The Legend of Don Conrado Pt. 6

He stepped back from this curb — our don (or perhaps we could now refer to him as our newfound philosopher?*) — just in the nick of time; for a paceline of cyclists — in some blazing hurry down the narrow bridge adjacent to his person — cursed indignantly in his direction. With one enthusiastic chap (from yonder down the end of the line) hurling the following salutation: “Out of the way, you muppet!” It was as if — in some bizarre foreshadowing from another famous tale** — this one particular high-ranking two-wheeler would’ve run him clean over, and without so much as a second thought; perhaps even (and in good measure) tossing a single circulated one-pound coin at his person and thus fulfilling an ancient prophesy — and, indirectly igniting an uprising in all the cyclists who ruled these here parts in this rendition.

And so it had thus transpired: that our noble don, who was out and about after years of what could only amount to a stoic retreat and study (yet with some false pretexts no doubt thrown into the account to amuse the reader) had just been extended a formal gesture of goodwill and tidings by this one particular cyclist of high rank: this driver and chieftain of the two-wheelers; who, demonstrated exceptional pace-like skill, and was both a ‘natural’ in form and function — leading from the back of the line. And he could not be more taken in by it — he could not be more captivated by this acknowledgement of his very own existence as a force within this unique realm and habitat; by the grace of this sovereign and independent entity, going about his usual busy way — this supreme leader of the noble cycling order!

And so he stood for a moment here on this very bridge, and took in his surroundings, absorbing them as his own — like a newfound country; or perhaps some explorer would, upon having landed aground, in some bygone age — nor, better yet, as some vanquisher! (though, of course, his appearance and his method — royal sash and all***— no doubt would’ve suggested otherwise to these foot-pedalling and umbrella-wielding inhabitants). And whilst he was fully aware of his delusional state, his vision, at present, was as pure as the rainwater that surrounded him. Indeed, he envisioned a book nestled within one of these libraries with his name etched into the very front cover, and he became somewhat amused at the thought of his own personal history taking up space in these lofty quarters — whether it should be a banned book or not.

Captivated by what he saw, nonetheless, he moved forward; and upon further reflection and some observation, his eyes focused again into the distance where there was not just ‘one’ spire from some lonely and distant gazebo to entertain him, but many a-spire, everywhere — from what appeared to be an enclosed fortress; or perhaps, even a citadel of a sort. He must be dreaming, he surmised; for it was as if he had descended from a cloud through some ancient and forgotten age — where a siege of ceaseless rain battered the honey-coloured vertical slabs, and where the inverted sea lapped against it, for untold centuries, as if it were an ironclad warship. And with the prospect of endless more rain to come, these spires stood, stubbornly erect and unyielding, just as he stood now — with a commanding presence atop the vessel’s prow; fit for any knight-errant come from lore.

A road in the distance, bordered with limestone, stained glass windows, and a collection of these spires, carved off in one direction. And in the opposite direction, the road forked at a traffic light and continued onwards. Shops lined these streets, and quaint homes built side by side followed these far into the distance. He had but two choices — two directions to travel****; and so he picked the cobbled road that led towards the collection of these spires; drawn at once toward the architecture, he hustled forward.

*Nietzsche, Friedrich. Beyond Good and Evil. Translated by Walter Kaufmann, Vintage Books, 1989.

**Dickens, Charles. A Tale of Two Cities. Penguin Classics, 2003.

***Salinger, J. D. The Catcher in the Rye. Little, Brown and Company, 1951.

****Frost, Robert. “The Road Not Taken.” Mountain Interval, Henry Holt and Company, 1916.