Urban Vignette

She stood among the mass of people heading towards meaningless destinations. She was a small girl who wore only a plain white dress, an ephemeral flower that was suppressed by the surrounding gray. Gray suits, gray roads, gray buildings, gray sidewalks, gray sky.
So pitiful did her figure seem to me in its futile defiance that, unconsciously, I stretched out my hand towards hers.

It had been an impulsive motion, and I was more than a little surprised when the girl turned towards me with a delighted expression, as if she had run into an old acquaintance.
She placed her small hand in mine, responding to my previous gesture unhesitatingly.
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen a new face,” she said with a bright smile. “Would you like a tour of the city?”
Without waiting for my answer, the girl pulled on my sleeve and guided me through the crowds, down alleyways and deserted roads. I followed her without a word, bemused. I had many questions as to the identity of the child. Was she an orphan? Did she have a home to return to? Or perhaps, my more imaginative side suggested, she had been raised by gangs to roam the streets and kidnap unsuspecting tourists. I smiled to myself.
We arrived a few minutes later at an open café on one of the calmer side streets.

“So,” I asked once we had been seated, “what are we doing here?”
The girl was grinning at me, swinging her dangling legs playfully. “Enjoying the sights,” she answered.
I took in my surroundings but found nothing worthy of note. It was, after all, a city like any other; the landscape was riddled with skyscrapers and their pointless attempt to reach the heavens, the air was thick with noxious gases, and everything was of an irredeemably depressing gray.
“Watch,” the girl said, as if sensing my impatience.
And suddenly the horizon became a line of burning crimson; shafts of light shone through the interstices between buildings like miniature suns and the colours of dusk were reflected off the windows of the tall buildings in a myriad of brilliant shapes. For one unforgettable instant, the city had become a celebration of red, of movement and of light.
I was speechless before the spectacle.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” The girl was watching me with satisfaction. “Even a city as gray as this one has its rare moments of splendour.”
It was as if she had read my mind.
“So what would you like to see next, mister traveller?” She looked up at me expectantly. Two questions had been plaguing me for a while now, and I decided to ignore hers and pose them.
“How did you know that I’m not from here?” I asked her. “And who are you?”
Laughing, the girl simply stated, “I know everyone who lives in this city.”
This must have been a blatant lie, but I refrained from pointing it out.
“More importantly, what would you like to see next?” she repeated. “If you don’t have any suggestions, then how does a walk downtown sound?”

***

If one were to look at it through the lens of rational thought, the situation was admittedly ridiculous. I was in a nameless city far away from home, and I was being dragged around by this pseudo-guide of a girl who wasn’t even wearing any shoes. I did not know her name or her origins and had simply followed her on a whim, just like the time when I had decided to leave my home. With nothing but an old camera and a bit of money, I had walked down my doorstep one fine autumn morning for the last time.

We rambled through the streets aimlessly. Although I did not speak much, the girl was eager to share her knowledge of the city with me, and it was at this point that I began noticing something strange about her. I could not quite put my finger on the misplaced feeling at first, but as her monologue progressed it became clear as to what had been bothering me: simply put, the girl knew too much about the city. Initially, I merely believed that she was one of those rare children with a prodigious memory; she would point to a building arbitrarily and tell me the day it had been constructed, by which company, for what purpose and under what circumstances. She was aware of all the festivals, contests, and sales that were occurring or that would occur within the next couple of weeks. When an advertisement appeared on one of the electric billboards found on almost every main street, she would comment on how the product had affected the local economy and the health of the citizens. But it was not until she started talking about the citizens themselves that I knew something was off.

The darkness of night had long since taken over the sky, and we were walking along a nearly deserted avenue when the girl came to a sudden halt. “That’s Mrs. Wallace,” she said, turning her head towards an elderly lady who was crossing the intersecting street. “She’s been leaving her house a lot despite her rheumatism since her husband’s death. I wish there was something I could do for her.”
“Is that one of your relatives?” I asked, but her response was to simply continue walking. Her silence disturbed me, but I knew that it would be of no use to reiterate my question. The earlier lightness in her steps had disappeared; they were now heavy and hollow, and they reminded me of a pair of old wooden stilts I had seen a street performer embracing as he slept on the cold sidewalk in another city.
A few minutes later, the girl stopped again.
“That’s Doctor Gregor from 147, Norrington Street. His nephew is going to have a wedding in less than a month in Russia, but he won’t be able to attend because of his financial situation.”
This time, she was looking at a man who was slumped up against a wall, breathing heavily and mumbling to himself.
“How do you know that?” I asked again. “You can’t be related to every— ”
But my question was interrupted by the memory of something the girl had said earlier. I know everyone who lives in this city. It was impossible. Her statement could not have been true because this city was home to well over a hundred thousand people. It was unthinkable then, simply from a temporal perspective, that one could be acquainted with all of them. Another thing that pointed towards this conclusion was that none of the citizens seemed to have taken any notice of the girl. If, as she claimed, she knew all of them, then why hadn’t any of them even glanced at her?

“I said that I knew everyone who lived in this city, not that they knew me. But the truth is that they know me so well they can’t see me anymore. That is why I have to thank you for today.” For the third time, the girl stopped walking.  “This is as far as I go,” she said.
Lost in my thoughts, I had walked a little farther than her and was now just outside the boundaries of the city. She smiled sadly; it was a smile of nostalgia and of farewell. I knew somehow that this was the last time that I would be able to see her, knew that even if I turned back the next day and searched for the rest of my life, I would never find her again. For the first time since I arrived in the city, I took out my old camera.

“Would it be all right if I took a picture of you?”
She nodded.  “I’d like to ask you a question first though.”
I waited, feeling the weight of her every word.
“What do you think defines a city?”
And with that, I understood everything. My answer was already fully prepared, having matured from somewhere within the hatred I had had for the monotonous gray of the buildings, from the admiration for the glorious spectacle I had witnessed earlier, and from the sadness of the girl who stood in front of me.
I responded with confidence.
“A city is the embodiment of people’s desires. It’s not just a cluster of buildings and billboards and subways and cars—it’s those who made them, those who use them and even those who forget them. Whether it be nostalgia, love or disgust—all the feelings people have towards a city have a part in making it what it is.”
I had almost said everything I wanted to, but I knew there was still one thing the girl needed to hear.
“But that doesn’t mean that a city isn’t a distinct individual itself. Humans are born from their two parents, are even made of the very same flesh, and yet their existence is completely separate from them. A city just happens to have more than two parents. Isn’t that right, Beatrice?”
Although the girl’s sad smile remained, I could sense some relief in her features.
“Your explanation was too long and you can’t even put together a decent analogy,” she said teasingly. And then, in a softer voice, “I hope I meet more travellers like you.”
There were no more words to be said between us. I lifted the camera and looked through its lens.
A girl in a plain white dress was standing all alone in the middle of a wide street. Behind her was a signpost whose words were hidden by the darkness of the night.
I looked at her one last time and, hesitating for only a moment, pressed the shutter.

***

It’s been several years since I’ve taken up travelling. Sometimes I can find honest work to live off of for a while, and other times I’m obliged to beg in order to eat. Among my most prized possessions are the photos I have of my travels. One of them I find particularly curious, though I have no recollection at all of having taken it. The photo depicts a wide street narrowing into a horizon of indistinct clustered buildings. Because the photo was taken at night, it’s difficult to see anything besides the road and a lone signpost with the words “Beatrice City” written on its only sign. For some reason, a great emptiness fills me whenever I open my photo album and chance upon those words.