inside the colonnaded loggia of a large 19th-century tomb complex in a historic municipal cemetery — stone pilasters with worn acanthus capitals, the colonnade floor pale limestone gone dark at the edges from rain, open on one side to a gravel avenue now black-wet, mature linden trees beyond shaking in the downpour, their canopy releasing sheets of secondary rain — standing mid-loggia, rain still driving hard outside, watching a cemetery cat sit two feet away on dry stone and return nothing
The apricot was not ripe enough. I ate it anyway.
I'd bought it from a cart outside the cemetery gate, a man with a plastic crate and no shade, and I stood there peeling it with my thumb while the iron letters of the entrance did their best to mean something. Kerepesi at quarter to seven. The light was already doing that overcast thing where everything is the same value — no shadow, no contrast, just the world at one exposure.
The cast-iron entrance gate of Kerepesi Cemetery, the Hungarian lettering across the arch visible, gravel path receding into grey-green tree cover beyond
A half-peeled apricot held in S's thumb and fingers, pale yellow-orange flesh exposed, skin curling back
I found the wrong tomb first. Different composer, adjacent century, a name that shared two letters. I stood there long enough to feel foolish, then reread the note I'd torn from my Palermo train notebook and went back three rows.
The right stone was plain. His name, two years, and a metal rose mounted at the base — not decorative, just placed there once by someone who had a reason and then left it to the weather. The colour it had turned was not green, not grey. Something in between that doesn't have a name yet. I sat on the kerb of the gravel path. The apricot. The silence, which was not quite silent — a bird, and wind through the trees at the perimeter, and somewhere far off a tram.
at the edge of a gravel path inside the cemetery — ranked rows of 19th-century stone monuments, one plain rectangular slab close to camera, a metal rose mounted at its base turned the colour between green and grey, gravel path still damp from earlier rain, perimeter lindens visible at distance in flat overcast light — just risen from sitting on the path kerb, holding the torn notebook page at her side, weight not yet settled — the moment of leaving but not gone
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The rain came without warning, the kind that means it. I was somewhere between the mausolea and the main avenue, no cover, and then I was running — not panicking, just running — and found a colonnaded loggia at the edge of a larger tomb complex and stood under it while the gravel turned dark and the trees gave everything back at once.
I was there for forty minutes. Maybe more. A cat appeared from somewhere and sat two feet from me and refused to be interesting about it.
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The afternoon was Zugló by tram, a neighbourhood I had no program for, which turned out to be correct. A side street where someone had planted tomatoes in front of a panel-block. Still green, still weeks away. The wind came through and moved all the fabric I was wearing and I stood there watching the tomatoes and thought about how many cities I've visited the place where something ended.
This was another one.
at the iron entrance gate of the cemetery just before 7 AM — monumental forged-iron letters spelling the cemetery name arch overhead, the uprights rusted at the base where they meet stone piers, a mobile fruit cart visible just outside the frame's edge, the avenue inside running straight between chestnut trees whose canopy begins fifty metres in, the light entirely flat and grey — standing just inside the gate, apricot half-peeled in her hands, looking inward at the avenue — not walking yet, not reading the iron letters above her, but paused at the threshold
What she wore
day6-scene1
I wore the slate top because it has no opinion about itself, which felt right for a place where everyone already had their say.
day6-scene2
Coming out of Kőbánya into actual afternoon felt like a change of key — I just untucked the shirt and it became a different day.
day6-scene3
By the time I sat down for dinner I had the shirt open and the trousers on and it felt like the city had finally let me change into something appropriate for its mood.