Rome 1821
How do you describe a city that no longer exist, even if you have seen it with your own eyes?
Do you remember the alleys that seemed to chase each other? And the greengrocer lady screaming and running after that little scoundrel who stole again and again her fresh grapes? Do you remember the paved road so bright and nice? And the stairs?
"The best staircase in the whole word," the woman would have declared, so stylish with her bonnet full of pink ribbons.
"So British and so out of place," you'd have grumbled. "We could have gone to the Stars' Fall of Effiour. Well, they're not actual stars, and there's no real waterfall, but the light is refracted on the surface of the wat- well, it shines. Don't you like shining things, Clara?"
"But you wanted to meet John Keats."
"You don't really wanna see John Keats dy- oh, look, roast chestnut!"
You never stop, never remember. There are no cities to describe. You let the memory glides away, as if it were an untied bowtie. It's less hurtful.
Fix your bowtie, Doctor. Link your arm with mine, and take me for a walk through Rome in 1821, let's go hear John Keat's last words, who somehow finds the strength to grin at you and your Fall of Effiour.
Then, hold my hand, and show me the place where you faced Septimius Severus, tell me of Michelangelo and the Gelths he met every night. Let's go hide under a colonnade, and let's poke around a fight between neighbours, a chubby barrister too short and too red and a couple of Zygons undercover and under a top hat. Let's save the world, the stars and the universe. In Rome, in 1821.
And then, stop. Listen to the baritone voice of a young man in a vest and shirtsleeves, with dark eyes and a lot of curls on his forehead, who's playing quietly a guitar. So quietly. But she is listening to him anyway, from up there, hidden behind the blinds, she's glimpsing and sighing.
I'll laugh, you'll get mad, flailing your arms around. "The little braggart! As if the road was his own property!"
"I think he's cute."
Then, let's dance a little, Doctor, in the middle of the street, as reckless as we are, it will be funny. Let me tease you to see you blush.
Hold me and make me sway, under the twilight, in Rome, in 1821.
"Every old idiot can sing about love, Clara," you'll whisper.
Look at me, Doctor. Give me back your eyes, green and sad, let me stroke your face, that big chin and your lively bowtie. You're such a child, old idiot. Let it go, let me save you, it's what I do best.
"And tell me, Doctor, what old wise men do? Do they mock with disdain those blabbering fools?"
Kiss me, Doctor.
"Ah, th- th-," you'll blabber, bewildered "They sing louder."
And then smile, please.
How do you describe a city that no longer exist?
Rome in 1821 is just a lost memory, glided away, as if it were a freed bowtie. Fallen on the ground.