Hidden secrets
An elderly man is sitting on a bench in the shade. He would not have caught my eye in passing, but the longer I look into the shade, the more clearly I can make him out. I cannot see his eyes properly, yet I have the feeling that he’s observing his surroundings thoroughly. The newspaper on his lap is left unread and looks like a mere alibi. He came here because he needed to, but for some reason he doesn’t want to be seen. He’s using the shade as a protection.
An archway divides this sunny day into light and shade. Light is touching the wall on both sides of the man. On his right, the light is falling on the bench, forcing him to sit on its edge to keep his shady spot. On his left, pigeons with dirty plumage sunbathe in front of the wall. And although the sun illuminates the pigeons and puts them in the spotlight, they are not the centre of attraction: It’s the man and his secret, the reason why he’s here, waiting in the shade. Only now I realise that the newspaper in his lap is cambered to one side. The man is hiding something underneath it, somewhere near his right hand. This thing needs more protection than just shade, and it has something to do with his waiting at this very spot.
Many murders have been committed at this historical place. The reasons have been manifold: power, money, revenge, envy. Do age and wisdom not protect us from such a crime? Or is it predetermined in our personality that – given a specific event or condition – we will carry out a certain act? I’m hearing children laughing in the distance, a conversation in a language I can’t understand. Nothing indicates surprise or danger, but that’s part of the trick: lulling yourself into a sense of security, only to be petrified and helpless in the same breath.
A clock is striking the full hour. The birds get fidgety but don’t fly away. They could flee at any time, no matter what happens. The elderly is sitting still. He has heard this clock a lot of times before and knows how late it is. Suddenly there are screams behind me. I turn around. People are scattering, birds are fluttering, all this movement messes up the big square. However much I try, I cannot see what’s going on. And when I look back at the bench, the game of light and shade hasn’t changed at all, except that the birds and the man are gone now. And I cannot say when they have left the stage or where they went. Whether the man has kept his secret, has fulfilled his destiny, or whether there have been better witnesses than me, I do not know.