by Alexei Raymond
Have you seen the moon tonight? It’s insane. I’m on Via Garibaldi. I noticed a brightness in the upper corner of the street, thinking it’s some crazy streetlamp, only it’s peeking right above the rooftops. Stunned me to see it so big. Actually, let me show you. I’ll take a photo of it, just need a better spot. It’s too bright here and there are things in the way. Maybe I’ll head to Monte dei Cappuccini, it’ll be better there. I’ll let you know.
So he will pick up the pace and the hard soles of his boots will clack against the slick bricks of the street with its stores unacknowledged. Soon he will emerge into the breadth and width of Piazza Castello, its dark gold, kings and queens, where on the far end of it stand the wrought black iron gates of the Teatro Regio. He will look at the entrance, the way he always does, longingly, then consult the black sky once more to make sure the moon is still there, still grand. It will hide for a bit or be obscured by this and that. Next the man will have to choose whether to walk down Via Po, the central aureate path down which lifeblood flows, which he will end up choosing, or go behind it, parallel to it, where buildings turn away to reveal ardor, rage, insight, tenderness: male, male, male, eu complice di genocidio, le bleu est la négation de l'immanence, the lovers.
Next you will find him weaving through passersby and those milling about in front of cafés, bars, in tightly tethered groups which will nonetheless part for the passage of those that come and go. Sometimes he will regard himself briefly in storefront reflections, bits of glass, and avert his gaze from those who sit or lie in rags, from shapely forms walking ahead. The portico will not allow him to check the moon. He will doggedly focus on the path and won’t be able to help but wonder whether he blends in, un altro signore. Or not. He will think that in time, with Her by his side, he will. Where Via Po ends streetspace will open into Piazza Vittorio Veneto, and he will abandon the portico, walk down the center where he will notice mistiness and light rain, how it gradually wets his thick coat as a layer atop it. He will refrain from touching and carry the minute droplets carefully. By this point he will be mid-piazza where he will remember to look skyward, and there it will loom large though translucently fuzzed by passing clouds. The sight and confluence of underlying emotion will stir him to gooseflesh and weight bearing down and illumination in the murk seeing him bestowing either judgement or fate, burning love or incomprehensible Night eye’s glare and ire, but only for a moment. The attempt to recapture it will be to no avail. Unrepeatable and particular.
He will continue to walk toward the moon and cross from the piazza to the bridge, that amalgam of Emanuele I, Napoleon, at the end of which stands the darkened, billboarded Gran Madre—besmirched. To the right rises Monte dei Cappuccini, toward which he will go up the incline and breathe hard in a struggle against himself, breathe harsh and try to be quiet as to not seem out of shape. He will pause, use the excuse and goal of the entire journey to attempt a capture of the luring satellite. So his breath will calm but the stop will yield no proper photos for black tangles and crisscrossing branches are obstructions and lamps dare outshine the moon which will seem smaller to his dismay. Strange. The momentary failure will motivate to go higher so he will pace up the winding road until he is met with Torino’s known vista. That which is seen and has been seen myriad times throughout years— the Antonelliana beloved and lit, snowcapped Alps somewhere back there guarding the horizon, for future mornings, days. He will approach the waist-height wall away from idling chattering youths and rest his eyes on the Po romantic, duly note the Savoyard city and feel sweat cooling his body. He will disengage from the vantage and turn to see the moon still not in clear view.
Turning back, he will see from between winter-nudened trees golden city gridstreets ornately carved into brick and stone, rising there into rounded shapes and distant lights from a height where they shouldn’t be, would be stars in any other place, but he knows there lie hills chief of which is the jewelled one, beaconed by the Basilica, regal tombs. It too he can never get right—will have to approach some other night. His phone will buzz then in the gloom. She awoke to no proof of how he’s seen the moon.
Hi my love. Please tell me when you come back if you are still out. I hope you took a hat and gloves. Isn’t it raining? In any case, I will wish you goodnight now before I fall asleep again. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.
He will wipe his forehead from cold sweat and feel it on his bare fingers, his palm. It will not be too cold out, though late, and the moon will still float to be caught. Perhaps it will all be for naught. He will stand and look at avenues for further proxima. There will rise a road snaking upward, ever upward, and he will think it must be it. Not a matter of luck and vantage but of pure height. The chosen road will slither and stretch, bordered by evergreen vegetation grown tall and so thick nothing aside from road is seen. He will march bolstered by the would-be letdown of I couldn’t and not willing to settle for but I tried. He will be transported then truly, so far, high up, where the road will turn pockmarked and brittle as if pulverized to essence over eons. Dust and illumination will no longer appear golden but ash-white, white will be the road as it will take bootprints from his soles, perfect prints bypassing craters trailing back home and Earth whence he came. So yes he will arrive, it will be true, and you could look up to see a dark speck upon its surface gwyn and it, he will look down will not believe yet, but what else could it be? From point A to point B. Primed, he will call down in great silence:
Here, can you see?
****
Alexei Raymond chases visions of unspeakable loveliness. You can find him in pieces on Twitter: https://x.com/enemyofcruelty