out of a desire not to offend, but out of fear of stirring something in his own soul. He lost something in this city, too.

And still, reminders are everywhere. The city keeps its imperfections just for people like him. Every crack in the road. Every pattern of peeling paint on the corners of buildings.

The city tries to drive me into the Academy’s lecture hall with the booming sound of a bell, promising the start of classes. This ringing hasn’t changed for what seems like hundreds of years. It rang before us, rang when we were young, rings now, and will ring for many more years to come. This metal is not afraid of death or oblivion.

Tearing my gaze from the statue, I turn it back to the road that has been our path for so many years and now lies only before me.

The same melody still plays on. A musician by the entrance of a small shop is as old as the world itself. He was old when we were young, and he has played the same songs all his life. Their tender melodies have become part of my own consciousness; they cling to my mind so that I hear this music even on days when the old man with the weathered banjo does not come out to play. Strolling down this street always feels serene, almost perfect. It just lacks one small imperfection: the quiet tapping of a cane.

While the soft voice of the banjo hums in my mind, my legs lead me into the lecture hall. Hundreds of young faces, whose joys and sorrows this city will witness more than once, greet me with calm anticipation.

“Good morning, Dean…,” “Dear Dean…, I’d like to consult you about my new project…,” “Dean…, what if…»

Hundreds of voices hush as my bent silhouette stands at the lectern.

— May I have your attention. The materials for today’s lecture are not included in the late edition of the history manual. Everything you hear from now on will not be on the exam, so if you are not paying attention to the topic, there will be no consequences.

The lights in the lecture hall dim. A student sets up the projector, and with a gentle press on the metal lever behind me, a pale portrait blooms to life. With two beautiful moles on its face.

— Write down the topic.