Almanac Life: Not quite the third man

Not quite the third man

 

The rains ceases, the sun beams. On the ramparts half the city turns out. Half the city’s dogs too. A man walks by, all tall skinny elegance, on a lead he has a gleaming eyed wolf, and it really is a wolf, grey, thin, fit of rib to tail. I began to feel conspicuous. Is it only me with a bit of a waddle, too well fed, over indulged? I try to pick up the pace as the only person carrying my weight laughingly laps me, his joyful grin my way in the comradeship of the tubby. The entire crowd is like a cake walk, and I’m the only one with icing. The dogs stretch their backs, pining to run, black and tan magpies dawdle between stepping throngs of the well- heeled, immaculately dressed and turned- out locals. My now sloppy hand knitted teal jumper is a comfortable dead give-away, like a foreign gorse in an otherwise good paddock.

 

A dark tide of night falls. The drizzle adds sufficient noir to the lanes. A pianist, a soprano, and tenor are playing and singing Puccini and Verdi in the small Oratorio to the side of the Cathedral. The fountain has been turned on, and occasional heavy showers force the ornate spray into an ululation within the broadcast light policing the square.  I have my wool Italian suit jacket I bought at Myer in 2004 on, a scarf of finest hand-woven yarns, a hand knitted beanie tucked in a pocket, and the English language translation booklet open for the songs. The seats are hard, the program is only an hour long, and the audience keeps its coats on. Still, the performers vibrate the frescoes as though they are before a throng of thousands, take their bows, do an encore, and flirt unashamedly with the nodding front row.

 

Outside there are cars in this car less town. I’ve seen them before, small cabals of moving over sized computer mice, speedily scouring lean streets, seemingly in groups of five with unknown purpose, individually backed in between motor bike rows in the day, obscured and hidden to the unwary. Making my way slowly back the wetted air feels as close as a kiss. I lean into dark doorways of ancient iron and hardwood, avoiding the hunting pack going by. Ahead, from the partial glare of an upstairs window a form slides out of a gateway, smiles at me, flicks his head back and dashes further away. It is my friend from the wall, indulging the chase, taking the chance of solitary wild breath, dallying in the unwritten curfew of outsiders, the dream code tapping out on cobble stones, the morse of the bidden.

 

I am staying in a house on the crossroads, close to the Anfiteatro, in a shallow street with the Giunigi Tower at the end.  Lightning and thunder now batter like an interred siege, highlighting the wild sparse trees growing out of its roof, those MacBeth witches holding to the sickle moon. I can hear young voices making their way from the Owl Bar and I pause, recognising the eyes watching from the kink of driveway opposite where the oranges fall from the tree, splattering the citrus smell like a blessing. The wolf shakes its head towards my door and lopes away. I sit with a coffee, my landlady next door texts and asks have I had a good night, music calms the winter’s heart she says. At first the sound is unfamiliar, and I have to think where I have heard it, a zither, clash, then melody, from behind her door.

 

 

More from James Walton can be read Here.

 

 

 

More poetry from Almanac Poetry can be read HERE

 

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