Arcades

And the young men stood against that famous limestone and they smoked. Above them, the iron and glass of the arcade and above even that the sky clouded and gray. Silence. They were quiet as they smoked. All that could be heard was the tapping of heavy rain on the panes and the sky was rolling, dark and clouded and unknown.

Spring showers. The covered alleyway made quite naturally a home for the young men. Here the air was dry and quick and buoyant with fragrant smoke. On occasion a door would be opened and a long gust of warm wet wind would blow through, twisting among the pillars, murmuring softly. As though it carried the voice from times long gone. Stood in their long coats of blue and gray the men spoke easily and they were pleased.

An old man passed by. His coat was in the old style, rough and gray, the lapels turned up to hide his old face. The sudden smell of damp brick and old waters. The youths watched him with suspicion. His gait was odd and stiff, quick, as though he had somewhere to go. His eyes downturned. Perhaps he sees something among the old cobblestone. He is a professor. The youths know him well.

One hundred years of astute mathematics have written themselves in the very lines of his face. The adding of sums. The calculation of yield and return. You can see, you can see in his forefinger the nook upon which rests the pencil, that wooden implement, as it extends his mind onto the page. Hands crooked and fat and covered in long, deep creases.

In the halls of the university he is the one who speaks. The young sit in his classes and while the rain roars torrential he espouses his mathematics. “What matters, gentlemen, is how you use what you learn here, in these halls,” and his bushy brows fly up and he tries to smile, but the young men don’t buy it, not for one minute. They hear him even here. “A tangent touches a curve exactly once,” and the youths sigh for they know this to be impossible.

The old professor passed by. As he did a draft of wet storm air followed him from the door and lifted his hat from his head. For a moment it seemed as though he too would be lifted but the spirit of gravity held him fast to the ground. At this the young men could not help but laugh and the professor laughed too without knowing why and he passed by.

Charles watched him disappear down the street with strange excitement and then he began to speak. The words poured from his mouth like the water in the dirty streets. “Perhaps, you know, these sorts of things can be passed down… In the most dynastic sense of the phrase. Have you seen the racing horses, down at the the track?” He pulled on his cigarette, his long, thin fingers trembling. “Have you seen them? They are beautiful, noble creatures. Tall. Built out of stone… Written in their faces is their whole history.”

And Benjamin threw his cigarette butt to the ground and stomped it out. His great ruddy face peered radiating from beneath his chestnut curls. “Us! A cultural institution! A terrifying thought.” And the youths laughed, and in this laughter was something new.

“We can once more become noble,” Charles said softly, the smile never leaving his face. And the youths nodded and agreed and the warm wet winds blew in again, bringing the scent of mud and the rain and the muddy churned up streets and the whole sky seemed about to burst and the whole sky is pregnant with light.