by Antonio Napoli

“And you will go to the red city of clay that rises on the edge of the desert,” said the father to the son. “You will go to that place dear to traveling merchants, for there they know their goods are safe.”
“And why should I travel to that distant city, beyond the sea, beyond our language, beyond our customs?”
“There you will learn as many arts, crafts, and languages as you can. And, if the woman and the Merciful will it, you will take a wife there. Your children will grow up there, taught in faith and in the honesty that does not bend to the vicissitudes of fate.”
“But will the people of that city look kindly upon me?”
“Yes, if you do not look at them with suspicion,” the father replied. Then he got lost in one of his usual rants, for he was a philosopher, a prisoner of the body, paralyzed in his legs, and a lover of readings that transported him to distant worlds. “Who knows which hands kneaded that clay, built those walls, opened gates and windows… Who knows which feet overcame the fear of the desert, sailed on the wood of the sea to reach that land and soften, if only a little, their pressing need for elsewhere!”
And the young man left, reluctantly, for the unknown pushes us, with silent force, to cross the borders of our soul, to a place where we don’t know what we will find, no matter how long it will take, for better or worse, the truth of our destiny.
Once settled in the city of clay, the young man did not make his fortune until something happened that proved, in the storm, the value of individuals.
He was on a hill with a herd of goats, serving a wealthy herder, when he saw a cloud rising in the desert.
“What is that?” he asked an old man who was smoking.
“A sandstorm,” the old man replied. “But don’t worry, it won’t reach us.”
“I am not at all calm: the merchants who arrived last week left at dawn and are heading toward that storm!” To them, the young man had entrusted a letter for his father, in which he confessed all his unhappiness. But now, a sincere anxiety stirred him: what would become of them? In the brief time they had spent together, they had become friends, and the thought that they might not return home filled his chest with relentless anguish.
“If that is what the Almighty desires…”
“And why would He want such harm?” the young man retorted with vigor.
“The Almighty sees the universe… you only see a part of it,” the old man replied.
“I look at things from the perspective of life: those people might die, their goods could be lost or scattered, like the smoke from your pipe, with the first breath of wind.”
The old man, without hurrying, tapped the pipe against a stone, letting the ashes fall. Then, with the measured gesture of someone who had seen many dawns in the desert, he refilled it with dark, aromatic tobacco.
“The desert is generous,” he finally said, lighting the pipe and inhaling deeply. “It never keeps for itself what is buried in its depths. Sooner or later, it spits out its treasures.” He blew out a cloud of bluish smoke, then raised the pipe between his gnarled fingers and looked at it in the firelight. “This, for example, comes from those depths. It has traveled a long way to reach my hands, and there must be a reason.”
“I will prevent such a tragedy,” said the young man, and he ran down the hill. He crossed the city in one breath: the city of red bricks, smoothed but not worn by the wind, the city that, at its heart, contrasted with the white marble city he had left behind.
Since no one wanted to lend him a horse for fear of losing it in the storm, he was forced to steal one. He galloped toward the caravan like a bird cutting through the blue, driven by a favorable wind. Warned in time, the merchants turned back.
Upon his return, the young man, without having thought beforehand about how to face the consequences of his action, was arrested for theft. In the cell, he despaired, more for the memory of his father’s teaching than for his own fate. In that land, the law was still harsh: thieves—who threatened property and trade, could tarnish the reputation of the place, and sow the seed of distrust—had their hands cut off, the instrument of their crime.
When the merchants learned of the injustice toward the young man, they were outraged. They went to the authorities, but could not secure his release.
The governor of the city of clay was a strict and unyielding man, a guardian of ancient laws that left no room for mercy. “A theft is a theft,” he said in an unmovable voice. “If we allowed exceptions, tomorrow chaos would reign.”
But the merchants, who owed their lives to the young man, did not give up. They summoned the city’s dignitaries and pursued their cause with patience and determination.
The governor frowned. Never before had anyone dared to contest a sentence so firmly. But the clay of the city, though old, was not yet completely hardened. After a long reflection, the governor convened the council of sages.
The merchants spoke:
“If this man had been driven by greed, we would have lost both our lives and our goods in the desert. He stole to save, not to enrich himself.”
Then it was the turn of the opposing side.
“It is not about recognizing the happy consequences of an action, but reaffirming the value of an order. Just as the particles of clay hold water, so the rules we have established hold justice. If you break one rule, why should the others hold value? Who determines the measure of what is just: the principle or the circumstance?”
Finally, a judgment was passed.
“Law is just only when it acknowledges the truth,” said the head of the council. “Not part of it, but the whole truth. This young man broke a commandment, it’s true. But he fulfilled a greater one: he saved lives. And this is undeniable. His hand must not be severed, for it was guided by equity, which is superior to justice.”
And so, for the first time in many years, the rigid law of the city of clay bent without breaking. The young man was freed, and his fame spread through the streets and markets like a benevolent wind.
He never returned to his homeland. The city of clay, which had tried to break him, became his home. There he opened a shop, there he took a wife, there he taught his children the honesty that does not bend to the twists of fate.
And when, now old, he told his grandchildren his story, he did not boast of his courage, but of the wisdom he had learned through his misfortunes: that true justice is not written in stone, but shaped like clay in the hands of men of heart.