diumenge, 30 d’octubre de 2011

Ciutat i literatura,4. The City

Somehow I know you also used to do it. At your grandparents’ house, you would enter the library when no one was around in search of that single object necessary to perform your ritual. Your eyes would look instinctively for the pastel-colored patches floating over the light-blue oceans that slept silently beneath the window. Through aquamarine silk curtains, the light that managed to reach the globe spread a supernatural gloam across the room.
The initial pleasure was that of touching the sphere, that of knowing that under your fingertips swarmed thousands of beings in places with names as long and difficult to pronounce as the spells that were to take you there. The ritual itself was simple, but had to be executed with that same faith kneeling children breathe into their nightly prayers. You would make the whole world spin, and at once close your eyes and wait a few seconds before landing your fearless index finger where the universe had dictated that it landed, centuries before. You would bring the world to a stop. You would open your eyes and find out the name of the city where you were to live. You would then repeat the procedure, asking the sphere to tell you where the person who was meant to hold the key to your heart, and whose heart’s key you somehow secretly held, had been born. Finally, you would ask the name of the city where the two of you were to meet.
The ritual could take a few minutes. It was sometimes interrupted by your grandmother’s voice announcing that lunch was ready, but it had to be completed. You would then run to the dining room repeating through the labyrinthine disposition of the mahogany furniture the names that would lead you to your destiny. Knowing that despite the distance, no matter how long it took, you could already kiss each other, secretly, victoriously, as you simultaneously whispered the name of each other 's city.

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