Cicabácsi
In Szaloncicaország
there also live Cicanéni
and Cicabácsi.
A funny couple of cicák,
they live together in their torony, looking over a park. They laugh
together at the silly barks in the park, they cook lecsó,
they venture in the town sometimes. Cicanéni
makes sure they don't miss any interesting film in the local theatre
and Cicabácsi
insists on visiting the local record shop convinced that new
wonderful recorded music could appear at any moment. Their happy life
is not certainly the kind of “happy” life in which agreement on
all issues is a synonym of boredom. On the contrary, they have
different views about fundamental aspects, aspects of philosophical
nature, actually. Take for example the world of physics and geometry.
They don't agree on the value conceded to “horizontal” and its
opposite, “vertical”. The torony has witnessed endless
discussions about the nature of these concepts, its relevance in
history and culture. They exemplify their points in their wanderings
around the park and the little hill that is at the centre of it. At
this point it must be said that of the two is Cicanéni
the real wanderer cica, while Cicabácsi
is more of a házimacska,
and therefore prone to favour a good sofa instead of a good walk.
Certainly, it is not difficult to guess who defends the prominence of
one of the concepts in discussion over the other. Cicanéni
proves the relevance of verticality with a practical case:
historically, climbing hills and mountains has been inseparable of
heroic acts, like Hannibal traversing the Pirenees, or Edmund Hillary
conquering the Everest. Even if Cicabácsi
could accept the heroism of Hannibal -too taxing for an old cat,
anyway-, he is sceptical about any sort of competition - “all that
time to go up the Everest for taking a picture with a kicsi flag and
then going down immediately for avoiding freezing to death?”,
claims Cicabácsi-.
But Cicanéni
is totally convinced: climbing, such a cicalike activity, by the way,
underlines Cicanéni,
has provided irrefutable troves, gratifying surprises that even
Cicabácsi
should admit. For instance, she insists that magic bars exist on top
of the highest hill in the area, near the park. Cicabácsi,
sceptical as always, insists that the only magic bar he knows lays
inside their fridge.
One
day, though, the couple finally agreed on proving their points and
adventurously wandered to that hill with its supposedly magic bar.
Too far away from their torony, complained Cicabácsi;
not so far, lusta cica, replied Cicanéni.
After finding their way up the hill, under the July sun, not as
strong as it could have been expected, the two cicák
achieved the summit. “Semmi”, said Cicabácsi.
“But look at the view”, replied Cicanéni.
And it was true that the river Tej
was visible, that even a nice old ship was anchored in the harbour
and its masts looked great against the blue sea to which the firth of
the Tej
leads. But Cicanéni
could not hide that there was not magic bar to be seen. Insisting
that the bar decided not to manifest itself that day was not very
convincing, either. Instead of the magic bar a boring monolith
dedicated to the victims of some distant and heroic war was erected
on top of the hill.
The
atmosphere in the torony that evening after their return from the
hill was somehow strange. Cicabácsi
hardly managed to refrain his satisfaction: the dispute seemed to be
settled, once and for all. Cicanéni
could hardly show how szomorú
she was, how disappointed about the lack of magic bar on the top of
the hill. After a couple of beers from the only real magic bar, as
Cicabácsi
pointed out, this old cat felt victorious. “Nagyon jó
ötlet!”,
suddenly shouted Cicabácsi.
“What is it?”, said Cicanéni.
“You will see”, replied with a smile the old cat. He went to the
park at night and dragged a heavy stone from somewhere in the park.
He worked all night on the stone, with hammers and other tools that a
sculptor would use, probably. The next morning he presented his work
to Cicanéni.
“But, what is it?”, she asked, stupefied in front of a
rectangular long stone lying on the ground in the garden. “This is
an horizontal obelisk”, replied Cicabácsi.
She understood: it was his way of celebrating his triumph, an
horizontal monument, commemoration, like those dedicated -erected
would not be the right word, probably-, to ancient heroes. Cicanéni
noted there was no writing on the obelisk. She smiled. “Szép!”,
she said. “But the piece is unfinished and we need to find its
proper place, where this horizontal obelisk can shine, be admired,
celebrated....” She paused. Cicabácsi
nodded afirmatively. “Let's bring it to the top of the hill -said
Cicanéni-
and we will engrave on it «In
Praise of the Flat Line».
