Talking Heads

By Pedro R.C. Silva

     I awoke to a rainy day, water flowing down the windows of my room, a good day to stay in or to go to a museum. I decided to go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art; it’s one of my favorites that I go to as often as I can. During the summer I usually walk through the park to get there and make a whole day out of it, but today it would be better to go by subway. The museum holds many different objects of art from all across the world and our history. It is the art students’ study hall and the art lovers’ special niche. And they have some good food whenever you’re hungry. I enter the museum, dripping wet, and am met by the sound of hundreds talking at once. While making my way through the crowd I catch only parts and phrases of conversations. I place my met badge on my coat pocket. I look in all directions, all of them familiar, until I settle on the Roman and Greek statues.

Slowly, I move between those set in marble, posing their bodies for all to see. After moments pass I’m standing between two pillars and facing a closed courtyard. The gray day and rain drops are visible through the glass covering the wide center. The whole thing is supposed to make you feel as if you were in a real Roman courtyard. I sit at a bench in the middle of the courtyard. I’ve always like this area of the museum, to sit and gaze upon the statues of old, to see the two Herculeses’ watching one another. To walk about the busts of women and men that have the chips, cracks, and scratches added to them by time and men. The smell of this room always calms the soul and nerves. I only wish they made more comfortable benches.

 After resting I began to walk around the courtyard, taking moments to stand in front of each statue, as if meeting them and asking if they would like me to analyze and compare them. They tell me they get analyzed all the time by students, sketching them away on their pads with their pencils. Ah, but I am not an artist, I would respond, I am a writer. I can make people see you through my very own eyes in all your marvelous detail; I can make people notice you for more than a glance. Oh how they would laugh at me and my claims, especially the hero’s and Gods. They all mocked me, saying that such a feat cannot be done, all except two.

The first one looked at me sternly. His brow cast shadows over his eyes as he stared at me. His nose was completely gone along with some of his upper lip. My eyes trailed to his badge of information, a Roman of the first century with no name. Who are you? I would ask. After some moments of silence he answered me. I am of those who built Rome; I am of those who remained in the shadows of the Gods and Caesars. I am of the workers who pushed the slabs of stones to build Rome from the ground up, the traders who trekked across the empire for goods to bring back to the center. Gaze into these immortals eyes, for I have seen the Roman Empire at its prime and watched it fall. This Roman man shows and says this to everyone who crosses his long, concerned stare. And that is what he said to me when I stood and questioned him.

 What set’s you apart from the rest of the busts? Why are you hidden behind a pillar and a bigger bust? I could see the smile in his eyes for a moment as he prepared to answer me. He asked me what set me apart from the rest. I retorted that I knew who I was and what I’ve done. He smiled and then whispered that he did not know of himself before returning to his stern stare. He continued to say that the rest know the stories and myths, as you call them now, that they represent. The busts of the Caesars of old carry with them the reputation of their name. As for me, I am a mystery yet to be solved. All you know is where I am from and that I am a man. Now go and talk to a friend of mine, you will know him when you see him.

I was perplexed at being sent away by an inanimate object. I continued to walk around in the courtyard, standing before all the busts and statues as before until, as if by accident, came across a man’s head with a short beard. I looked at his badge to find that he was a Roman from the early second century, he also had no name. Hello, it said with warm eyes. It almost made me jump back. Oh, apologies! It was not my intent to cause fear. You must be the one the old Roman sent, are you not? He seemed worried now, as if he was always the worrying type.

I stepped closer and smiled; yes, the old Roman sent me. I have some questions, if you don’t mind answering them for me. The kindness returned to his eyes as he nodded and waited for the questions. Who are you? I asked. His answers came with a smile; I am of those who expanded the borders of Rome, of the young politicians who had everything to gain and nothing to lose, of the landlords who took care of their surfs, of the lanistas who treated their gladiators with respect and discipline. I am of those who used the foundations of the old with great ambitions to bring greatness to the Roman Empire. When he finished, the brightness in his eyes could illuminate the whole room.

Then why do you sit here next to the column, as if your placement was of no consequence. As I asked this, his faced grew worrisome. Ah, now you have come to the subject of my worry. Here I am, in all my greatness and glory, and yet I am placed behind a poorly made coffin, which everyone believes to be a master’s work, with no one to look upon me. It is as if the Gods themselves hold me bound to this torment. That is why I have agreed to talk to you and answer your inquiries. With luck and your writing, my presence can once again be known. I bowed my head slightly. You’ve given me too much honor and respect, I am just a man. His voice grew loud and retorted. And yet man was able to conquer and hold vast lands, build great cities, and even tame the wilds. Look around and see the glories of man and his ambitions. His words echoed in my mind as I was taken aback by his anger. After some time he dismissed me. Now go, tell the tales of me and my friend. Let them know we still have weight and are due the respect we truly need.

I returned home, as wet as a rain drop. As I showered I contemplated what had just occurred at the museum. The two busts of the Roman men, they spoke to me as if they haven’t had a real person to talk to in some time. They both represent a time no longer remembered, but of a time that is studied by the scholars of today. They are both made of the same marble that came from the earth. Yet they both tell different stories, much how the style they were made in differs. One was powerful, proud, and had a presence that if he walked into the room, everyone would know. The other was more docile in nature, keeping a wary eye to his surroundings yet his mind often on more important matters. How often would he stroke his beard in thought? As I sit here now and write, I wonder how well this text will convey their image. If people who read this will go to the museum to see if they can discover the Romans I have talked to. How alike and different they were from each other. I will have to visit them again soon, maybe ask if they know of any others in the museum who have been neglected. Till then I will keep what they have told me in my thoughts.

©2014 - Pedro R.C.  Silva - All rights reserved