The Prophet floats through the streets of the big city at his own speed. His movement, his rhythm, is totally detached from the rush of traffic and people around him. He exists on another plane, considers things with calm eyes as he pads softly, always barefoot. His skin is a mud brown, sometimes black; it is hard to tell whether he has always been this colour or if years of living on the street have made him this way. His age is totally unknown.
His only clothes are a tattered pair of shorts and, occasionally, a tattered black dustbin liner cloak, wrapped around his neck and trailing in his wake. His hair is gloriously unkempt, but never seems to grow; his beard is similarly matted into a single shape. He is extremely muscular, not thin like the addicts or victims, but lithe, seemingly athletic. He is always smiling, the smile of a man at peace, but his eyes, though calm, often dart to take in a new sight or sound.
Sometimes he eats: I have seen him eat out of a dustbin before. He has none of the social awkwardness that accompanies some people of the street when they search for their food among the refuse of others, more a collected, discerning examination of all that is on offer before carefully choosing today’s meal – half an old pizza, or the bones from a steakhouse. Others dive shamefully into corners to consume their scraps, but he remains where he is, chewing thoughtfully, apparently oblivious to the world around him.
It is rare to see the Prophet in the same place twice within a short space of time. Sometimes one can see him several times in the same week, walking purposefully up towards Palermo or sheltering on a doorstep in the middle of the night, but I have found that one can go for weeks without seeing him. Indeed, I often find myself looking out of a taxi window at night at the empty streets spattered intermittently with semi-horrific scenes of the city after hours, hoping to see his frame pounding intently onwards. I feel that seeing him at that time of night will give me hope; consequently, I never do.
The times when I remember having seen the Prophet have always been moments when my mind has been totally preoccupied with problems, from the mundane work-related issues, to thoughts concerning the nature of who I am as a young adult and what my future will hold.
Once, I was walking around the block near where I work, with a colleague, and a most hideous wind and rain started to swirl and blow. The stinging rain came from all directions. We were furious, gesticulating angry about some ingrate at work who had driven us to rage. As we turned the corner next to the bank, still swearing at this invisible enemy, we stumbled upon the Prophet sheltering in an alcove. The wind blew his hair and his body was soaked, but he stood, as if he had been waiting for us. And he smiled. The smile reminded me of how futile and pathetic our anger was, and mine instantly subsided. I felt entirely at peace, or at least as we walked the square block I felt a beatific calm. One sight of this man and his smile had been enough to free me from my anger, albeit briefly.
It will be obvious, even to the most casual observer, that this city and everybody in it is in a terrible hurry to get somewhere rather than where they are – we are all late, even if we do not quite know what for, and we know it. There is never enough time. This is why the Prophet is crucial. His existence reminds us of what it means to be human, of what it means to be free of all the self-imposed obligations of this mad cap society. He is a constant example of both how lucky and how trapped we are. He is truth. I don’t even know his real name.
