Francis Fernandes
Cologne
The sun was less hot in the evening
so we went out to find something
to eat, in this two-thousand-year-old
city on the Rhine given its name
by the wife of a Roman emperor
and mother of the dark one
who burned for the arts and thought
nothing of committing a little
matricide. The grey-black stone cathedral
loomed over us, another reminder
of hundreds of years of toil and
craftsmanship, war and fire. We picked
Google’s brain and after some
meandering came to a small Italian
place hidden in the back alleys
where we ate very large pizzas and
drank Kölsch and Apfelschorle
by an open window. The whole week
was like a sauna, and now suddenly
the sky darkened and cracked, and the rain
poured down, flooding the streets as though
the Kölner Dom had opened a hatch
in the aft of its massive vessel and centuries
of rivulets coursed down the street
just four feet from our table, cyclists
pushing on, oblivious of the statues
and altar pieces, the crowns
and zucchettos bobbing over
the roiling cobblestones. The relics
of the Three Magi had broken free
from their fancy housing made of silver
and filigreed gold: I could tell
it was their bones, their tattered garments,
because I had taken a peek when
the guide had turned to leave and my
teenage daughter had followed the rest of
the devotees—with a Bluetooth bud in
one ear since she had agreed
to do the tour only if she could half
listen to her music. Which she had also
been doing here, in fact, at least until
the pizzas were in front of us,
between fork and knife, and the pretty
waitress had said Prego. Buon appetito.
She ate with relish, I was glad to see.
At least one thing I had done right.
I smiled and nodded towards the scattered
debris and the remains of wisdom
outside the window. They were taken
from Constantinople to Milan in three
hundred something and then eight
hundred years later stolen
by Frederick Barbarossa and brought
here. They built this huge
cathedral just so the three of them
would have a proper shrine. And now
look! She smiled back and said, Papa,
can you stop it finally! I was there, too,
remember? And then she pointed
to my pizza with her knife. Stop worrying
so much. Why don’t you just eat? This
crust is so amazing!
—Submitted on 08/21/2020
Francis Fernandes grew up in the US and Canada, and lives in Germany, where he writes and teaches.
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