In this city, there are no houses or buildings, just rooftops, windows and attics, towers, terraces, balconies, dovecotes and chimneys. There are no roads in the City of Rooftops, only bridges and corridors, tubes and staircases that run through the foggy streets below. Here, in the City of Rooftops, people don’t live by day, but at night by the light from the moon and stars. An endless labyrinth of windows with lights shining through them and round street lamps stretched to the horizon, beyond places where nobody had ever set foot before.
‘This city,’ said his uncle, ‘is a city of painters, poets, musicians, historians. It’s where forgotten memories go, it’s where old photos with creased corners live, it’s the place for those old stories nobody reads anymore, for those music scores people don’t play anymore and for those canvasses people no longer paint on because the passage of time has consigned them to oblivion.
‘Here come those who know the world isn’t just cold and grey, those who hear echoes of stories when they hear the rain, stories that feel real and are filled with places far better than where they live, places that are waiting for someone to find the door that leads to them. This is the place for those who haven’t yet lost hope because only those who still hope can find the way.’
The Argestes landed on a stone platform on top of a tower while the city came into focus below. Xonás really paid justice to all the tales of his piloting skills since the landing was particularly smooth.
‘Professor, I suppose you want us to wait so we can take you back?’ asked Xonás as he closed the relevant valves.
‘Yes, please. If you don’t mind, we’ll be back in a few hours,’ replied Basilius.
‘Absolutely. I’ll take the opportunity to have dinner at Babel,’ said the pilot gratefully.
‘I’m also going to get off,’ remarked Juliet. ‘I have an errand that needs doing.’
‘Peter, you can leave your coat here,’ said Basilius while taking off his own. ‘You won’t need it.’
This surprised Peter somewhat, given how cold they had been, but he did what his uncle said, leaving his gloves and scarf on. Once he stepped outside, though, he understood why his uncle had said this: it was warm outside and felt like a lovely, fresh summer evening.
Xonás anchored the basket with a thick rope and closed the door with a beautiful key he hung from his neck and tucked under a cravat.
While they walked down a stone staircase that wrapped around one of the towers, Peter was able to focus on the place where they had arrived. He was in actual fact on the rooftops of an old city, on those parts of the houses that can’t be seen from the roads, those places most people never even look at. He could make out an irregular series of street lamps that served to guide walkers through the jigsaw of walkways and bridges that joined this amalgam of windows and attics together. Cats strode around the streets below. Peter wondered who had built this city – who could have built this impossible dream? He noticed how lights became less and less frequent before disappearing completely in the furthermost points where darkness took hold. It was as though the city were an oasis of light engulfed by night with the golden shine of a lighthouse right in the centre.
The staircase came to an end in front of a bridge made of thick wooden planks. Peter’s first thought was that the bridge must lie over a river of fog, but, after thinking it through, he realized it must be one of the roads below.
‘What’s under the fog, Uncle Basilius?’ asked Peter, moving towards the edge to take a closer look.
‘Get away from there, Peter!’ shouted the professor in concern. ‘There’s nothing down there. You should never go close to the edge. Do you understand me?’
‘Nothing? There must be something… roads or parks or something, surely?’
‘I don’t know, Peter,’ confessed his uncle. ‘Nobody knows for sure. What we do know is it can’t be good because not a single person who’s gone down there to have a look has made it back.’ Peter gulped and moved away carefully. He was still unaware that somebody down there knew his name.
What his uncle had said made the hairs on Peter’s arms stand on end. But he forgot all about it as soon as they started to walk through the mysterious city. He saw big terraces with lovely gardens of flowers and climbing plants that flowed down like waterfalls. Sometimes he heard melodies coming from some roof or other, sometimes he smelled things that reminded him of far-off places. At the top of one of the towers, someone was watching the stars with an unusual kind of telescope, and through a large, round window he saw a group of people sat together in front of a fireplace, listening to a traveller’s tales.
This place was nothing like the world he knew. He was beginning to understand why his uncle had asked him to keep it a secret – not in case the secret were uncovered, but because, if he were to tell someone about it, they would surely think he was mad.
After a while, the walkways began to join together and form a single road leading directly to the city centre. A little further ahead, they could see the glow of lots of lights and hear the babbling of a crowd.
‘Right. I’ll leave you here,’ said Xonás. ‘We’ll see each other in a couple of hours, professor.’
‘We’ll be there. Don’t worry,’ replied Basilius.
‘Are you coming back in the Argestes too, Miss Juliet?’ asked the pilot.
‘No, thanks, Xonás. I’ll spend tonight here.’
‘OK. I hope to see you soon and I’ll certainly follow your instructions on how to keep the burner in good working order. Have a good evening,’ said Xonás, wandering off along a walkway.
‘If I may ask, where are you going, Miss Juliet?’ asked Basilius. ‘If it’s no indiscretion.’
‘I have to sort out a couple of things at the fair,’ she replied.
‘It would be a pleasure to accompany you, if you don’t mind. It’s on our way,’ offered Basilius.
Walking in the direction of the lights, the murmuring soon became a din of voices and music. The air was filled with all those sounds and smells you find at any gathering that calls itself a fair. Soon an enormous space opened up in front of them.
From up high, they could see how the fair was set up in a large square that sat above several extensive rooftops and could be reached via many staircases leading down towards it, giving it the feel of a circus or an amphitheatre whose benches were formed by balconies and galleries. In the centre was a majestic lighthouse whose gold light they had seen when they arrived and which served to guide any reckless individual who went further than the refuge of the city.
Peter felt as though he was in the most marvellous place on earth and gazed in amazement at the little huts around him containing stalls where you could find anything that anyone had ever lost: all kinds of watches, clothes, herbs, creams and tools, but particularly books, notebooks, maps and all kinds of documents.
Melodies could be heard in different directions, floating in the air and mingling with the aroma of food and incense. The voices came together like a euphoric choir. Trying to explain what you can find at the City of Rooftops’ fair is an absurd task, worthy only of someone who is mad or pretentious.
Peter was surprised to find a dirt floor underfoot, given the frequency of gardens with exotic plants and leafy trees from which hung multi-coloured lanterns and under whose branches plays and lively concerts took place.
And the people! There were all kinds of people, dressed in the strangest outfits imaginable. There was a boy who went through the crowd playing a flute while a long, black snake followed him. There was a woman whose small boy floated along, holding the bottom of a helium balloon tied to his mother’s waist, and there were scholars with long, grey beards who felt obliged to join together and come up with some grand plan while others watched them.
Peter’s uncle, trying not to slow Juliet down, sometimes pulled on his nephew’s scarf, using it like a lead, particularly when Peter stopped to stare, eyes agog, at some street artist or stall. This was how they went along, navigating their path to a monumental marble fountain decorated with statues of animals jumping from the water. In front of the fountain were several stalls run by a selection of sculptors and carpenters.
The professor and Juliet stopped to admire a set of wooden sculptures. Peter suddenly felt a presence, as though someone was watching them.
He carefully turned around and confirmed his suspicions. In the shadows, he thought he saw a surprisingly tall man with his eyes fixed on him. Something suddenly knotted in his stomach, and he was consumed by an overwhelming sense of concern. Peter felt the fair going on around him, but it was as though a thick treacle had been poured over the fair – people moved more slowly, the choirs were quieter, magicians seemed to be frozen in full voice, pigeons slowly beat their wings, and the music became nothing more than a distant echo. He felt unprotected, alone in the middle of the crowd. That sinister look, as though it had been a silent warning, cut through him in the same way an icy wind would. At the same time, someone crossed his field of vision and, once they had gone, the strange figure had disappeared.
The music, smells, the sound of the fountain, everything came back suddenly, like a giant wave that hadn’t been there a moment ago and now flooded everything in its path, taking his fears far, far away. His memory of what had happened was now confused, even though it had happened just a second ago. He almost couldn’t remember the face of the man he had seen wearing a black hat and what might have been a black coat or maybe a jacket.
‘Peter, say goodbye to Miss Juliet,’ remarked Professor Basilius, interrupting his stupor. ‘It’s getting late, and we have lots of work to do.’
‘Ah, yes, of course’ was all Peter managed to say. ‘See you soon.’
‘It’s been a pleasure. I hope to see you again soon with a bit more time to enjoy the fair,’ replied Juliet kindly, with a smile that made Peter lower his gaze. ‘If your uncle has a gap in his busy schedule, that is…’ she laughed.
‘Always at your service, Miss Juliet!’ exclaimed the professor. ‘If you need any help, you know where to find me.’
‘Thank you very much, dear Basilius. I won’t keep you any longer. I still have to find a few things to finish off my latest invention. I hope you’ll be able to come when I present it.’
‘How could you doubt that, Miss Juliet?’ said Basilius, feigning offence. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for anything in the world.’
‘Good luck,’ Juliet wished them. And she disappeared into the crowd, leaving Uncle Basilius and his nephew in a cloud of violet perfume.
