cecilia

You reproach me for each of my stories transporting you to the very heart of a city without speaking of the space that stretches between one city and another: whether covered by seas, fields of rye, forests of larches, or marshes. I’ll respond with a tale. In the streets of Cecilia, a renowned city, I once encountered a goatherd who, while brushing against the walls, herded a tinkling flock. “Blessed man from heaven,” he paused to ask me, “can you tell me the name of the city where we are?” “Gods be with you!” I exclaimed. “How can you not recognize the illustrious city of Cecilia?” “Have pity on me,” he replied. “I am a wandering shepherd. My goats and I sometimes traverse cities, but we cannot distinguish them. Ask me the names of pastures: I know them all—Meadow among the Rocks, Green Slope, Grass in the Shade. Cities, to me, have no names; they are leafless places that separate one pasture from another, where goats startle at crossings and scatter. The dog and I run to keep the flock together.” “Contrary to you,” I affirmed, “I only recognize cities and don’t discern what lies beyond. In uninhabited places, every stone and every blade of grass merge in my eyes with all stones and grasses.” Many years passed since then; I came to know many other cities and traversed continents. One day, I walked amidst corners of identical houses: I was lost. I asked a passerby, “May the immortals protect you, can you tell me where we are?” “In Cecilia, if it weren’t for the truth!” he replied. “For so long, we’ve been walking its streets, my goats and I, and we can’t find our way out...” Despite his long white beard, I recognized him from that time. He was followed by a few scrawny goats that no longer even emitted a stench, so reduced they were to skin and bones. They chewed on dirty papers in the trash bins. “It can’t be!” I cried out. “I, too, at some point, entered a city and have done nothing but wander its streets since. But how did I manage to arrive where you claim, if I was in another city, far away from Cecilia, and I still haven’t left it?” “The places have mixed,” said the goatherd. “Cecilia is everywhere; once upon a time, the Sage Meadow should have been here.” My goats recognize the herbs that grow in the center of the avenues.