The Plaza

The early evening light is the palest of blues. It marks closing time, the end of another cycle of light, to be replaced by twelve hours of darkness. The sun has just begun to fall behind the wall of straight buildings. Dozens and dozens of them make the city skyline. There are the large mirrored homes of finance that reach towards the clouds, the more squat government buildings and the high-rise condos marked on each level by balconies. Interspersed among the modern buildings are the few brick constructions that have managed to survive earthquakes and fires. Adorned with the marks of their craftsmen, they contrast with the straight, sleek lines of modern architecture.
Cutting through the clustered marks of men are geometrical streets. Black and marked with yellow lines, the roads sit without the faintest curve, providing only 90 degree angles in evenly divided intervals. The low golden sun shines against the reflected glass of the downtown buildings like light on sequins, calling out for one last acknowledgment before it says goodnight. Ample rectangles and squares shine like electric gold with its last rays.
The downtown streets are bustling. Men in dark tailored suits and women wearing black heels and fitted skirts flow out of the buildings and into the crowded sidewalks. They are like rivers that ebb and flow with the alarm clock’s set intervals.
In the middle of the financial center is a large cement plaza. The periphery of the plaza is a single row of green grass and sparsely planted trees that are thin and tall as some of the shortest buildings. Two sides of the plaza have buildings that create a wall behind it, but the other two connected sides are open and face two streets perpendicular from each other.
One of the open sides has a single doorway with an open wrought iron gate. The doorway is made of stacked rocks and mortar, but the long walls around it have fallen long ago, leaving only the frame of the doorway and the tall gate itself.
The flow of business people walk through the square diagonally, coming from the corner beside the wall and the street and flowing out through the wrought iron gate. Close to the center of the plaza is a young blond woman with a microphone. She is talking and pointing to the moveable statue of a thick man with a trombone held to his mouth. Coming out of the trombone is a large fake tuna fish. A small crowd of business people are gathered around the woman and the statue. They are laughing at each pause in her speech, nearly doubling over with her jokes.

Gilded Building

A dark narrow street opens and expands into a large open air plaza. The large square space is covered in smooth pale bricks that approximate the colors of earth and clay and dried grass. The differently hued bricks trade places with each other and create a speckled palette for the eye. There are dozens of tourists and gray pigeons that mingle in the plaza, all of them walking slowly, gazing at the ground, at the buildings, taking in the bright sunny day. In the center of the plaza is a short waterless round fountain that is nearly invisible with the throngs of people surrounding it. Men in shorts and T-shirts have their cameras in front of their eyes, attempting to capture the architecture around them.
To the left of the entrance and on the right side of the plaza is a simple one-story building which has an open, dark hallway cut through the middle of it. It houses the maintenance supply room and a small gift shop. There is an air of stillness and mystery that surrounds the darkened hallway. There is no one moving through it, either into or out of the square. Directly in front of the entrance are two tall rectangular buildings, each covered in white stucco. To the left of the entranceway is a grand and imposing building covered in smooth white stucco. Its bottom resembles a rectangle and in the center is a large arched doorway made of planked wood. Many thin plate-glass windows line the front face of the building, each one is outlined in dark blue trim. The center of the roof is domed and covered in gild. In each of the four corners there are clusters of squat gilded towers of varying heights. The dome and towers gleam in the bright sunlight.
Inside, the domed building is crowded with row after row of long wooden bench tables and back-less wooden benches acting as seats. Upon all the tables are place-settings of tan porcelain and white linen napkins and crystal goblets. The seats are occupied by men and women who sit shoulder to shoulder. The women are in matching maroon dresses that have low horizontal necklines and reveal plump bosoms and lacy camisoles tucked beneath the maroon satin. The bust-lines are tight and synch at the waist, but the skirts are made full with white petticoats. Each woman has her hair held back in a woven hairnet that has pearls embedded in each crossing thread. The men’s suits are made from the same maroon satin. There are matching trousers and blazers and white shirts with ruffles that protrude from the chest and rise to the collar. On their heads are brown brimmed hats adorned with red feathers on the right side.
Each man and woman practices lifting their spoons in perfect unison. The lifting of their hands, the way each expertly holds their spoon, reveals the insignia tattooed on the small piece of skin between their thumbs and index fingers. There is a maestro at the front of the room, a thin woman who has the posture, body, and dress of a man. She holds a thin metal rod to communicate with the group in unison.

Four Ways

The alley is clean of debris. A pale gray isle of concrete is flanked on either side by corrugated steel panels. They are free of graffiti and grime, only a faint chalky layer of undisturbed dust has settled on their matte surface. Here and there the corrugated panel give way to a stretch of chain link fence, revealing an urban expanse of concrete. These glimpses are ghostly, void of any movement, or even signs of life. No streets or sky scrapers may be detected; they are not there. Only a desert of abstract concrete plazas and occasional smatterings of chain link cloistered around empty yards of asphalt. The alley opens into such a plaza. It is covered by a large Constantinoplan dome which hangs over a concrete gazebo with yawning arches on four sides.
Where the alley meets one of these archways, a vendor is positioned with a box of round lollipops hanging from his neck. His hands are gloved with fingers exposed in black and purple striped stockings, which are just visible from under the cuffs of his dirty coat. He wears a dingy straw cap from the striped band of which dangles a silk flower, it’s yellow color blotted out behind darks smudges of grease and soot. A wrinkled red scarf is tied around his throat. A visible layer of soot is cast all over him. His toes poke from holes in his sock out of holes in the tips of his shoes. The brown tops separate from the soles like yawning hippos when he moves on his feet.
As people stream by out of the hall, he presses lollipops into their hands as if they are VIP passes. The trickle of individuals tends to clot were he stands dispensing the brightly colored confections with an air of importance.
Inside the plaza, barkers announce the attractions to be found beyond the other archways. One wears a black silk top hat and a worn red jacket coupled with dirty white leggings and high black boots. The jacket hangs open to reveal a dirty striped T-shirt worn over a roll of belly fat. It all hangs from him like a weathered second skin. He stands before a great wooden sign with white lettering inviting and beckoning the folks milling about in the plaza to pass through his archway.
There are other grubby looking vendors peddling their wares. Some hang back in the shadows, other linger in the center arresting the attention of all of those who pass their way. They sell all manner of oddities, silver spoons and old ties, empty cookie tins, and birds houses. Cigars and peanuts and candy are also to be had; there is even a glass walled popcorn cart with its polished silver kettle popping loudly behind the glass and red and gold lettering.
One archway leads to yet another tattered gentlemen pushing lollipops. Beyond him an auditorium with stadium seating is filling up with an assortment of people, young and old. Many are clustered together in groups; a pair here, a trio there, a quintet up front... Some seem to be families, others are packs of friends. A few are seated alone. Projected upon a screen at the front of the auditorium, a spy movie plays out. Much of its appeal lies in that it is a color remake of an older black and white film. Most of the viewers are engrossed in the well known story. Some move from one seat to another, unable to find the perfect spot. In the dim room, the furnishings are still very distinguishable. The carpet is goldenrod in color, clean but worn. The folding seats are all fashioned with faux wood laminate.
A lean man in a crisp dark suit, white shirt and tie, stands near the projector at the back of the room. The image from the screen dances as a reflection upon the lenses of his silver rimmed eye glasses. His posture is erect, his hair neatly trimmed. In his hand he holds note cards with facts about the movie, its plot, political implications, details about the performers, the director, the writer, and the producers.