I kept looking at Ugolino and his sons; stones with lifelike qualities, where death gave the impression of resurrection. I felt a chill, and then remembered a Biblical verse for some reason: even the stones will praise me. These bodies were not praising anyone, God at the least, but they were so much alive with pain, hunger and the ultimate instinct for survival. A father was going to eat his own children, and I felt like a witness who had to observe the act and not do anything about it. I wanted to run, but somehow I was chained to the floor, I wanted to flee, but what about the children, who would save them? Then a voice brought me back to reality.

“So overpowering, don’t you think?”

“Yes, like everything else in this museum.” I responded with curiosity and turned in the direction of the voice. I looked at the man talking to me – probably in his mid-forties; his brown hair was thrown back and his forehead hinted a brave nature. His hazel eyes held a soft sparkle in them, one would think he was almost crying, and his cheeks complimented his strong jaw with a nebulous hole. For a moment, I felt that he was looking at me with the same detail and I turned my eyes toward the sculpture again. But now, I did not see the father almost eating his own fingers, but rather, a parent whose cannibalism is not an instinct for survival, but of salvation.

He walked gently toward the sculpture and I heard his whispery steps echo in the gallery. “I always find it fascinating how there is a sense of duality in all these art works.” He spoke in a low voice. “Contrast is really the main element, as if artists want to show that original sin, that first meal from the tree of knowledge of good and evil.”

“I think there’s so much more than contrast or a meal.” I replied and felt certain giddiness. “We are complex in our simplicity. We are selfish, and yet, we’re also able to die for another. We are able to forget ourselves and our instincts, our origins and even our yesterdays, for the sake of something as curious as the future.” I stopped, looked at him and noticed his eyes fixed on my mouth. I turned my head toward the sculpture and continued, “This father desires nothing more than his children to live, yet he’s conquered by hunger. His children are conquered by hunger. Should he let them eat one another, or should he just eat them to save them from turning into beasts, from being excluded from purity, from heaven itself?”

“That’s one way of looking at it.” he asserted letting a smile escaping his lips. “Or perhaps, one way of justifying a parent’s crime.” He finished his statement with a sort of a challenge in his voice, which I accepted and responded.

“I think we don’t know what we would do until we find ourselves in certain situations. It is with the assumption of being better than others that we decide if something they do is wrong or right.”

“Have you been here long?”

“Excuse me?” I looked at the man and noticed another smile hiding at the edge of his lips. He noticed my bewilderment and approached closer. “Mitch. I have lived in New York for about five years now, and I can see you’ve come just recently.”

He didn’t extend his hand and I kept mine in the pocket of my coat. “Oh, I see, yes, nice to meet you. Adele. I came about a year ago. How could you tell?”

“Well, the difference between tourists and new comers is that tourists hold that glitter of marvel in their eyes. They’re constantly on other people’s way and they walk with their heads up. Unlike them, we miss the sky we’ve left behind, we know we don’t have a choice but to keep our head down and think of it as we walk and try to get where we need to on time. We curse the tourists, envy them, and try to love this city despite its devastating power. Do you live close by?” he said the last words in an undistinguished tone, catching me again by surprise. I stammered and recollected myself.

“Um, no. I came to have lunch with my husband.” I said dipping my hands further in my pockets almost breaking through the fabric. “You know, though, I think this city is the epitome of the perfect love-hate relationship. Yes, I miss looking up, and instead of these gigantic thorns of sky scrapers I want to see open skies, but somehow I feel the sky wouldn’t be the same without them. You know, sort of like a face that has finally gotten used to its wrinkles and accepts them for what they are, the many paths of life engraved on skin.”

We moved from the sculpture and walked toward a short corridor into another gallery. I was lost in the works and continued almost forgetting that this man was walking alongside me.

“Didn’t work? The lunch?” he interrupted the silence

“Not exactly. We’ve decided to have dinner.” I said, but my voice quivered.

“Any place nice?” he said, without noticing my uneasiness.

“Tavern on the Green.” I said and noticed the entrance to the Egyptian gallery.

He chuckled. “The place is shutting down in a month or two. It’s a good thing you’re going to see a New York City landmark before its extinction.” Then he changed his tone and asked looking at my belly, “How far along are you?”

“Yes, I heard. It’s such a shame, but somehow I have a feeling it will return. Like The Plaza – it never shut down.” I lowered my eyes and took my hands out of my pockets. “Seven months.”

We entered the Egyptian gallery. I always enjoyed the skylight in that room. It was as if the sun traveled from Egypt to this little spot in New York City just to bring some of its desert shine, a scent of the Nile, and perhaps, some divine power wrapped in thousands-years old mummies. The cats were my favorite thing to see. Their story was something that made me think about evolution in a way that wasn’t biological, rather psychological. Domesticated – such a demeaning word. I preferred to think that cats allowed themselves to be wild while being soft and independent, while being giving and generous. I think they chose to be tamed. It’s something that also comes with motherhood; that mystical power of strength and humility that seldom one notices in any other species.

I felt the baby move and at the same time felt a piercing sensation on my feet. I was tired and wanted to seat.

“You like cats, don’t you?”- he asked.

“What’s not to like? They love and at the same time allow one to be free.” I said and sat myself on the steps by the Temple of Dendur.

“Yes, it’s true. I like them, too.” He said and sat by me. “There are a few strays in the back of the apartment where I live, and I try to feed them when I can.”

“It takes a strong man to like cats.” I said and smiled. “I believe you know they could survive even without you.”

“Yes, that’s also true. They don’t need me. They simply acknowledge what I try to do and in a way, they’re thankful.”

The stream of water in the oasis in front of the temple made light shine and reflect on the walls a beautiful geography of shapes. Mitch stood up and I could see he was very well built, not necessarily the work out kind of built, but strong without being flashy. He turned and said “Well, nice meeting you Adele. I hope you get used to being overwhelmed.”

I smiled and nodded. “Nice meeting you too, Mitch. You know, this place – I feel, is the belly button of this city. The blood of so many cultures and histories framed on these walls, sculpted and living in these galleries, and feeding those who have to live here with the peace of feeling complete while overwhelmed. I am glad I don’t have to pretend to be a tourist, but simply love and hate it at the same time. Have a great one.”

He left. I remained with my thoughts and remembered the father and the children, the cats, the water, its tricks and finally, the sparkle that filled this museum, and reminded me why I came here so often. New York City never cries. It holds its tears right here, in this place and one can feel its deepest joy or sadness and confess to it, add to it, take away from it, and be one with it. I stayed like that for perhaps an hour, or a minute, I don’t know. When one is so lost in thought, time becomes irrelevant. It was easy to get lost and accept everything, the good, the bad – the truth for whatever it is.

The baby in my womb moved and I grabbed my bag and got up. I walked slowly toward the exit and took a deep breath as the fresh air of November pierced through my nostrils. Being up those steps felt like being on the Everest (or at least that’s how I thought one felt when one climbed the tallest mountain of the world). Fifth Avenue was busy with its buses, taxis, people and tourists. I walked down and went to the station to wait for my bus. I wasn’t going to the Tavern. I had hoped for it, but my husband and I had arranged that date a long time ago, (or that’s how it felt) before he left me. I held a soft laughter inside me as I realized the irony of a landmark being shut down and my own marriage ending. At least it was ending here in this city where one can always find themselves one way or another. The bus came and I got on. As I found a seat and looked through the window I noticed Mitch meeting a woman and embracing her. The gleam in his hazel eyes had gone and I knew he had left it at the Metropolitan, just like I had done. The bus started. I turned my head to see that iconic attitude of the Met once more and felt as if it spoke to me: “What the world forgets, NYC remembers.”

# # #

Aida Bode is a poet and writer from former communist Albania, whose works have been published in a variety of online and print magazines including Prelude, 34th Parallel, Allegro, West Texas Literary Review, Transcendent Zero Press, Three Line Poetry, Raven’s Perch, Vayavya, and more. She’s the author of the well-received novel David and Bathsheba, based on the biblical story of King David and Bathsheba. Her writing style is characterized by a poetic sense filled with deep philosophical wonder.

Aida holds a MA in English and Creative writing from Southern New Hampshire University. More information about Aida and her writing can be found at www.aidabode.com.

Photo: Metropolitan Museum of Art