Ten Tributes to Calvino by Rhys Hughes

Corneropolis
     
    I was standing on the corner of two cobbled streets looking for my wife. First I looked down one street and then up the other. But she did not come into view. So I stopped one of the hurrying pedestrians and said, “Excuse me, but would you mind waiting here in my place?”
    “Why should I?” he answered gruffly.
    “Quite simple. By standing on this corner I am able to survey two streets at once. But I would like to take a look at a third, which is why I propose walking to the end of this street and standing on that other corner.”
    “What are we looking for?”
    “My wife. You will recognise her when you see her. She is too beautiful for me. Remember that and call out the moment she appears.”
    And so I left him on the corner, looking down one street and up the other, while I walked to the end of the first street and stood on the corner. Now I was able to look up that street, instead of down it, but also down a new street, previously unknown. I alternated my gaze between the two streets, as did my helper on his corner, but at a different rate, so that our eyes meshed only on every seventeenth oscillation.
    My wife still did not come. Had she gone shopping or for a meal? Perhaps she was having her hair trimmed or her nails filed? Maybe she had run off with another man, through the park, under the trees, hand in hand, into the bushes, out of their clothes. I was close to despair.
    I stopped another pedestrian. “Please help me find my wife!”
    “How may I do that?” he sneered.
    “Stand here and watch out for her. She is too beautiful for me. I must walk to the end of this street and take up a position on the next corner. That will increase our chances of actually sighting her.”
    “But this is a junction and there are three streets leading off from it.”
    I had not noticed the fact. There was no way I could walk to the end of two streets simultaneously, so I rocked gently on my heels, clutching my head, unsure. Finally a voice tripped through the curtain of my lank hair into my ear. It was the first pedestrian, asking, not politely, if I was unwell.
    “You have abandoned your position!” cried I.
    “Not as such. I perceived that you were in distress and came over to see what the matter was. But I stopped a different pedestrian and persuaded him to take my place. There he is, watching from the original corner.”
    This was true. He waved at me and I waved back. There were now three people willing to help me find my wife. This was good, neat, convenient. The chances of glimpsing her lithe form, her charm woven into flesh, were increasing. And my lungs were voluminous enough to thank more than one collaborator in my quest. There was no need to refuse any offers, however reluctantly implemented.
    “You made the correct decision,” I agreed. “Perhaps if you wait here, while this other fellow walks down this street to the next corner, and I walk up this one, we shall spy her very soon.”
    “It is not beyond the bounds of feasibility.”
    The first pedestrian took up his position while the second and myself reached our respective corners. The system of oscillating glances was now more complex. The success of the unseen pedestrian, on the original corner, was relayed to me by my first assistant, the one concerned for my health, from his new vantage. No, not success, for she did not appear, nor her excessive beauty.
    I watched in vain. At last I stopped another pedestrian.
    “Have you seen her? Have you?”
    “I have not, whoever she might be. Do you wish me to stand here and take your place while you proceed to the end of the street and stand at a different corner? I shall do so, but not eagerly. Besides, this is not a simple corner, nor even a junction, but a crossroads. There are four streets meeting here.”
    “You are right! I deem this fact a major setback.”
    “Not so. Here are two fellows coming to see what the matter is. Together we make four. Maybe they will help you occupy all