c h r o n o g r a p h i a

We take the shot driven by the urge to stop the time.

Being the last visitor, I climb the minaret’s stairs by three steps at once. Up, the sun’s light is almost dazzling. I need a few minutes to adapt my eyes after the dark and narrow staircase. The red sun is still warm here, but, down there, the city is covering in shadow. I can understand, now, why muezzins feel so close to heaven. Well, being sunset, it’s time to hear his voice. I can remember this voice spreading over the city. Long time ago, in my childhood, my parents, coming to the seaside, used to stay at a Muslim in a small apartment nearby, above a restaurant, called “Pescarus – The Seagull”. In the evenings we used to get out in the bazaar: smoke, smells of grill, kebab, and anchovy and sand-coffee. And crowds, a lot of crowds.
I easy find the building entrance, but the restaurant has disappeared. Next, two fast-foods, side by side, remembers me that I’m in a tourist's city. But no smells, the exhaust is doing a good job. Too good, perhaps. And no bazaar, like it has never been there. Modern luxury cafes claim a decade tradition, but there is sand-coffee there. And no more crowds too. Near the Mall is deserted. Only tree attendances have a smoke break, and a lost grandfather is searching for the bus stop. Somewhere in the night I can hear the voices of some playing children. But, no muezzin’s voice.
Constanza, August, 2009

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