The City of the Moon

It was the first of January, the first day of a brand-new year, when she arrived in my town. Somehow, a shared cabin in a night train had seemed the lesser of two evils compared to a sad and lonely New Year’s Eve at home. After the breakup at the end of November and then again on Christmas Day, there had been little time to ask any friends if they might be willing to include her in their end-of-year festivities. In fact, the idea that they would, inevitably, tell her they had other plans, ones they were unable to include her in, broke her heart in a familiar and, therefore, all the more severe way and had kept her from asking entirely. Instead, she had fled. Unable to fall asleep, she had sat there all night, tears streaming down her face as the world had rushed by and the story he had written about them haunted her. There were no more than four chapters, a testament to how short-lived their romance had been, and though she hadn’t listened to the voice recordings for a while, her mind had chosen the lonely train ride to replay it all. Really, it had been her fault for deciding to flee to the very town he had made the backdrop to his story, but then, there were lessons only one teacher could teach, and so she had set out for what an old children’s book had once called ‘the city of the moon’. 

I decided to wait up to greet her that first day. Though dawn was already creeping in on me, I remained in the sky, glowing white and almost perfectly round, to look down at all those who, like her, had just arrived in my town. I lit her way through the winding streets and bathed everything in a pale sort of elegance that was enhanced by the water of the many canals and reflected on the colourful house walls. That first night, before she had even had a chance to see my city by daylight, I set out to heal her heart, her mind, and her pain, for I understood. How could I not? Separated from my own lover, never once able to share a life or even the sky with him, I knew everything there was to know about a broken heart.

I like to think I managed to soothe her a little bit before I had to leave that morning. Still, the following days were dominated by heartbreak and loneliness. These things take time, I reminded myself, having never been good at understanding the timeline of humans. So, as I waned more each night, she continued feeling raw and open, regretting the love and care she had so willingly given to a person that, once again, had not deserved it. She had spent her time thinking up bigger and better plans, presents that would mark her as a great girlfriend, gestures that would mark her as a great person. Whenever he had written, she jumped at the chance to prove her worth, for she had never learned that there was worth inside her already – intrinsically, unquestionably hers. This, then, was to be our first and most important lesson. 

Though my strength was fading alongside my appearance, I tried to make my presence known to her. I shone as bright as I could at night and performed my favourite tricks during the day: alabaster hands emerging from the water, I straightened particularly old houses, prevented footbridges from sinking or, otherwise, stole a laugh from the gondola drivers, gently rocking their boats. I made a show of it for her benefit, underlining the fact that I was there and ready to help, relishing in those rare moments when a smile crossed her lips. Operating on a short timeline, as I was, however, I also needed to introduce something else into her life that could keep that smile coming when I couldn’t do so myself. Without further ado, I introduced her to the best rosticceria in town, where I felt sure that a glass of prosecco and a plate of mozzarella in carrozza would help to lift her pain. The dish, created by layering a lone anchovy, juicy mozzarella and soft bread into a sandwich and frying the whole thing to melted gooey perfection, was the best remedy I knew, and I had enlisted its help with just about any heartbroken person who had come to find me. Then, frustrated at the idea of having to leave her all to her lonesome for three and a half days, I distributed a large handful of cold water on a nearby square and vanished. As always, I took all the colour with me. 

While my citizens were used to it – like taking a wrong turn and stepping into an old photograph once every twenty-nine and a half days – she was shocked to see the dark green window shutters, the weathered facades, and the glasses full of orange spritz and red wine being plunged into a greyscale universe. Her entire existence, her skin, her hair, her mood – already in a delicate state – followed suit. Having nothing else to go by, she concluded that her mind must have broken alongside her heart on Christmas Day or that the salty air had made short process of her brain, blocking its pathways like an old drain. This did nothing to aid my cause, of course, but I soon learned that she had been back to the rosticceria during my absence, clinging to the fried food like a lifeline, and that I counted as a win. 

Three and a half days later, I returned, bringing with me all the colour I had robbed, so vivid, so sudden that people had to shield their eyes and wear sunglasses, even in the depth of winter. Realising that everyone else seemed to be prepared for this to happen, she figured that there had to be some sort of rhyme or reason to it – aside from her personal brand of insanity, that was. It took her only this one time to understand that she might, in fact, not be losing her mind; three times until she found that there started to be pockets of time when he no longer crossed her mind; and five until she was able to trace the black and white periods back to my own invisibility. 

After about six months in my town, her steps grew lighter, her gaze more curious. She would start to smile at me more often, and I breathed a sigh of relief. She seemed to have taken my teachings well, finally recognising herself for the beautiful person she was, inside and out. When I had to leave again, for the sixth time after our first encounter, she remained sure in her steps and navigated the black and white world with grace, easily interpreting it for what it was: a necessary absence in order to notice, to feel, to love everything that came before and after –  a lover, a friend, a plate of mozzarella in carrozza.

Frustrating, as it is, to leave a fondling alone in a moment of crisis, in the end, it is this, the greatest gift I can give them. By disappearing, by removing everything that’s lovely and colourful, I show them how to appreciate the light and the dark, the growing and the waning, the colour and the grey. You see, dear reader, me and happiness; me and heartbreak; me and life are not so dissimilar. We are all here to stay, constantly present without always being fully there. It’s an eternal cycle that I, too, have to navigate and survive. And so, I teach these lessons to humans, and they flock to me whenever they are heartbroken, for they know I understand.