Eludia

Those of you who are familiar with Italo Calvino’s rendition of Marco Polo’s account to Kublai Khan of the cities in his empire, might wonder why the traveler omitted his impressions of Eludia, a metropolis with which I am familiar.

When you arrive at Eludia, you enter a city which appears unremarkable. Protected by sturdy walls, boulevards are surrounded by handsome houses. In the thriving market, old men sell oranges and avocados, young men hawk knick-knacks and girls stroll with their arms around one another’s waists. The population enjoys well-funded amenities and when they are not at work can relax in public parks with fountains, amusements and ice cream vendors. Order is maintained by gendarmes equipped with truncheons to deter thieves and flags for directing traffic. When a pedestrian accidentally brushes against someone proceeding in the opposite direction, each apologizes to the other, bows slightly and continues along their way.

If the young Venetian had tarried longer in Eludia, not merely pausing to partake of spiced fruits and marvel at the bas-relief effigies of the city's rulers embellishing the façade of the city hall, he would have observed a peculiarity in the demeanor of the inhabitants. Many appear of sunny and optimistic disposition. Smiles play about the corners of the women's mouths, the men whistle as they tend cattle waiting to be auctioned. But an equal number, no less prosperous in appearance and chaperoning equally handsome beasts, would have struck him as unaccountably morose.

This division is caused by the citizens’ compulsion to examine their appearance each morning in their mirrors. If their looking glass detects discomfort, perhaps occasioned by some imperceptible disturbance of the digestion, it will return an unattractive image. A woman's luxuriant auburn hair might be degraded to scant grey locks, while a man’s noble bearing may be reduced to the stoop of a pauper. Such images portend bad luck and the viewer is beset all day by the fear of possible disasters, which may turn out to be as trivial as a broken shoelace or as momentous as the loss of a ship. Those who appease the mirror, whether as a result of a temperate appetite or simply by a fortuitous flicker of the eyebrows, are rewarded with a flattering reflection indicative of good fortune, and hope to find a coin in the street or celebrate the birth of a healthy child.

After a week in Eludia, Marco Polo would have begun to wonder at the fluctuation of the temperaments of the barista in his coffee shop and the costermonger who supplied his apricots. Anyone who betrayed fear on one day, would on the next seem positive, while those who were optimistic the previous day are now possessed by gloom. These rhythms are a consequence of the predictions of the looking glasses. Those who are buoyed by receiving a pleasing countenance on one day and relish the prospect of success become gradually more fearful of the next day's forecast and transmit their anxiety to the capricious mirror thus forfeiting its goodwill. Those who have been vexed by impending bad luck, become hopeful that the next day will bring improvement, and the mirror responds accordingly.

The seeds of each day's mood is inherent in the previous day's forecast thereby keeping the city of Eludia in equilibrium and enabling its mercantile activities and civic affairs to function effectively at the price of the perpetual torment of its population.