Gomorrah

The Tourist

The city square trembled with light. The sun, catching on the jets of water from the fountains, reflected flickeringly on the faces of passers-by; the sun, shining through shuddering leaves threw flickering shadows. On the shiny bald head of the man sitting at a table of an open-air bar, the man on holiday -- or had he really broken all the bonds, had he really left for good? -- the man who was observing the scene with pleasure uncomplicated for once by any guilty sense of a duty not fulfilled. He was drinking a refreshing local speciality, a mixture of wine and pomegranate juice, blood-red but ice-cold.

People were milling about. Milling was the word, the tourist thought, because they came and went nowhere but circled the square endlessly, like the numerous pigeons that dodged their feet. There were lovers: the girl in a sleeveless red and orange dress, the man in an open-necked turquoise shirt, embracing constantly and unselfconsciously. At home, the tourist would have disapproved. He would have been embarrassed. But no such stringencies applied here. He smiled indulgently. Such youthful abandon! Such unbridled happiness! The intertwined couple paused in front of some street acrobats, a troupe of midgets and dwarves, bumping and bouncing and falling hilariously. A nun approached the tourist, collecting for some mission, and although he usually didn't, he gave generously because the day was so beautiful and he felt so happy.

A mother wheeled her pram past the bar. The tourist had noticed her before, too. She must have circled the square at least six times. Maybe, if she stopped, the baby would start to cry. Once more she passed the tourist, looking neither to left nor right, past the bar, past the acrobats, past the fountains, under the trees, dappled by sunlight, past the police station inconspicuous but for a fat officer standing on its steps. The tourist was reassured by the presence of the fat officer. It was good to feel that even in strange and exciting foreign cities the rule of law was still upheld. The fat officer stood watching the scene, unconsciously banging the baton held in his right hand off his left.

Across the square, as far as possible from the police station but equally visible to the tourist from his convenient vantage point, groups of traders had their stalls: a peddler selling toys, carved wooden animals, shadow puppets, brightly painted whistles in the form of birds, brightly dressed rag dolls; a fruit seller his cart piled high with polished apples red and green, grapes purple and green, oranges, lemons, grapefruits, aubergines, sweet peppers green, yellow and red, peaches, apricots, cherries, bananas. At another stall a young woman in the uniform of a maidservant was buying armfuls of flowers in all shades of yellow, red and gold, burying her dark head among them in sensuous delight. No doubt attracted by the possibilities, an amateur artist had set up her easel nearby and was recording the scene with impressionistic blobs of colour. Passers-by paused for a minute to look, quickly losing interest and moving on. In a minute, the tourist thought lazily, I will go over and take a look too, and maybe even offer to buy the picture as a souvenir.

The babble of voices, laughter, a shout, the splashing of the fountains, trills of birdsong and the continuous cooing of the pigeons were suddenly drowned out by loud discords: a young man dressed all in black leather and clutching a ghetto blaster was walking through the square in a diagonal line, as though striking it out. He paused, however, to take in a sign advertising a rock concert, the latest sound, a band that even the tourist had heard of, short though his stay in the city had so far been: The Martyrdom of St Sebastian. Goths, the tourist thought distastefully, having hoped to see no more of them.

As he continued to watch, the young man removed from a bag slung over his shoulder a sticker with the message TONITE!!! emblazoned on it. This he slapped across the concert notice. Tonight, the tourist thought indifferently. He could go if he wanted to, out of curiosity, to absorb more local colour. Or he could walk the night streets and do the same for free. It was his business and no one else's. He could even go to bed early, if he wished. He had spent his life going to bed early for one reason of duty or another. Now if he wanted to he could go to bed early simply to please himself. He sipped his blood-red drink.

The music faded as the young man went on his diagonal way and a simple tune took its place, a tune played on a tin whistle. It reminded the tourist of something he could not quite remember and he looked round. At first, he could not identify the source of the sound. Then he spotted a piper in deep shade, leaning against a tree, apparently indifferent to the pennies that came his way, playing his melancholy little tune to the pigeons. The tourist closed his eyes and listened, trying hard to remember. It was almost there. He almost had it.

When he opened his eyes again, the piper was blocked from his view by a protester holding high a placard that read END CORRUPTION NOW. The fat police officer had seemed to come to attention, the tourist thought. At least, he was banging his baton off his left hand with a greater urgency, a faster rhythm than before. The tourist sighed with pleasure and curled his toes inside his light shoes. He would never go back. Never.