Old Maps, New Cities
In Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities1, Marco Polo regales Kublai Khan, China’s Emperor, with tales of cities in his own empire that the Khan never knew existed. Imagined cities whose inhabitants behave strangely, fictional settings only made real by the explorer’s imagination, cities where people behave in ways learned from living with each other.
When I was writing my novel The Man Who Dreamed a City, I plotted that one of my characters searched for the "Lost City of Philosophy." Since from an early age I learned to read and write from Cervantes, I wanted my protagonist to have a quixotic experience. My book needed what any sentient being would consider the opposite of what one imagines to be a city of philosophy. Because the action of the novel started in Chicago, this city couldn’t be too far from there and needed to be accessible by boat.
"Discovering" Fictional Settings
Since this was BG (Before Google), I bought the latest, shiniest map of Illinois. I have been fascinated by maps since I was a boy, because they are an abstraction, a promise of places yet unknown. My finger followed the route lines, stumbling across names of cities, towns, villages, and parks usually printed in green, with blue lines for rivers and lakes. However, I couldn’t find a city small enough to be the opposite of the philosophical destination my character had in his mind.
A day later, while cleaning my car, I encountered an old Chicago Tribune map from the 70s that had survived under the odd collection of paraphernalia stashed in the glove compartment. I rescued the paper segments, survivors of many foldings and unfoldings, and brought them to be reassembled on our dining room table. With tape and careful surgery, I was able to put together a reasonable abstraction of northern Illinois. I couldn’t resist following certain routes while pronouncing the names of towns along the way. There it was: a little dot next to the name Plato. You cannot discuss philosophy without that ancient name. “Wait! It's next to the Iroquois River,” I yelled to my wife, who inspected the old paper and smiled at me, as if saying "If you’re happy, I’m happy."
The following weekend, we drove south towards the mysterious city that only appeared on an old map. On the long way there, I made a point of saying that I knew how to give a girl a good time. Who gets to spend their weekends in Plato? As it turned out, very few people. The dot referred to a bridge over the Iroquois River, by the name of Plato. But along the tree-darkened, unpaved road, along both banks of the river, there was a collection of trailer homes, most sitting on piles of wood beams to elevate them from flood waters. I had arrived. This modern explorer had uncovered a pathetic collection of bullet-shaped homes, squatting on soil darkened by a week-old rain. My character was looking for the august City of Philosophy. Only a crazy person would confuse this place with anything resembling a city. My character was blind and a bit touched, so this little collection of homes was the incarnation of my fantasies and the perfect contradiction I had searched for in my imagination.
On the way back, I felt like Calvino’s Marco Polo, except that my city had taken real form, a form that exceeded my imagination and made my implausible story much richer than when I started.
1Invisible Cities, a translation from the Italian by William Weaver of Le Cittā Invisibili, a Harvest Book, Harcourt, Inc.
PACO ARAMBURU is an adopted son of Chicago. He arrived there from Argentina as he, his wife, and their two children escaped the military dictatorship. In 2019, Paco became President of the Off Campus Writers' Workshop and is now a President Emeritus. He has written two novels, is finishing his third, and published numerous short stories. You can find more information at PacoChicago.net.
Great story, Paco. No wonder your settings are so cool. Thanks.
--Renee