Under the Emperor Diocletian, in the early Christian period, a young woman named Agnes, propositioned by an official, rejected him. Stripped naked in the stadium of Domitian as punishment, she survived humiliation when her locks miraculously flourished to cover her shame. A balding man passes, black sunglasses atop his head; on his arm, a woman in red dress, black shoes, red lipstick, a luxurious fur coat draped about her shoulders. Condemned to be burnt at the stake, she proved impervious to the flames. A man in a wheelchair glides by, drooling spittle. Dismayed, Diocletian ordered her head cut off. His attendant glances at author, a cigarillo drooping from his lips. Across the Piazza Navona from the Ristorante 4 Fiumi, the Chiesa di Sant’Agnese in Agone, which houses the sacra testa, her severed skull, marks the spot where she was martyred. Agnes had been tried and found guilty. Armed with machine guns and clad in bulletproof vests, two carabinieri stroll the walkway.
At the Piazza’s southern end a casement opens inward, its square panes reflecting: the eastern, the West, the western, the East. An unshaven man scurries by, a document headed “Manifesto” under his arm. Within the rectangular, glassless opening is framed a rain-dappled, cobble stoned square. We have arrived today by way of the Corso Rinascimento, white billowy clouds scudding the sunny skies above. IN VERONA A MANIKIN IS DRAPED IN A FULL-LENGTH MINK COAT. Seated facing west, we have just been served our drinks, a caffelàtte for MM, a succo d’arancia for Qian-hui. THROUGH THE SHOP’S WINDOW ARE VISIBLE IN THE CEILING TINY LIGHTS, REFLECTED IN THE GLASS AS AN AUREOLE ABOVE THE MANIKIN’S BLACK-MASKED HEAD. “Rome Antique,” reads the title of a tour guide, white against red, on sale at a kiosk, its cover photo reconstructing a pristine coliseum. Across the garret’s aperture the Piazza reads like a painting or tableau.
Coursing downward from the Fountain of the Four Rivers, triple rivulets symbolize the Ganges, the Danube, the Nile, the Rio de la Plata. From this perspective only three rivers are visible; from this distance none of their corresponding continents, embodied in Bernini’s male river gods, is allegorically identifiable. The photo likewise shows but three of the four gods, only the guidebook from this point in time enabling us to extrapolate with certainty Asia, Europe, Africa, the Americasof which the first is hiddenthe third veiled – to indicate that the source of the Nile was as yet unknown. Three small floods debouch from beneath the three visible figures, as an obelisk towers. At dusk, lights in the basin below have turned its waters golden, causing Bernini’s statuary to glow ocher and complement the burnt sienna Egyptian spirewhose surmounting Christian cross is not visible in this photo but in the next is barely so, as we look down from divine perspective on the whole square. Roma Antiqua, in white against green. An elderly man ambles past in a black overcoat, his wine-colored fedora set at a jaunty angle.
Roma Antica, white against orange. Domitian used the site as a race track, hence the shape observable in the aerial photo. Antica Rom, in white against brown. It also served as the site of mock naval battles. Brown and white predominate, rooftop tiles and marble structures. Two carabinieri, in capes and military hats, clop by on white, well-shod stallions. A fourth photo, upside down, turns all inside out, the floor of the piazza transmogrified into the turquoise roof of a surrealistic building. Three well-dressed Frenchmen, two of them bearded, accompanied by a woman in red, pose, as they engage in light, animated discourse. During the Gothic invasions the battles in the Piazza were not mock but real. They now take seats about a pink-tableclothed table at adjacent café. During the Sack of Rome the Piazza flowed with blood. They have ordered a bottle of Bordeaux, which the beardless man decants into three glasses, and a bottle of Perrier, which remains untouched. It was in the seventeenth century that Bernini’s mountain eclipsed Borromini’s noble structure. A black-clad waiter, hair graying, delivers to two prepubescent German girls two pink drinks in tall glasses, bearing them on a silver tray. Borromini’s patron, Urban VIII, was also eclipsed by Bernini’s patron, Innocent X. Slowly a van, lettered in red, “Polizia Municipale,” creeps by, its windows painted black. In the eighteenth century performances of marionettes were common in the Piazza Navona. On the other side of us, a camel’s-hair-coated octogenarian, seated with his wife, glances in his lap at a folded paper, whose title from this vantage point reads only “Sera.” Mountebanks, astrologers, barbers and dentists also practiced their trades here. In his black jacket pocket, the comely, ingratiating waiter carries a floppy, wine-colored handkerchief.
In complex motions pigeons, arising from the floor of the square, land at various intervals, on fountain, on obelisk, re-descend over the heads of strollers, tourists, schoolchildren, priests. The three Frenchmen are departing; one, in conversation with the woman, has clasped his hands behind his back. Three young Italian women stroll by in dark jackets, an elderly fourth, unrelated, following them in a light green coat. The white-haired septuagenarian wife of the octogenarian gent opens her paper to an advertisement reading “Area Nord.” At the square’s northern end, Neptune in contrapposto, surrounded by dolphins, spears fish, as two blond girls, strolling past him, obscure the base of the statue. Author takes out four recently purchased postcards of Piazza Navona, all shot from behind the sea god’s back: a summer view, an autumn view, a winter view, a spring view. The constant bubbling of the fountain overlays all other ambient sound. Beneath the winter view, taken at dawn, he has placed: A SUMMER VIEW OF VERONA’S PIAZZA ERBE, SEEN FROM THE CLOCK TOWER FACING NORTH. A pigeon settled in amidst our tables, as conversation behind us grows more vociferous. Beneath the spring view, its skies in the gray and pink of dusk: AN AUTUMNAL VIEW OF VERONA’S PIAZZA ERBE, LOOKING TOWARD THE TORRE DEL GARDELLO (1370). In a red-, yellow-, blue- and white-striped sweater; blue jeans; black-and-white running shoes, Qian-hui sips her expensive freshly-squeezed orange juice, as a stylish Italian gent passes, in tweeds and shapely green fedora. On the other side of the second card, in sepia: A VIEW OF THE ARENA, AT THE POINT WHERE A BUTTRESS CONNECTS IT TO ANOTHER BUILDING.From the opposite direction, dapper in his navy blue overcoat and dark green shades, a 45-year-old businessman strides into the scene, attending to a pager call. Its text, by Nino Cenni, reads, “ I RUSTICI OMBRELLONI A CORONA DI UNA FONTANA CHE DA SOLA RENDEREBBE LIETO UN DESERTO.” The text of the obelisk is inscrutable except for an ankh near its base. A man in Chianti-colored jacket, its shoulders in black, white game cocks embroidered on its back, fitfully positions himself to photograph two women, the taller of the two pacing nervously in her Burgundy boots, the other dressed entirely in black, posing quietly.
Author up and out for circumambulation, down an allée marked “Area Pedonale.” At the end of the square stands a magnificent beige building, sun-emblazoned, a green-red-and-white flag almost motionless against it. On the rust-orange stucco of number 81, adjacent to a window full of fancy ceramics, a red, black-outlined hammer-and-sickle, in English the words, “We are back again.” At number 82, on a white sill, in brown chalk a graffito reads “Elvis.” At number 78, “Agenzia di Viaggi,” on a red-lettered matrix-dot neon banner, “HAVE A NICE TRIP.” Author stands reflected in the agency’s window beneath a golden moon, to his left a golden sun. “FIRENZE, ASSISI, PISA, SIENA, VENEZIA,” the dots continue to scroll past. A blue-vested, bearded, pig-tailed man in brilliant white athletic suit, blue-and-white running shoes, slowly pushes a stroller, his young daughter gurgling within it.
We are passing another outdoor café, two gorgeous girls, one oriental, one occidental passing author, as he arrives at the Neptune fountain. A red-haired woman in bright copper lamé, fur-cuffed coat, passes, her arm about the waist of a black-raincoated man, his arm about her neck. Behind them is parked a white truck, its side embossed with the outlines of four refrigerator doors, they covered likewise by the yellow-black-outlined perspective-receding drop shades of the word “ALGIDA,” an orange circle behind it. At the end of the now brilliantly sun struck plaza a beautifully rusted, white re-plastered building, in whose first story: “Navona Antiquariato”; high overhead, under a carved wooden canopy, the Virgin with Child, beneath which the inscription “Ora Pro Nobis.”
As we round the race track’s turn and enter into the backstretch, we pass Café Bernini, half its cloth-covered tables in the shade, the other half in sunlight. Outside Navona 42, “Il Dono dell’Arte,” on irregular moss-intervalled cobblestones, lies a beautiful white dog. The white doors of an unmarked van stand open, revealing within empty cardboard boxes. Across the way, in the track’s infield, a tourist stall, mobile and canopied, is draped with the American flag, the portrait of Marilyn Monroe applied to its star field, her neck encircled with pearls. All is caught and reflected in a window, above which, on the awning, reads the single word “Change.”
Author strolls the sidewalk that borders the oval trackway, descending now half a step into the street to investigate the opposite side of the Fountain of Four Rivers: a snake sits visible atop limestone cliffs; a horse dabbles its forepaws in the blue-green waters, as a pigeon alights atop his head. Two red-haired, long-haired American girls in their late twenties are seated back-to-back on a bench, one embracing her lover, the other engaging a brown-clad, gesturing youth in conversation. A pudgy-cheeked Borromini angel gazes out across the piazza at its mocha-fronted apartment banks, their chocolate shutters struck by sunlight, which also plays amongst their shadowed trellises. To the left of St. Agnes in Agony, on a balcony twelve feet above the ground, is a row of potted plants, not well tended but nonetheless luxuriant. On the mottled ocher/burnt sienna/gray stucco face of number 18: the left-handed swastika, sacred to Kali. To one side of a grated basement opening: a triangle, a single eye inscribed within it; to the other: “Om” in Sanskrit.
As author approaches the Jacopo della Porta fountain at the Piazza’s southern end, the cream, sun-raked classical front of another church presents itself. Beside it is parked a camper in white and pale, weathered blue. From underneath it, as she descends from the driver’s seat, appear the black-stockinged, black-shod feet of an elegant woman, who now steps out from behind the camper, returning to her pocket a portable phone. As she strides into the square she unmasks a blue graffito: a sickle, within which a cross, atop which a five-pointed star. Out of this end of the square issues a narrow, sun-filled alleyway, a neon sign, unlit, reading, vertically, “HOSTARIA,” beneath which, horizontally, “ANTICA.” On an awning, in white against brown, a red-vested waiter standing beneath it, he now opening the door to enter, read the words, “La Piccola Cuccagna,” in reference to the greased pole erected periodically during the Renaissance for competitive climbing. As we leave the alleyway, we pass a wine-colored motorcycle, its seat in black leather.
We have turned the corner at the end of the plaza and are heading for the finish line, a comprehensive view – two-thirds of the square in full light –suddenly looming before us. A penguin-suited, orange duck-footed youth in bright yellow bow tie, white-hooded, orange-beaked, blue-eyed penguin face, stands in the window of a toy store. A man in a red scarf and green tweed overcoat, blue cap over gray hair, sits on a barely sunlit bench reading a map. As author passes them again, two of the four seated lovers open a bottle of champagne, the young man arising, glass in hand, to observe author, as he describes him. The doorway of number 105, “Videoteca Navona,” is framed in downward-reading letters, white on glass: “Musica Classica,” they read, “Made in Italy.” Behind us in the square a single flautist practices. “Anime Salve,” reads a graffito at the store’s next doorway. Seated on its threshold, a girl in long hair and a pure white frock balances a potted flower between her knees, her eyes averted. Over her head, through the music shop’s door, ads are visible for new CDs: “Dance into the Light,” “Open Arms,” “Best of Love,” “Heaven for Everyone.”
Behind the sunlit colonnade of Borromini’s church rise the emerald leaves of palm trees, at the base of the figure of Agnes revived, her head replaced. Returned to his station, author resumes seat next to newly arrived American tourists, girls in their early twenties, chirping in “up-talk.” “For an entire mónth I’ve completely lost track of tíme,” says a short-cut blonde in day pack and open-toed sandals. “I don’t know what dáy it is . . . .” “I don’t wórry,” says her supportive brunette compatriot. In the square before us all a goateed, mustachioed American “busker,” his blue baseball cap on backwards, thrums woodenly at a black-faced guitar inscribed with a blue heart, in an amateurish off-key rendition of “Honky Tonk Women.” Qian-hui summons him to our table and offers him a coin.
Via di Campo Marzio: the clank of metal being banged, beaten upon. At Number 1, Davide Cenci, the fashion outlet, a man scoots past on a red motorbike in slick green trench coat and black beret, leaving behind, in a deeply inset display window, three faceless, armless manikins in red shoulder dress; black nightgown; elegant off-beige pant suit with large buttons. All three have fur stoles draped about their shoulders. Through an archway, within a courtyard at the end of the street, remodeling is under way: the whiny buzz of metallic abrasion, the drill’s speed decreasing as pressure is applied. Two ancient columns without their capitals appear within. Up street rise two poles striped in red and white, a casual gathering of passersby pausing to communicate beneath them. As the banging continues, a white taxi passes; “ROMA OK 7908,” reads its license plate. A gray Alfa Romeo swings wide into the Via di Campo Marzio, passing under Davide Cenci’s second window: within which four clothes horses are clad in elegant gray overcoat; gray tweed jacket; gray blouson; gray slacks with no shirt. Fur-coated women stroll up the narrow street, expensive silk scarves deployed asymmetrically about their necks. A final Davide Cenci inset window is filled with nothing but red sweaters. On the second floor, against a burnt umber facade, a plaque reads:
GIUSEPPE VERDI
Abitò in questa casa
Inverno del 1859
Angle-parked on the paving stones beneath are three large motorcycles: one black; one red-and-white; one gray, the last reading “Africa Twin.” Businessmen return from lunch in beautifully tailored suits, pastel shirts, large elaborately-knotted ties.
Voci di Popolo
acclamando alla gloria di lui
nel suo nome espressero
le rideste speranze d’Italia
e additarono il re liberatore
We have reached the end of Davide Cenci: “ROMA * MILANO * NEW YORK.” Across the way a small gallery displays a dim, gilt-framed, nineteenth-century watercolor, “L’Arno a Firenze.” A lawyer pauses mid-street to punctuate his pager call with emphatic demands. As we continue on, Koko, at number 10B, advertises “Omero bas et collant,” invisible black stockings. On the pavement we must side-step orange, freshly deposited, tire-squashed horse droppings. Registri Buffetti advertises “Servizio Fax”; in its crowded window, “Microsoft Access Leonardo da Vinci.” We perambulate on past Alberghi e Ristorante Italia, as outside Bancomat a blue-clad, bulletproof-vested guard stands smoking a cigarette. At number 12 two forest-green doors are fitted with head-high knobs; on the stone casing, fingered in black: the infinity sign.
We have reached the Piazza del Parlamento, which is flooded with light. From the outskirts of Rome we enter the city by way of the Via Appia Nuova, crossing the Piazza di Porta San Giovanni to skirt the broad expanse of San Giovanni Laterano. At the point of highest illumination in beige, on a lemon-streaked facade, the word “Optical.” From there we proceed up the Via dell’Amba Aradam, continuing on in sight of the Baths of Caracalla through the Piazza di Porta Capena to skirt the Circo Massimo, site of ancient chariot races. Having experienced the Piazza together, author asks Qian-hui how she feels about it. “Wo jue-de nei-ge jian-zhu-wu hen da,” she says, “ke-shi li-mian shi shen-ma yang-zi bu zhi-dao, hen xiang jin-chu kan.” Thence we turn up the Aventine Hill, mounting past the Parco San Alessio to the Via di San Sabino. Bordered with heroic nude figures in bronze, the enormous oaken doors of the Parliament are unfortunately locked today, so we cannot enter, as she had hoped. Here we continue on foot to the Byzantine church of San Alessio, across the way to the courtyard of San Anselmo, through whose keyhole we glimpse the distant Saint Peter’s, as though in an iris shot. Running out of the little plaza is an alley called the Orologi Antichi. Nearby we stroll the Orange Garden for its expansive overview of the city, then enter to examine the paleo-Christian Chiesa di San Sabino.
At the corner of Via del Tritone and Via due Macelli we descend into an underpass for pedestrians. Descending the Aventino, we enter the Via del Circo Massimo, turn into the Via di San Gregorio and skirt the Coliseum, as it suddenly rises before us. Graffiti have been scrawled within otherwise unfilled advertising frames. All along this stretch we have been passing the Foro Romano, hidden from view by the Palatine Hill. “God,” in silver spray paint. Having, on the opposite side, skirted the Caelian. “Vento,” in yellow crayon. We now confront the Oppian Hill. “Hole,” in pink lipstick. Where, we are told, Nero had built his palace. “Sly,” in green spray paint. Its opulent grounds reaching to the Forum itself. Above, on a gold frame, “Fica (Pa),” in black magic marker.
Having exited the underpass, we continue on up the Via del Tritone, past “Gold Point,” a plaque in the jeweler’s window reading, “Fascino dei Preziosi.” Another outing takes us along the ancient route of the Via Prenestina into Lazio (the Roman Latium). At number 5 a sign reads, ”Kodak Gold,” the first word in red on yellow, the second in gold on black. We must travel some distance to reach the town of Palestrina, seated atop a sacred hill. At the end of “Gold” someone has added, upside down, the number “200.” Here we visit an ancient temple to Fortuna, ancestress of the gods. Across the way stands the Piazza Barberini. It was here, in the sixteenth century, that the Barberini established, above its demolished ramparts, their extra-Roman residence. Spontaneously, and with elaborate gesticulation, a socially marginal figure pays homage to the triton represented within the Piazza’s fountain. The palace, standing today, is reportedly still inhabited by descendants. Behind him, in gold on black, reads the sign of the “Banca di Roma.” The famous among whom had included generations, nay centuries, of Popes. Two oriental girls, one in a black, one in a white, padded jacket, scamper across the street, ignoring the zebra stripes.
Within the present palace – now museum – we discover, in black marble, a headless and armless statue of Fortuna, antique and robust.We have entered the Via Vittorio Veneto, playground of Rome’s 1960s café society. In this representation Fortuna is an earth goddess, the goddess of all things. On the travertine doorjamb of number 6, “Gioielleria Achilli,” someone has pasted a sticker representing a green wolf, Romulus and Remus also in green beneath her. Her profundity quite exceeds that of the later representations in white marble of Jupiter flanked by Juno and Minerva, also on display.Above another doorway a gold plaque reads “Alberghi Imperiali.” Most magnificent, complex and singular of all, however, is a detailed mosaic of the Nile Delta, executed in Rome during the second century A.D. by Alexandrian artisans. On a broad sidewalk before the hotel, an African has laid out atop a white sheet carved teak statuettes: human figures, native deities, animals. Roman soldiers in garrison, worshippers at Isis’ temple, a visual catalogue of beasts: real, semi-real and mythic. A standing elephant trumpeting with his raised trunk. Flowing amongst all: the waters of the great river at flood stage. Behind him, silver-lettered on a white background, is the sign for the “Gran Caffè Roma.” It is a work that synthesizes the best of ancient Greece, Alexandria and Rome.Overhead, in blue on white plastic, running beneath the three windows of the upper story: “Estetica Hairdresser Coiffeur.” A veritable Hymn to Life.
As we leave the Villa we come upon a roan stallion being exercised in a roadside courtyard. “Il Mio Fellini,” reads in black on white a placard affixed to a green kiosk. We descend the hill and reenter the landscape that we had been viewing from on high. At number 36 the entrance to La Strada is closed. We return to the city along a road bordered with ancient Roman paving stones. Reading through its glass door is an ad for “Walt Disney, Classici Pocahontas.” Palestrina, the town at the foot of the Villa, had given its name to the glorious musician of the early Renaissance, its native son. Visible farther within: an inflatable plastic globe, now partly deflated, swaying in the store’s electric breeze.
*
Approach to St. Peter’s, up Via Ottaviano into the Piazza del Risorgimento, where, above an orange and blue bus, its advertisement reading “L’Amica di Famiglia,” the dome emerges, a golden cross atop a golden orb. The skies are bright, the January morning crisp. Quickly we proceed in direction of Basilica, past a nun in black parka and black handbag, past guards in capes and ersatz hats. Parked before an archway: three blue-and-white police cars, two of them head-to-head. Ducking through the colonnade, we enter the Piazza di San Pietro, its obelisk occluded by a still-standing Christmas tree. In black jacket, black jeans, black running shoes an oriental tourist crosses the Square on a bias, as an Italian woman in black fur coat raises two red-gloved hands to blow her nose on a white tissue.
Author takes station in the shade of the obelisk, which, unencumbered with hieroglyphs, rises in gray schist to a modest height, capped by an eight-pointed star, atop which a simple cross. On the facing of the great Basilica four Corinthian columns support an architrave, in the peak of which sits Christ in stone, a metal halo atop his head, a metal cross in his hand. The inscription reads, “Pavlvs V Bvrghesivs Romanvs.” In long black coat, black designer slacks and elegant black pumps another oriental tourist stands in a chipper posture alongside her boyfriend to be photographed by another chicly-dressed oriental girl. A short-haired redhead in long black coat, on her way to work, strides briskly across the cobblestones.
At the Square’s center, within its circle of pillars, sits an elaborate crèche, two stories high, from which issue the strains of recorded Christmas carols, entrance to which is barred by a heavy metal gate. A Mary in rust-red and gray-blue with white over-garment holds on her lap a white-clad child several years old, as to one side Joseph, in yellow cape and brown undergarment, regards the scene with weary patience. In a separate compartment stand the three Magi, one Arabic, the other two African. At a lower level, beneath a stone arch, a sheep looks out quizzically at the viewer. At the head of the square stand two black-booted figures, the backs of their blue jackets reading in large white letters, “POLIZIA,” “POLIZIA.” A black-hooded priest in black skirts scurries through a narrow aperture into the Via della Conciliazione.
Closer approach to Basilica, past St. Peter himself in stone, his iron key painted gold. “ENTRATA” says a large sign in white on black. We proceed through the portico, past Michelangelo’s Pietà, on up the nave’s multi-colored marble floor to the “squeak squeak” of tourists’ running shoes. We have reached the baldacchino, about whose balustrade lounge two eighteen-year-olds, one a redhead. On the back of his jacket, in red letters, reads the word “RED,” underneath it a red Canadian maple leaf. We continue on to the high altar, where gilt figures, their heads fitted with gilt miters, gaze past gilt sun rays into gilt clouds, above which golden angelic figures point ceiling-ward into a gold dome. A plaque to one side of the altar commemorates “Pivs IX Pontifex Maximvs, Dogmaticam Definitionem De Conceptione Immacvlata.” At the southern end of the crossing, a mass in progress, a green-clad priest kneels before a golden orb, atop which a golden crucifix. Beneath the word “Magyar,” mounted on a mahogany stall, a nun confesses in Hungarian. A white arrow, wine-colored letters within, reads “Penitenza.”
Completing his counterclockwise circuit, author steps around St. Peter’s intarsia image, embedded in the floor of the vestibule, and on out into the Square again.
*
We are passing Cinecittà, Gemma, a student of Italian literature, at the wheel, discussing the classical Italian writer whom she most admires, Giovanni Boccaccio. “What,” author inquires, “do you especially admire in Boccaccio’s work?”
“His beautiful way, his capability, of writing.”
“Do you also think his stories are funny?”
“Oh yes,” she replies, “and very interesting.”
“Now Boccaccio, like Dante and Petrarch” – author pursuing another tack –“was also a scholar. He wrote, for example, a work called, The Life of Dante.”
“I haven’t read that.”
“What about his great encyclopedia, The Genealogy of the Pagan Gods?”
“Yes, I have heard of that.”
We arrive at our destination, the Università di Roma, where the tour is to continue under the guidance of Professoressa Angela Speranza. Before long we begin our approach to San Giovanni Laterano, occasioning reference to the “Holy Stairs.”
“The Scala Santa,” the professor reiterates. “You must climb the stairs on your knees,” she explains. “Once I went with my nephews, who didn’t take the climbing very seriously.”
“They began to skip steps?” author ventures.
“No, they began to see who could surpass the other.” As we traverse the Piazza, Professor Speranza points out the Church of San Giovanni, mentioning but not indicating the Catholic University with its Lateran Museum. “Here you can see the Egyptian obelisk,” she says. “It is one of seven in Rome, I believe there are seven.” But we have passed it already. “If you stop in front of it,” she continues, “you can read the Egyptian news as though in a newspaper. ‘Sara,’” she quotes, “That is to say, the son of the sun. You will see a bird, and over the bird you will see a ball. The round ball, you see, is the sun, and the bird is the son, s-o-n.” And so on. “If you approach closely, you may also see a sign written by the Pope against the beliefs of the people who made the obelisk. In Latin it reads, ‘religio infidelio,’ the religion of the infidels. The Church placed the monument here but hated it, because it symbolized infidelity.”
“I see,” says author. Qian-hui has fallen asleep in the back seat. “What then, over the millennia, has been the general Roman attitude toward Egypt?”
“Admiration,” the professor responds, “in general, admiration. But to educate the people the Church felt it must express its disapproval of the pagan gods, of the cult of Isis.”
“How would you compare Egyptian culture with the other great cultures that you have encountered, such as Hindu and Chinese?” The professor has taught in India and China, as well as Europe, Africa, The United States.
“It belongs to the same level as the other high cultures,” she responds. “The Egyptians,” she continues, “express a democratic vision of life.”
“How interesting,” says author. “Can you elaborate?”
“One of the greatest Egyptian revolutions concerned equal access to the underworld. From this we come to Christianity, which took its strength from Egypt, for Christianity offered Heaven for everyone. In the most ancient of religions the common people could not adore the gods of the sky, only the gods of the earth. Likewise in Egypt it was forbidden for the people to adore the higher gods, and they were also forbidden to go to the underworld. So the first revolution was instigated by a populace who wanted a life after death. The guides in Egypt will explain all this to you. I don’t remember now the name of the Pharaoh under which this occurred.” Author’s suggestion ignored, he nonetheless encourages her to continue.
“I also admire very much the posture of the Pharaohs, their way of sitting, their respiration, their calm. As a matter of fact, I studied, I reflected for some time on the position, the way they sat, for the shoulders reveal the same concern that we see in the yogi and the ancient Chinese for the position of the spinal cord. They are upright but relaxed, their knees very close together. The eyes look not at material things but very far into the distance.”
“Do you think there was any connection,” author inquires, “among the great cultures that developed the form of the pyramid?”
“Excuse me,” says the professor, “I want to show you the Baths of Caracalla. This here is the Archaeological Promenade, and those are the Terme di Caracalla, among the most important baths of ancient Rome. Excuse me,” she says, reverting to author’s question, “I don’t know. I have never reflected on that. I have reflected on the position of the Pharaohs, even when they are standing. I think that we may study the history of many cultures in terms of the positions of the body. What is outstanding in Egypt is the achievement of this complete level of the spiritual. It’s a religious and superior level of mankind.”
“Now the hill in front of us?” author inquires.
“The hill in front of us, yes. This is the Piazza d’Armi, where the weapons are. The hill in front of us is the Palatine, where is the house of Caesar. So we are going around the hills now.” Author thinks to explain the basic situation to his English-less companion, but as he turns to Qian-hui he is interrupted. “This, you see, was the seat of the high priesthood, overlooking the Forum, which is not here but on the other side. We are in the really most important part of Rome, the one which Shakespeare had in mind. Let me see if I can turn and show you. Over there is the Synagogue, which rivals a little with St. Peter’s, but which is much smaller. Here is the Roman gate. So. I have returned to where I was in order to show you – that is the Palatine; this is the Aventine – to the place where there is another hill of Rome. So this is the Aventine, and we are climbing the Aventine now, where the most important churches are located. And over there is the Rose Garden.” As author again probes the extent of Qian-hui’s interest, again he is interrupted. “This is the seat of important monasteries, and the paleo-Christian church, which is also very important. Here is the Garden of Oranges, with a beautiful view of Rome.” Author expresses a desire to experience at first hand the gorgeous site. “We might stop a moment,” the professor concedes. Descending from the car, we all three proceed on foot, promenading together the gravel path.
“This is one of the most beautiful views of Rome,” she resumes. ”You will see almost everything from here. Look at the place,” says the professor, turning to Qian-hui. “Look at the orchards. You know what Goethe said of Italy, ‘Kennst du die Land wo die Citronen blumen?’ which means ‘the land where the lemons flower,’ and this is not the lemons but the oranges, the perfume of oranges.” For a precious moment we stroll the luxurious grounds in silence, but soon we have reached the ramparts. “This then,” she announces again, “is the Synagogue, that is St. Peter’s, there is Piazza Venezia, with the big white monument.”
“To Vittorio Emmanuelle,” author adds, but he is brushed aside.
“If you want to know the places where Shakespeare . . . The Foro Romano, the Palatine. Then, if you remember in Julius Caesar, he says ‘Let me read for you Caesar’s testament: “All the gardens”’ – the orchards –‘“this side of Tiber I leave to the Roman people.”’ You see. So, the places are: Palatine, Forum, and the orchards this side of Tiber.”
“Rome is really the most luxurious city in the world,” author offers by way of appeasement, hoping for a change of pace.
“Ah yes, very beautiful today. Let me see if I can show you other monuments. If I am not mistaken, that is Piazza Navona. I am not sure.”
“Yes, the Piazza Navona. We . . .”
“You see, I have a colleague who teaches Russian. She went to Paris and stayed there for some time. And when she returned, I asked her, ‘But then, do you like Paris?’ (I was in Paris ten days ago.) ‘Do you like Paris?’ ‘Ah,’ she says, ‘there is no history.’ I said, ‘Don’t tell them, because they think they have quite a lot of history.’ Instead,” she continues for author’s benefit, “here every single piece comes from history. Now, for instance, you ask me about these walls. I cannot tell you what they are exactly, but certainly they are something belonging to an important past.” We have reached the end of the walkway. “Well then, let’s go out that way and look at the paleo-Christian church for a moment.”
“Rome,” author ventures, “is a relatively small city, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but Rome was very big in the time of Trajan. It reached 2,000,000, a larger population than at any time before the present century. You know, in the nineteenth century Rome had only 150,000 inhabitants.” Author tries to indicate his awareness of these matters but fails. “So you can imagine Rome in the time of Trajan,” the professor continues. “It was full of” – she laughs – “people of the European community. Coming from Spain, coming from France, coming from northern Africa. You can imagine what kind of people, because of course they were not all born in Rome. You know that even Vergil came from the north of Italy.”
“Perhaps a little like Changan during the Tang dynasty,” author ventures.
“Yes, yes. It was the maximum expansion of the Empire, and also the maximum expansion of the population of Rome. Today, of course, Rome has 4,000,000 inhabitants, Greater Rome.” We have reached the Church of San Sabino. “Tell me again,” author says, for the sake of a new subject, “about the power of the Orders in Rome, and how it is maintained today.” We have entered the sanctuary. His question provokes a mildly hysterical laugh, followed by a dramatic sigh.
“If you will turn off that recorder I may tell you something.” Author at once pretends to. “We are, you see, weaker than the French,” she whispers. “Weaker, weaker than the British. Because we are not self-reliant as a nation. We have another nation within.”
“So the separation between Papacy and Government, reportedly part of nineteenth-century reorganization, does not hold today.”
“I would like to put it this way,” she explains. “Any state which has another state within is a mined state. It is undermined from within. You see this in the Catholic universities. Quite a lot of power. Anyhow. This has nothing to do with religion, for religion has made the character of Italians a very good character.” We have stopped to inquire about visiting hours. “Religion is what has been taught to the people on the whole, and, considering the modern situation, we are a people of more understanding than thirty years ago. So, from that point of view, I think the Church has done a good job. I am speaking from the perspective of power.” She gestures toward San Sabino. “This is a place of power.”
“On balance, as a student of world religion, do you think that religion is a force for the good or for the bad?” The church is closed but the monastery still open.
“I think for the good. And you know why? Between you and me, it is something apart. With religion our relation is fortified.”
“There is certainly something that we do not know, isn’t there?” author opines.
“Anyhow. I have some thoughts about religion which I won’t tell you. They are in the direction of religion as tribal; that means a unifying element between a certain ethnic group of people. So, I tend to think about the god of tribe rather than anything else, but I do not want to discuss that. It’s a delicate subject.” We have arrived at the house of the Cavaliers of Malta. Here, through a keyhole, we peer across the city at the dome of St. Peter’s.
“A famous Gregorian chant,” the monologue continues. “It is like the Bayreuth of Gregorian chant. And now the church.” We have entered the hallways of the monastery of San Anselmo. “This is one of the most refined places in Catholicism,” murmurs the professor. “It is very well kept,” she adds. “It is a place of power.” Turning to Qian-hui:
“She must go back, so I will try to show you quickly several other things.” Gesturing toward long-robed figures passing, she whispers, “they are not monks, they are simply princes.” Concerned that Qian-hui not be late, author encourages a return to the car. As we proceed, the topic shifts:
“When he speaks of Shakespeare, Samuel Johnson says, ‘Do you think he takes Hamlet from Saxo-Grammaticus?’” her voice rising in pitch. “He had heard the story, you see. His son was called Hamnet, which is very close to Hamlet, you see.”
“Yes, I see,” says author, adding that Whitman too had learned much from conversation, doubtless Ovid as well.
“This is your fascination with American literature,” the professor enjoins. “Today, I spoke to you about the positions of the Pharaohs,” she resumes. “Where does one find these observations? There is not even a line written on the position of the Pharaohs.”
“No,” author concurs. We are passing the FAO, an agency of the UN, whose buildings once housed the office of the Italian empire. “I would be interested in your view of Rome as a contemporary international center,” he proffers.
“Another time,” says Professor Speranza, “another time. “Now, what you say about Dante,” she continues, averting to author’s recent survey of the poet’s reception in England, “I want only to remark that I don’t see any real change in the position toward Dante. The interest toward Dante is a continuous element. This, if you come by yourself, is the Palatine and the Arch of Constantine. It was restored recently. To the left, if you come by yourself, is the Coliseum. That is the entrance to the Palatine and the Arch of Titus. Here is the hill, the Caelian; there is another hill, the Oppium, nothing to do with opium, hashish. This is the Caelian, and that is the Colle Oppio. The House of Nero went from the Oppium down to the Coliseum. A house of Nero, from up there. So now you know. The Seven Hills of Rome: Caelian, Palatine, Oppium, three; Esquilino, four. Then, uh – Esquilino – there is another one which is out of this part – ah yes, Quirinale. There is yet one more. We are climbing now the Palatine, the Oppium Hill. This is the Coliseum . . . you see; on the other side, there is a crack; there was an earthquake, at the end of the first two centuries. From here you may walk up the Oppium and reach Santa Maria Maggiore very easily.” She has in mind her own neighborhood.
“And what, may I ask, is your view of Nero?” author inquires. Respondent cackles.
“On some things I have no particular view.” Pausing to reconsider, she revises her response: “I have only a view of immense power. If one has a villa,” she explains, “Which goes from here to the Coliseum, and several other important enormous palaces, there is no rich man in the world today who can enjoy that kind of power. Inside were the most beautiful things of the world, the most beautiful paintings and fountains, you see.” We have reached the Oriental Museum, which occasions an account of the professor’s study of Hindi, her stay in Delhi.
“It seems to me,” says author, “that southern Indian culture is a higher form than northern Indian culture.” We are returning toward Santa Maria Maggiore.
“I don’t know,” she says, indicating displeasure, “I don’t know.” Our tour almost complete, the visitors are about to be dropped off. We have reached the Via Merulana.
“It has been a magnificent tour,” says author. But the tour is not over yet.
“This,” she says, gesturing at her own neighborhood, “was all an ancient Roman cemetery. And there is the house of Maecenas, where Vergil worked. They held wild parties.”
“Oh they did? How interesting,” author responds, inquiring of her views about Vergil.
“About certain people we are not accustomed to have views,” she replies, laughing. “They simply are.” Again she laughs. “They are simply great. We are asked to learn them by heart but not to have views.”
“In this respect, then, you are much like the Chinese.”
“In a way,” she responds nervously. “The American tendency to recapture the past, the idea of Pound, the Kulturmorphologie, which he got from the Germans, of making the past alive, this is not an Italian idea. The past in Italy is an object of veneration. That is all. When I read in The Microsoft Encyclopedia about Aristotle, that he went to another place because he could not stand his colleagues, something like that. Something like that you would never find in an Italian encyclopedia. Because Aristotle is a god. You cannot touch.” Again she has second thoughts, proclaiming herself in reality “nearer to the Americans. I have to discuss everything,” she admits. “But Shakespeare for me is not a god but a brilliant fellow, a brilliant friend.” Pausing a moment, she resumes her original thesis. “For Italians, for the French as well, there are certain things which are untouchable, untouchable. Not in the Indian sense,” she adds.
“And those, I suppose, would include Ovid?”
“My colleagues of course would know everything about Ovid, but you do not discuss. You do not discuss Ovid, or Tacitus. You know, when we were at school I studied twelve years of Latin and five of Greek. Tacitus was ununderstandable, by definition. Now people tell us what Tacitus did not know. I find it all disgusting. This diminishes the writing of Tacitus. Why should we break our minds to understand something that is ununderstandable? The problem is not that. Tacitus is the greatest writer,” she says, lowering her voice in reverence. “You see what I mean. The greatest historian of antiquity. The fact that he is ununderstandable is not to be considered. In Italy no criticism of these figures is ever conveyed to the audience. Aristotle, you see, is a god, absolutely superior.”
“Do you think that Plato, the dialectician, would have agreed?” author inquires. But we have suddenly reached the end of the tour.
*
Straight-on view, Arch of Constantine, lit by electric street lights, vague outlines of umbrella pines only dimly green against a purple-black sky; rising to its left, the arches of the Coliseum. In the square’s infield rise three tall cypresses, a quincunx of live oaks. From a sidewalk bordered by high, spike-topped fence author steps off modern pavement onto Roman paving stones and crosses to read the plaque on the enceinte enclosing the five trees: “Area del Basamento del Colosso di Nerone.” The colossus itself no longer exists.
Author turns and enters the Via dei Fori Imperiali, arriving before too long at a little park beside the quickening avenue, a bronze statue within of Julius Caesar, the branches of delicate trees waving close behind his hand. Farther back, in a pit at the base of a hill, rest the scattered remains of a building. High above, in the dim light, rise the Corinthian capitals of three columns, the only ones still standing from the Temple to Castor and Pollux.
We have reached the Piazza Venezia, automobiles with their headlights on clattering past over the street’s cobblestones. On the opposite side of the square a large bank of lights illuminates the monument to Vittorio Emmanuelle, at whose base is parked a single black sedan. We follow the oval defined by a travertine sidewalk to gain a frontal view of the structure. Two pigeons, against a still darkened sky, over-fly us. As we complete our trajectory, past the monument, we rejoin an ancient Roman wall, upon which a plaque reads, “Casa Romana dell’Aracoeli.”
Having stopped for coffee at a bar in the Via dell’Aracoeli, just opened at 5:30 am, author exits into a little piazza to head upward, mounting what appear to be the steps to the Campidoglio. Totally alone in this even smaller, building-surrounded space, he opens the map to determine its identity; surprisingly, his intuition is confirmed. Experienced at first hand, Michelangelo’s design is less than overwhelming. Here the postcard view represents an imposing grandeur, the square inscribed with a circle, within which a twelve-pointed star, at the center a pedestal for a since removed equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius. Author, still alone, descends the Via Campidoglio to a low balustrade overlooking the forum, or one small corner thereof. The sky, only just beginning to lighten, has a rosy, grayish gloom about it; off in the distance gleams a single red traffic light. Again, the postcard view greatly over-goes in detail and coherence this incomplete account, showing us, if not naming the Tempio della Concordia, the Tempio di Vespasiano, the Tempio di Saturno, the Arco di Settimio Severo, along with other monuments, Renaissance and medieval as well as Roman, to say nothing of a half moon held in place above the Coliseum. Author continues descent down the Via Monte Tarpeo, as crows caw from the branches of a large, rounded umbrella pine. There is still no other sign of living human presence along this declining way. It is 6:15.
Rounding a hair-pin turn, we arrive, at the foot of the hill, in the Via della Consolazione to face a yellow-stuccoed police station. Soaring above is the tower of Santa Maria in Aracoeli, its arches lit from within, its outline reading against a charcoal sky newly infused with a roseate glimmer. We continue past a building from which lantern-lights on wrought-iron armatures have been suspended, their yellow illumination spilling onto the paving-stones below.
We pass the Via dei Foraggi, at the corner of which stands a gray-plastered building, on whose bare side a plaque reads, “Foro Romano.” The Forum lies obscured behind a high, vine-covered wall. Off to our left, as we follow the road’s gentle descent, loom in semi-obscurity the ruins of more Roman buildings. We happen upon the gloomy gate of a church, on whose six pilasters read six separate words:
Hoc Templum Sanctum Theodoro Militi Martyri
“Dictatum Est,” the sentence concludes, on the church’s front wall. As we continue, still no light emanates from the sky, though it is already past 6:30. Out of the Via San Theodoro we descend into an alleyway named Via del Velabro to confront a beautiful arch. On our right appear the columns, architrave and tower of a Romanesque church, also gorgeous in its delicate articulation. As author approaches to examine the arch, a gray-and-white cat scampers past. Since the Forum itself does not open till 9:00 o’clock, he decides to enter a Bar Tabacchi for another cup of coffee.
Out on the street again, bells sounding 7:00 o’clock, the flow of head-lighted traffic has picked up, though author remains the only pedestrian in sight. He enters into the Via della Greca and proceeds along its continuation, the Via dei Cerchi. We are heading for the Piazza di Porta Capena. Following this paving-stoned sidewalk, before long we will have skirted on our left the Forum, on our right, over a low wall, the bed of the Circo Massimo. A rosiness intermingles with pale blue behind bent cypresses that rise high above ruins to our left.
As we turn left at the corner, the Arch of Constantine again comes into view. Crossing the Via di San Gregorio, we mount the Colle Celio. Black graffiti overlay a marble plaque reading “Antiquarium”: “Yvonne & Cri” says the black superscription. As we continue to mount, orange trolley cars descend. A woman in red and black sounds the bell at the black gateway to “L’Antiquarium del Caelia,” where a show titled “Vita Quotidiana nella Roma Antica” is advertised.
All is still desolation. A black cat steps onto the sidewalk, stops and stares at author, his eyes catching the brilliant glare of the yellow globes that line the trolley track.
AUTHOR IS TREADING PATHWAYS TROD BY VERGIL AND OVID.
As the cat disappears into a dusky grove, we continue our descent from the Monte Celio.
Reaching the Coliseum, we begin to circle it in a counterclockwise direction. On a shop in the piazza a sign reads “Change Cambio Wechsel Exchange.” Next door, at the “Hostaria del Gladiatore,” another reads “Mercoledì Chiuso.” It is Wednesday. Leaving the Colosseo on our left, we veer now into the Viale Domus Aurea, heading for the Golden House of Nero. “AVANTI” says the green pedestrian sign at the crossing.
We are mounting the hill, palm trees rising above grated Roman arches in the palace’s former bulwarks. Little else of the past, however, remains. The passageways are vacant, the fountains empty, the trellises bare.
The way too is directionless. An alley dead-ends at a wall of the palace. Author mounts a stage of steps, bordered by recently cut trees, into a parking lot from which there seems to be no exit. We pass the huge unmarked backdrop of an arched amphitheater and begin our descent into an unmarked street. Across the way, a woman in black slacks and gray parka secures a huge gate. At last we reach a street sign, coated in blood-red spray paint. “Via delle Terme di Traiano,” it says. The street lights all go out at once.
It is a new world. Day has arrived. A black-and-white-clad jogger reaches the end of a trail and turns about. On its side in a huge emerald sward lies a single section of a column, nine feet in circumference, 25 feet long. In a modern fountain a brown furry cat sits hunched before the pool at its feet. Behind the scene rises the curvature of the useless Coliseum. On the needle-strewn pathway a single red maple leaf skitters past.
We re-descend by way of the Viale del Monte Oppio, leaving more ruins behind. Further ahead is visible the church of San Pietro in Vincoli; directly before us a street intersects. Laundry hangs from the balconies of its nineteenth-century houses, TV antennae sprouting from their rooftops. At the Largo Polviera we pause to enter the Caffè dello Studente, looking back through its door at a white Romana Pan Carré van, a statue of Augustus painted on its side. It has just pulled up. “Hot Pizza,” says a label beneath him.
Author has taken a seat at the bar, above which a sign reads “Forza Romana,” a wolf encircled between the two words. Looking back at the door, the word “Roma,” a wolf nursing Romulus and Remus in the “O,” reads in reverse, “amoR.” Underneath it is pasted an ad for “Mars Bars.” It is 7:30. Through the glass door can be seen a car ascending the hill that we have just descended. The man from Romana Pan Carré, having made his delivery, reenters to get paid. “Grazie mille,” he says, “Buon giorno.”
Behind us, pasted on a mirror, a hand-crafted sign covered with sexy girls advertises spécialité de la maison: “Caffè alla Russa,” a bare-midriffed Russian girl on her belly holding it aloft; “Caffè Mambo,” Brazilian dancers swirling above its steam. Author’s cappuccino arrives; sweet; whipped cream atop it; a thin rolled pastry balanced on the lip of the cup. At the back of the café, under a ceiling in quadriform arches, bills from many nations have been covered in plastic and displayed. Egyptian decorative motifs have been added to the freshly-painted wall on which they hang.
All the café’s personnel wear white uniforms, each of which is slightly different in hue and texture. The vibrant music is Latin. Her white cap perched at a rakish angle, the sympathetic proprietress, a cigarette dangling from her lips, scrapes the grill. Grabbing two heavy plastic sacks of Pan Carré (huge squares of sliced bread), a tall, heavy set young waiter strips them open on the sandwich board. The beat of the Latin music picks up: faster; faster still. Author drains his cappuccino, leaves a tip and departs.
In the Largo Gaetana Agnesi, above the Fori Imperiali metro stop, he has situated himself on a low, graffiti-covered, circular ledge. It is 8:00 o’clock. High school girls, congregating before the bell, engage in lively conversation. As more arrive, they kiss one another on both cheeks. Two classmates shake their heads in agreement, setting in motion their stringy locks of dishwater-blonde. Meanwhile, down the hill, across the avenue, a single pigeon over-flies the Arch of Constantine, as three horses and their red-wheeled, black carriages await early-rising tourists in the Piazza del Colosseo. Now several male students mount the Largo, passing up the oval, where yet more girls have arrived to gossip, two with their boyfriends. “Chicago: Sex,” reads the black cap of the liveliest guy, the prettiest girl on his arm. The school uniform, it would seem, consists of sloppy jeans and a black jacket. The crowd thickens, three girls arriving elegantly-clad, one in high black pumps and shoulder bag, her straight black hair falling the length of a short black coat, from beneath which tight black pant legs descend, three tiny white stripes tracing their seams. With two extended fingers holding it, she drags on a cigarette, leans back and shoots a stream of smoke into a pale-blue, white-misted sky. “Neat,” reads a graffito in green; “neon,” another in red.
From the Largo we re-descend into the Via del Colosseo, past a graffito reading “been.” On the sides of buildings have been pasted ads for American movies; “Il Corragio della Verità,” reads one. We are spiraling outward to circumambulate the Fori Imperiali, which for the most part are not visible from behind. In an open plaza, at its very center, is parked a white Fiat. Passing the “Hotel Nerva,” we enter the Via di Campo Carleo and follow a priest as he descends to another site of ruins. Returning up steps into the modern city, we pause to watch as a dove flutters onto a balustrade, hops down and walks directly into an apartment through its open volets, whose green curtains have been stretched out over the balcony.
We mount the Salita del Grillo to the Largo Angelicum; down a narrow alleyway the column of Trajan comes into view. In orange, in green, in wine-colored parkas, school kids ascend the alley’s steps. All have day packs; one, in yellow-and-blue, reads, “San Francisco”; another, in light on dark blue, “Save the Dolphins.” Descending past the kids, past the Chiesa di Nome Maria, past two twelve-year-old girls in identical parkas, we arrive at Trajan’s column, the sky overhead streaked with two converging vapor trails.
Out of the Foro Traiano we exit, bending back toward the Foro di Augusto, sighted across the Foro della Pace. The sun has finally risen, its force still muted by a cloud. “The Forum of Augustus,” reads a plaque, “was inaugurated in 2 B.C.” As a pigeon settles into a niche, a pale yellow solar orb emerges. “Mamma,” reads a black graffito on the plaque’s restraining Plexiglas. “Building developed by great arcades around the Temple of Marte Ultor,” continues the text, “which was voted by Augustus himself during the Battle of Phillipi, 42 B.C.” “E Allora?” says a black graffito on the Plexiglas. “In which he avenged the murder of Julius Caesar, his adoptive father.” “Ciao,” reads another in pink lipstick.
Behind us, parked in the narrow street running past the Forums: a purple-blue Fiat Cinquecento; a silver Fiat; an old red Fiat, out of which steps a balding professor in aqua loden coat, a leather briefcase in one hand, across his other shoulder a laptop computer strap. “Imperial Forums,” reads the heading of another graffito-overlaid plaque. “On the Palatine, Quirinal and Capitoline Hills traces of human settlements date from the second half of the second millennium B.C.” Stepping to the edge of the archaeological site, the professor peers into it. “At the same time a commercial center was born in the vicinity of Tiber Island.” Author relocates himself before two truncated pillars framing the entrance to the now defunct Temple of Mars Ultor. “With the passing of centuries it expanded so much that in the Republican Age it invaded the Imperial Forums valley through Velabrum.” Which sits at the very center of the Augustine Forum. “The building of the forums, from Caesar to Trajan, caused the progressive destruction of the commercial area.” In electric green across the text, a graffito reads “Dino”; beneath, a large-eared cartoon rabbit in black. Behind, parked at the curb: a black Fiat, a white Volkswagen, a gunmetal-blue Rover.
As author searches the Via di San Gregorio for the entrance to the Foro Romano, he passes two black-coated Japanese girls heading in the same direction. The sun has begun to warm. Standing atop a silver twenty-foot extension ladder, a green-jacketed workman pulls green weeds from the orange crevices of a Roman wall, as behind a grill crouch three cats, white, gray, gray-and-white, observing him. A Fiat turns abruptly into the Via Sacra. Italian soldiers in new khaki uniforms exit a khaki van. We have reached the entrance to the Forum. Having entered alone, author skirts the baths and the Temple of Jupiter Stator to arrive at the Arch of Titus. Across the way lies the Temple of Venus and Rome. Overhead a noisy helicopter makes its transit. Approaching the temple, he mounts a few steps to align the now moon-like disc of the sun, shrouded again in gray cloud, with the top of a single column, where a bird has taken its perch. Turning about, he descends to head back up the Via Sacra.
“By the sixth century B.C. the Romans had removed their Etruscan overlords and established a republic.” Past the Basilica of Massentius and Constantine we arrive at the Temple of Romulus. “The Curia, meeting place of the Senate, the Comitium, well or assembly place, and the Rostra, the speaker’s platform, were built to serve the democracy, along with the earliest temples dedicated to the civic revolution.” Past Romulus and Remus we arrive at a temple with the inscription “Divo Antonino et Divae Faustina.X.X.C.” “The facade of the Temple of Antoninus and Faustina was incorporated into the Church of San Lorenzo in Miranda before the twelfth century.” High on its architrave, above Egyptian capitals, sitting in turn above high weather-worn columns nearly intact. “Its brick front now visible dates to the Baroque era.” High above the Baroque facade, heavy with volutes. “Antoninus, one of the good emperors of the second century A.D., had the temple built in honor of his wife, Faustina, who died in 141.” Stands an openwork Greek cross. “After his own death the Roman people returned the favor, and the temple now stands to commemorate them both.”
“Continuing along the Via Sacra, ahead rises the Arch of Septimius Severus, to the left of which the Temple of Saturn.” Author stands within the porch of the Curia, established, according to tradition, by Romulus. “The original seat of the Senate, the Curia Hostilia, was named after Tullus Hostilius, the third king of Rome.” So slow has been his pace that the two black-clad Japanese girls have passed him. “Destroyed by fire in 52 B.C., it was rebuilt by Julius Caesar.” Despite having frequently stopped to photograph themselves. “In 29 B.C. Augustus then inaugurated the new Curia.” Cavorting, across the square before the Curia, one raises the peace sign, as her friend snaps a photo. “From the steps of the Curia we look outward toward the golden milestone, onward to the Arch of Tiberius, past the Imperial Rostra, the Rostra Vandalica.” Several pigeons peck at the dirt before the stair. “To one side stands the Arch of Septimius Severus and the Umbilicus Romae.” As author exits past the Rostra, a pale sun shines down upon the scene.
We return up the other branch of the Via Sacra. Giggling, one of the Japanese girls holds out her hand in the “stop” gesture, as she is photographed again. She is very pretty. We pass the enormous basilica to Julia, or at least its ground plan. As we turn, the three extant columns of the Temple of Castor and Pollux tower above us again. Again the Japanese girls trade places, the second photographing the first, who extends one hand to show five fingers, the other to show one. The photographing girl, her face elegantly pale, wears a long black dress beneath her salmon-collared black coat.
Of the nine members of the casual touring brigade that author has become a part of, the other eight are all Japanese. He takes a seat before the House of the Vestal Virgins, within which the two girls continue to chatter. Arising, he joins them in the inner court, lined with statues of grim-faced Roman maidens in various states of disrepair. Within a dirty pool swim three carp, two golden, one a mottled white. Departing the House of the Virgins, author meanders through further ruins, seeking an exit from the maze that might return him to the Arch of Titus. Having found it, he retraces the Via Sacra, turning right to mount the Palatine.
Having climbed an alley bordered in umbrella pines, we arrive at the Sito dell’Arcus Domitiani. A black crow dips into the ruins. At the head of the ascending sward lie two massive chunks of marble, one part of a column brutally broken off. Achieving a plateau, we now perambulate the remains of the Palazzi Imperiali. To our right a huge conifer lays its branches down to within our grasp. Up a brown pathway we continue to mount.
We have reached the top of the Palatine, where, it is said, “the first and final chapters of the ancient empire unfolded.” We climb a course of Roman steps. “During the Empire this was the city’s most fashionable residential quarter, where aristocrats and statesmen, including Cicero, built their homes.” At last we arrive at a garden with an overview of Rome. “Augustus, who was born here, lived in a surprisingly modest house, but later emperors capitalized on the Hill’s prestige by building progressively more gargantuan quarters for themselves and their courts.” It is still cool, only the exertion of mounting the Palatine having raised author’s temperature to an uncomfortable degree.
We proceed on out through memorial pathways under towering cypresses to view St. Peter’s, the Janiculum sprawling to one side. We now look down into ruins that had earlier risen above us. Off in the distance appear the towers of churches, a hill crested in trees. In the middle ground: beige buildings, most of them residential. Smoke drifts aimlessly from a nearby smokestack. Though shrouded in fog at its lower reaches, the sky has begun to clear. The sun comes out to lave the whole of Rome in its graceful light.
As author surveys the scene, a little Italian girl, accompanied by her grandfather, steps to the railing. Wearing a red, green-bordered cape, she has a fancy green hat, pink ribbons flowing behind it. Following paths back to the crest of the Palatine, we encounter a maze constructed of hedge, a single palm rising from within it. Neither entrance into nor exit from the maze is permitted. Down an alleyway we arrive at the marble statue of a headless emperor; a graffito etched into his leg reads “ROME.” As we pass a row of trees loaded with oranges, a little Japanese girl scampers past in white stockings, the red fringe of her dress showing beneath her navy-blue sailor’s coat; atop her head: a naval beret.
From the high hill we look down into the Forum. “The conquest of Greece in the second century B.C. brought new architectural forms to the city, among them the lofty basilica.” From a new perspective: the massive Basilicas of Massentius and Constantine, of Julia, of Aemelia. “They served as the centers for judicial and business activities.” The black-clad Japanese girls have again reached author’s side. “The wealthiest Roman families, including that of Julius Caesar, lined the town’s Square with these architectural structures.” In salmon trim, black camera in hand, the prettier girl photographs her companion. Beyond the Forum below the Fori Imperiali are also visible. “Julius Caesar was the first to expand the city center in that direction.” The latter, smiling, swishes her hair back and forth. “The Forum and Temple that he built in honor of Venus, his legendary ancestress, seriously undercut the prestige of the Senate and its older precinct around the Curia.”
Author takes seat on bench before a small triangular swatch of park, its decoration almost as random as the ruins below. “Augustus, Vespasian, Nerva and Trajan all followed suit, filling the flat space between the Forum and the Quirinal Hill with capacious monuments to their own glory.” A scrubby live oak, ten feet tall; the trunk of an ancient cypress; a rough-hewn marble block; three prickly bushes in pink. “Mussolini, with imperial aspirations of his own, cleared the area of illegal constructions and built the Via dei Fori Imperiali to pass above the newly excavated fanes.” A single columnar cypress catches the sun. The tide of Japanese forerunners having passed, European tourists follow, many Italians among them.
*
Down Viale Aventino another day’s outing – past the Maison de Beauté Miranda, past Omeo Patica, the sun beaming brightly on this congenial neighborhood. A small black cat crosses author’s path; glancing back over her shoulder, she flashes her agate eyes. We are heading toward a pyramid built by Gaius Cestius, an official under Augustus who was “taken by the craze for things Egyptian that followed the Emperor’s defeat of Cleopatra.” Leaving behind on our right the Parco della Resistenza dell’ 8 Settembre, we enter modern Rome. As we round the medieval turrets of the Porta San Paolo, traffic signs confront us: “Napoli,” says one, “Route A-1”; “Firenze,” another, “Route A-1,” in the opposite direction.
Taking a right into the Via Nicola Zabaglia. “Adam and Eve were created to replace the fallen angels.” We enter the Protestant Cemetery. (Lino Pertile’s article on “Dante”). Roman resting place for strangers who were not Catholic. (In The Cambridge History of Italian Literature). Author heads in direction of Shelley’s tomb, which lies at the base of a tower. “Originally placed in the Earthly Paradise, after the Fall they were driven out.” On the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo depicts in a single panel both the Temptation and the Expulsion. Behind an iron grate lies a small room containing: two rolled-up dirty under-carpets. “They were forced to live and suffer.” A door panel; a flat tire; a draining tube. “All the consequences of mortality on earth.” Rough fardels, loosely tied together. “It was then that history began.” Three empty gasoline cans.
Having followed too literally the arrow pointing toward Shelley’s grave, author turns his back on the small room to read, upside down, the marble slab’s inscription. “As an effort on the part of humanity to recapture original Paradise.” “YELLEHS EHSSYB YCREP,” read the letters in reverse. “To wind time back.” “MUIDROC ROC.” “Something which only Christ’s incarnation made actually possible.” At the end of the Chapel, the painter depicts Christ in the act of Judgment, condemning the bad to Hell, sending the good to Heaven. As we make a 180-degree circuit, things right themselves; “Nothing of him that doth stay, but doth suffer a sea=change into something rich and strange.” “The Commedia shows how this can happen.” Scribbled on the tombstone in ballpoint pen: “Shelley, I love you.” “And what awaits us.” “Really?” “If we fail in this effort.” “Yes, I love you.”
We continue on, down a slope, toward the tomb of Keats. “Dante’s journey.” Two rusted pipes protrude from a Roman wall. “Takes him across the universe.” As author emerges from the shade, a tortoise shell greets him. “From the center of the earth to the Empyrean.” A yellow-eyed black cat studies him, then skips away toward the pyramid. “His journey also returns him to that point where time began.” We stroll along a serpentine path, the cemetery here but sparsely filled, however dense its feline population.
“In the Purgatorio the seven capital sins are allegorized.” At the end of an alleyway specially prepared for the viewing of Keats’ plaque author takes seat on a wooden bench. “The first three (Pride, Envy and Wrath) represent the perversion of love.” The poet’s expression slightly dour, his head is wreathed in laurel. “The fourth (Sloth) is a sign of defective love.” Tubs of ill-tended purple hydrangea, their leaves desiccated, line the wall. Arising for closer inspection, we walk by the tomb of Joseph Severn, “devoted friend and deathbed companion of Keats, whom he lived to see numbered among the immortal poets of England.”
The sun peeks palely through an umbrella pine. “The last three (Avarice, Gluttony and Lust) represent excessive love.” Centered at last beneath the pyramid, a lyre atop it, stands Keats’ tomb. “On the top of the mountain.” “This grave,” reads the inscription, “contains all that was mortal of a young English poet, who, on the deathbed, in his pureness of heart.” “Is Earthly Paradise.” “At the malicious power of his enemies.” “Where human history began.” “Desired these words to be engraven on his tombstone: ‘Here lies one whose name was writ in water.’”
“In the Paradiso.” From here we proceed to the plaque, above which a scraggly vine has entwined itself, its leaves eaten by bugs. “The blessed appear to Dante.” “Keats, if thy cherished name be ‘writ in water,’” reads its inscription. “From sphere to sphere.” “Each drop has fallen from some mourner’s cheek.” “Gradually closer to God.” “A sacred tribute such as seek.” “According to their capacity.” “Though oft in vain.” “To see Him.” “For dazzling deeds of slaughter.” “And partake of His bliss.” “Sleep on! not honored less for epitaph so meek.” “In the Fixed Stars Dante sees the Church Triumphant.” As we turn to leave. “And in the Primum Mobile the Angelic Orders.” A bell rings at the cemetery gate. “This distribution is reflected in the Empyrean’s Mystical Rose.” Where a florist has arrived. “There the blessed sit beyond space and time.” To deliver fresh flowers. “Paradoxically, they are closer to God.”
Exiting author, having reached the little church at the cemetery’s close, quickly rounds the corner. “ORFEU,” reads a graffito on the high wall in green spray paint. As we round another corner, the lively city now to our back, on another wall we encounter another graffito: “I TUOI OCCHI E IL TUO SORRISO,” it reads in bright red, “HANNO RAPITO IL CUORE DI # 1 BIMBO INNAMORATO.” With a flourish it is signed “ANGELO.”
*
Alessio, a twenty-year-old student, will conduct a tour of his Rome for benefit of author, Qian-hui, and her new friend, Xiao-qin, daughter of a Roman restaurateur, a mainland Chinese émigré. We begin in the Via Appia Antica. “Here, during the night,” Alessio explains, “many young Roman couplets practice their French kissing.” Author laughs, the Chinese girls, English-less, ignoring us. “During the day,” he adds for balance, “There are many tourists walking this famous road. But during the night,” he says, reverting to his subject of preference, “you will see cars parking on each side. You may even hear the sounds of love-making.” We descend from the car and begin to stroll.
“So, Alessio,” says author, “You have brought us to one of the most scandalous stretches of Roman history.” Though his father has provided us with a thick Italian guide book, plus his ancient red Fiat, Alessio has declined to show us the catacombs, the church of Domine Quo Vadis, site of St. Peter’s momentous decision, or any other markers of great events along the way. “We can only imagine,” author adds, in support of Alessio’s program, “how many Romans have enjoyed themselves in the Via Appia Antica.” Alessio laughs. “You yourself doubtless among them, and not so long ago.” Again he laughs.
“Do you not think,” says author, also seeking to balance his remarks, “do you not think that Romans in general are perhaps too much concerned with death?” “They are more concerned, I think, with life,” Alessio responds.
“But death,” author rejoins, “is a part of life, is it not?”
“The last one,” he counters. At Alessio’s initiative conversation turns to carabinieri jokes, to jokes whose punch lines consist of gestures, to jokes about crossing the road. “You see,” he says, “two tomatoes are crossing the road. One say to the other, ‘Watch out, a car.’ The other say, ‘What car?’ Splat!”
We are heading in the direction that would have taken the ancient Roman to Brindisi, the route followed by Vergil on his final trip to Greece. Alessio, for the sake of Qian-hui and Xiao-qin, and with author’s encouragement, is impersonating “the greatest figure in the world of Augustan letters.” His performance amuses the girls.
“Alessio,” says author, diverting him from his role, “I notice that in Rome people speak very carefully about the Roman Church, and even more carefully about the Mafia.”
“Well, about the Church,” he replies, “there are different opinions. I am not afraid to say something against the Church,” he adds reflectively. “But against the Mafia? The Church, you see, is something about death after, at the end of your life. But the Mafia, the Mafia is about death now.”
We are gazing into the most gorgeous field, one set aside from cultivation because it contains ancient ruins. Bordered in umbrella pines, it ends in a ledge, a beautifully sculpted hedge. The sky, blue at the horizon, overhead is swept in layers of subtle gray. Our conversation has turned to Alessio’s family.
“My father is a Roman from six, seven generations,” he explains. “My mother’s father comes from Montecatini, near Pistoia and Pisa, the city where you go when you have trouble with your belly.”
“How so?” author inquires.
“Down there, in Montecatini, you may eat and drink and set free yourself.”
“So your father’s family goes back to the eighteenth century.”
“Yes, I think so,” Alessio responds. “But we are the only Rosoldis in Rome. When the Terminator comes back looking for Rosoldis, we will be the first to be killed!” Alessio, like his friends, is a great fan of popular American culture, capable of entertaining a tableful of students with rap lyrics, Hollywood dialogue, as well as elaborate mockery of Shakespearean speech. Author asks for his view of Rome, for his list of its unique attractions.
“If you walk down the Tiber during autumn,” he begins, “you will see the yellow leaves on the surface of the water. It is so romantic, the Isola Tiberina, with its hospital, and the ancient quarter of Trastevere, which has so many Roman particularities, for example, the beautiful color of the houses, that typical Roman orange or rose.”
“Tomorrow,” author reminds him, “we are going to visit Trastevere for dinner. But what of Italy’s other attractions? What is your favorite racing car?”
“For me, well . . . it is the BMW,” says Alessio nervously. Author laughs. “Of course I like the Lamborghini too, but I am not really fond of cars. Nor do I like soccer.”
“What are you fond of?” asks author, in deliberate provocation.
“I like, uh . . . Italian women,” he responds, “and, what else?” he asks himself.
“Do you like Japanese girls?” author wonders, an eye on Xiao-qin, his Chinese friend. Suddenly Xiao-qin and Qian-hui begin to take an interest in the conversation.
“Yes, and of course Chinese girls,” he adds. Both girls giggle. “And African girls too,” he adds unabashedly. “I like black people.”
“We might say, then, that you have international taste.” We are passing the great circular Tomb of Cecilia Metella. Author inquires as to who she was exactly.
“I think she was the wife of an important Roman senator,” Alessio responds. Remembering his father’s provision, he struggles to extract the heavy volume from his day pack. “Ah yes, Cecilia Metella,” he resumes, translating for author. “She was the daughter of Quintus Metellus Creticus, the conqueror of Creta, and she was the wife of Crasso.” Author thanks him for his scholarship. Together we examine the massive, heavily padlocked gate at the tomb’s entrance. If he were MacGyver, Alessio comments, he could open this gate.
Back in the car again, we turn to the subject of Roman traffic. “In Rome, there are no rules on the street, man,” Alessio asserts. “Only the strongest survive!” We compare Roman traffic with Neapolitan, author recounting his own experiences driving in Naples and Rome. Again we have passed up the catacombs. Having made a wrong turn, we must adjust our route. “No matter,” says Alessio, “all streets lead to Rome.”
For his own, as well as our companions’ delectation, he boots up a tape of Zhang Xue-you, the popular Hong Kong singer, whose songs Alessio, self-taught in Mandarin, has by heart. As we reach the Porta San Sebastiano, we find our entrance blocked by carabinieri, which occasions more generic jokes, Alessio explaining, among other things, “why they have a red line down their pant leg (Otherwise they could not find their pocket).” We are passing once more the Terme di Caracalla, suavely beautiful against the muted modern background. Ahead Alessio points out the house of Alberto Sordi, comic actor of stage and screen.
“Alberto Sordi,” he proclaims, “is the modern Roman model. If you want to speak the Roman dialect, for example. If you want to be . . . You haven’t seen the movie, Un Americano a Roma, have you?” Author confesses that he has not. A snatch of dialogue in Alessio’s imitation follows:
“‘Hey, my father, how are you, father?’”
“‘I’m fine, what about you, eh?’”
“How,” author inquires, “would you compare Alberto Sordi and Marcello Mastroianni?”
“They are very different. Marcello was also a dramatic actor, a real master. But Alberto Sordi, in his comical part is unbeatable, unbeatable.” Author mentions a cartoon that appeared in the paper shortly after Mastroianni’s death: Fellini, sitting on a cloud, gesturing to Marcello below. “‘Come, come,’” Alessio interrupts, quoting the caption, “‘it is so beautiful up here.’” We have reached the Circo Massimo and are passing the Roman Forum. “How do you,” author asks, “How do you yourself feel about the Circo Massimo?”
“It reminds me of so many things,” Alessio replies, “for example, so many joints.”
“And the Foro Romano? What are your memories?”
“In the Foro Romano I met once a very beautiful girl named Squinzia” – the Roman for “chick.” “She was an Eetalian from Tooscany, from Florence. We had a strong relationship. I had a very strong relationship with her.”
“An intellectual relationship, I presume.”
“Intellectual, philosophical, Alexandrinus, something like that.”
“And what did you discuss?”
“We discussed about fuh . . . , about the meaning of life, the meaning of life. We were talking about this and about ruf, ruf, ruf, which is so important in our Italian heritage.”
“And while you were talking did she have tears in her eyes?”
“Tears? You have tears in your eyes when Marcello Mastroianni dies. The Italian people do not cry about love,” he adds.
“Have you ever thought,” author inquires, changing the subject, “that in a former life you might have been an ancient Roman?”
“No,” says Alessio abruptly. “Because I do not feel Roman inside myself. But,” he adds, “let me think about this question.” Before long he recollects that, as a child, having touched the Viaductus Romanus, he wondered how many people had touched it before him. “In Rome,” he elaborates, “every wall, every house, inspire you this feeling.” We have crossed the Tiber and entered Trastevere, the ancient residential district.
“Here,” says Alessio, “is full of many ancient Roman restaurants, where you can pick up squinzia.” For now, however, we are only passing through, heading toward the Janiculum, by way of the Via Garibaldi, a lovely, winding avenue lined with pollarded sycamores and large gray apartment buildings, a house in salmon with cream pilasters nestled in amongst them. Conversation turns to Alessio’s exploits, past, present and future, as kung-fu practitioner. Higher and higher we climb, each view of the city below surpassing the preceding view. At length we arrive in a little plaza adorned with a sleepy equestrian statue of the great leader. “Gianicolo,” says Alessio, “it’s a nice place to start a relation with a girl, you know.” Author seeks elaboration of his strategy. “When you have concreted the relation,” he explains, “then you can take her to the opera and enjoy yourself.” As we stroll toward the ramparts, we study the busts of famous Romans, regressing in time from one to the next.
Alessio having engaged Qian-hui in conversation, author turns to Xiao-qin to ask how she feels about the overview of Rome before us. By way of response she simply enumerates the famous monuments. “Ke-yi cong je-li kan-dao sheng pi-de guang-chang, she says, pointing to the dome of St. Peter’s; ran-hou, ke-yi kan-dao . . .” But Alessio interrupts, to ask her: “You wanna come see my butterfly collection?” Dismissively she responds in fluent Italian. “Are you from ‘Japanese’?” he continues, ignoring her response, “I myself am Roman.” Having turned away from today’s cloudy, increasingly chilly view from the balustrade, we stroll across the piazza, its pavement strewn with confetti, large Mickey Mouse balloons in purple, in electric blue, in shocking pink, waving on long sticks above the concessionaire’s stand. The square is full of desultory visitors: families with straggling children; foreigners arriving by tour bus; layabouts practicing their scams. Overhead a large helicopter suddenly appears, its blue lights flashing. Carabinieri prepare to descend on the scene. More jokes ensue.
In another diversionary tactic, author turns to the topic of Rome in the eighteenth century. “I am just saying,” Alessio explains his enthusiasm for the era, “that it must have been very beautiful, the ladies in those large dresses, the men in their hats, all riding in carriages.”
“It must have been very beautiful for rich people,” author suggests, Alessio quick to see the point. “And if they had stood here on the Janiculum, what would they have talked about?”
“Garibaldi,” Alessio replies, pointing behind us to the statue of the popular leader of the mid-nineteenth-century resistance.
“Of course,” concedes author. By way of turning the subject to Michelangelo, he quotes for Alessio the famous lines of T. S. Eliot (“The women come and go”), along with an emendation (“The women come and go, tall and bony, / Talking of Michelangelo Antonioni”).
“What,” he asks, “is your view of the great Renaissance artist?”
“He is a teenage idol,” Alessio replies succinctly. “A ninja turtle,” he adds.
“Maybe he and Madonna should get together,” author suggests. Alessio chuckles. Rome for the past few weeks has been full of Evita, about which he and author had previously had a meeting of minds. Qian-hui and Xiao-qin are returning across the piazza, in their left hands, single roses, earlier purchased by their escorts, in their right hands, enormous bales of cotton candy. “What,” author asks, “is the Roman view of La Sapienza?”
“You mean the University?” – for which it is a nickname.
“Well, what about Sapienza in general?” author replies. The question produces its share of hemming and hawing, which nonetheless leads at last to a clear statement:
“More important, for the Roman,” Alessio concludes, “is La Vita Amorosa.” the girls have rejoined us, we all four now turning to study the comical, mythical, raunchy expressions of the amatory spirit penned, painted and engraved on the balustrade itself. As we look out over the railing to the churches of Rome, another question occurs to author:
“What, then, finally is your view of religion, Alessio?” Together we gaze out at Rome’s forest of cathedrals, nunneries, Catholic schools and other religious institutions.
“For myself,” he replies, “I would like to see some Hindu temple between all these chapels. But still I like them,” he quickly adds, “for they make Rome unique in the world.” Author encourages him to continue. “Well, if you are Christian, if you believe in God, it is very different from all these churches. Here is Rome, many churches. Many gods is right, but religion should be beautiful,” he adds.
“And what,” author inquires, “do you think of the Roman gods?” But Alessio does not grasp the question. “What, then, about the god of Rome?” author asks, revising his query. We are still gazing out over the city. Perhaps, author suggests, he (or she) is composed of Rome itself, an expression of this lovely, eternal city.
As we stroll back toward the car, through the darkening piazza, we pass once more the concession stands, with their popular icons; their masks, skulls and scarves; their imitation medallions and cast bronze chariots; their imitation marble statuettes: of the Venus di Milo, of Myron’s Discus Thrower, of Michelangelo’s David and his early Pietà, of Aphrodite, of Leonardo’s Last Supper rendered in three dimensions.
Before long we are descending toward Trastevere again, by way of the Passeggiata del Gianicolo, the back lights of small cars blushing on and off ahead of us, as dusk falls over the great metropolis. Once more the conversation turns to the subject of “chicks,” to present-day Roman terminology (“pulzella,” or the yet more colloquial “figa”). Behind us, oblivious to their escorts, the Chinese maidens continue their rapid discourse. Asked to employ the word “figa” in a simple Italian sentence, Alessio replies at once, “Figa, ti amo.”
Skirting Trastevere, we cross the Tiber to stop in the Piazza della Bocca della Verità, where we visit briefly the Basilica di Santa Maria in Cosmedin. “Cattolica con rito Greca,” reads a plaque at its entrance. In its portal stands the famous Roman mask with an open mouth, wherein, having been unfaithful to one’s wife, if one places one’s hand, so legend says, the mask will bite it off. How faithful the many tourists taking the test!
We have entered the final leg of our homeward return and are passing the Coliseum. Asked how he feels about it, Alessio replies, “It gives me the goose-bumps.” Author must point out for him the whereabouts of the House of Nero, of little interest to our guide, who again reverts to the subject of police, categorizing for author, Carabinieri, Polizia Municipale, Polizia, Finanza. The last mentioned, he says, are relatively harmless, “but they can fine you to death.” Shifting about for another topic, author inquires of Alessio’s view of Shakespeare, which he has been studying.
“The question for Romans,” he replies, “is not ‘To be or not to be?’ but ‘Will I or will I not manage to pick her up – and show her my butterfly collection?’”
“Yes,” author agrees, “that is the question.”
“It is the question of life,” Alessio rejoins. “It makes everything different,” he explains. “For if she says always ‘Yes,’ then you can be happy.” Author concurs. “If she is always saying ‘No,’” he continues, “it can give you a real existential problem.”
“But to return to Shakespeare,” says author. Alessio picks up the cue.
“You know, I have been studying this expression, ‘All the world’s a stage,’ but now I learn that the ancient Indian playwright, 3000, 4000 years ago, had the same expression.”
“Perhaps Shakespeare in his last incarnation,” author opines, “was a Hindu sage.” Encouraged to expatiate upon his view of the Bard, Alessio continues:
“I like his plays, his comedies, his tragedies. But I think too many people have talked about this subject. They have made too much of it.”
“He wrote a lot about Rome,” author enjoins. “Think of his Coriolanus, his Julius Caesar, his Antony and Cleopatra. When you read what Shakespeare says of Rome, do you feel that he understood it?”
“Better than me,” says Alessio modestly.
“But in his plays,” author protests, “there are no carabinieri.”
“And no butterflies,” Alessio adds. “No bees.”
“In a sense, then,” author suggests, “Shakespeare’s Rome is lacking in something.”
“I have not finished all the Roman plays,” Alessio again demurs.
“Shakespeare, you know, probably never came to Rome,” author proposes. “Perhaps that is the problem. If he had come to Rome, if he were to arrive today . . .”
“Today?!?”
“Yes, today. Would he enjoy himself in Rome?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“He would undoubtedly wish to visit the historical sites, perhaps to have a professor from the University as a guide. But what else would you suggest that he do? How else could you be of help?”
“I would introduce Shakespeare to squinzia. I think he should have a young Roman girl.”
“Yes, it might liven up his plays,” author concurs. The mention of Shakespeare has encouraged Alessio to generalize about the artists of the past, especially the great artists of Italy, Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo.
“They have been, I think, a bit detached from the real life,” he asserts. “In this they are somewhat like the ancients, in my opinion,” he adds
“I think you are right,” says author. “Of course it may have to do with their sexual orientation, or other aspects of their life-styles. You know, all his life, they say, Michelangelo never took a bath.” We have reached the Stazione Termini.
“Really?” says Alessio, as he scans the Piazza dei Cinquecento for things of interest.
“And when he died, they took off his socks and his skin came off with them.”
“Maybe he pictured the Pallas Athena with his dick.”
“Yes, perhaps Michelangelo’s great Sistine Ceiling was painted with his armpits.” Again we have had a meeting of minds. But Alessio interrupts to point out penguins.
“Penguins?” author responds with surprise.
“Yes, penguins,” says Alessio, indicating two black-clad, white-billed nuns. And so we say farewell, until the morrow.
*
As we are strolling up the Corso d’Italia, having crossed the Piazzale Porta Pia, a girl in long red hair and black jacket overtakes us. It is cool but sunny. Before long we in turn overtake a father out for a walk with his two young kids. “Zai i-da-li ke-yi kan-dao yi-ge nan-sheng dai-zhe liang-ge xiao hai-zi,” says Qian-hui, confirming what we have just observed. On our left looms a massive Roman wall, whose curvature is leading us on toward the Villa Borghese. The red-haired girl, having paused to shop, passes us again, a chic gray scarf draped over one shoulder, an alligator bag slung from the other.
The graffiti along this stretch of the road are especially colorful: arterial red, sky blue, grass green. In maroon work-suit a man approaches, his pants and shirt partly shrouded by a black overcoat. We pause at a shop window, where author asks companion what she sees in its reflection. “Kan-dao mei-nu a,” she responds, in reference to her own beauty. In another window we study motorbikes displayed within: a Moto Guzzi; a Suzuki Locol Motion; a Phantom F-2. Across the way from the Hotel Vittorio Veneto the sun has risen to glare at us. A large underpass separates us now from the boxy, medieval-turreted wall, on which is plastered an ad for “The First Wives Club,” the Chinese-American film. Author asks Qian-hui whether she liked the movie. “Hen hao kan,” she says affirmatively. A middle-aged woman passes in red jacket, short black skirt and black hose.
Having reached the precinct of the Villa Borghese and studied the map, we enter the grounds to arrive at a statue of Byron. “But I have lived, and have not lived in vain.” His bronze finger holds his place in a bronze book. “My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire.” A pigeon stands atop his head. “And my frame perish even in conquering pain.” “I thought he was wearing a hat,” says Qian-hui. “But there is that within me which shall tire torture and time.” Other pigeons having congregated near the statue’s base. “And breathe when I expire.” Qian-hui runs at them, whistling to scare them off. At the statue’s base have been planted new rose bushes, mired in horse dung. Byron’s bronze clubfoot rests on a broken bronze column, behind which a bronze skull. His forehead is streaked with pigeon shit.
Returned from chasing the birds, Qian-hui is asked what she thinks of the memorial. “Pretty stupid” (“hao ben”), she says. Eschewing the Galleria d’Arte Moderna, we turn about into Viale Wolfgang Goethe. A single soldier in khaki uniform walks about rather aimlessly. A woman, her hair in black roots, orange body, yellow ends, sits on a bench in a fur-collared, fur-sleeved jacket, reading the paper. We pause briefly before a miniature amusement park, where a sign advertises “Cinema dei Piccoli,” then continue on to visit a statue of Goethe, who stands tall and proud at the end of his way; striking the pose of a young man, he stares out into the bright future. At his feet, though, sit the figures of “Sadness,” “Age” and “Mourning.”
We have entered into a large plain, the Galoppatoio. Having gone off by herself to the horse stables, Qian-hui returns with report of her adventure. “There’s a carriage over there for visitors to ride in with two horses, one brown and one white,” she says. “While I was having my picture taken, the white one leaned over and licked me.” “Maybe,” author suggests, “he thought you were an ice-cream cone.” “Bu-shi,” she says, in emphatic denial. We have reached a small corral, at the railing of which stands a magnificent roan stallion, befriended by an elderly Italian chap, the back of whose hand he has been licking.
As we are leaving the grounds of the Villa Borghese we pass through the Piazzale dei Martiri, whence we stroll to the top of the wall surrounding the Pincio. The path is studded with nineteenth-century busts in stylized, mustachioed postures. We pause at a cloudy pond, a wooden bridge leading to its center, where a clock-tower’s four faces show four different times. Four Italian girls sit on a bench some distance away; so strong is their perfume that it wafts across the interval to reach us. Busts in marble and bronze continue to mark our passage: Masaccio, in an early Renaissance pose; an heroic Enrico Totti, nude, straining with political assertiveness; a gentlemanly Palladio; a heavily-bearded Annibal Caro; Paolo Veronese with distinguished ruff and medallion; Leopardi pensive and poetic. As we exit a small alleyway we encounter a headless, armless classical figure; in front of us stands a low wall, a graffito on it asking “Paradiso Mio Sei Tu?”
Leaving the shade behind, we continue along a broad graveled piazza, past the broken-nosed bust of Vittorio Alfieri. A young boy in red sweater and blue pants pushes a yellow ball ahead of him with a stick. A jogger passes in gray sweat suit; “The Atlantic,” read the yellow letters across his chest. High school students lounge atop the wall in rebellious postures. Behind them opens out a view over treetops, over the rooftops of Rome, St. Peter’s dome rising atop the hill behind us. We have reached the Viale Gabriele D’Annunzio, where someone has scribbled “Massy Mera Luca.” A stylish blond woman in a black coat smiles, as a man, trying to park in a small space, smashes into another car.
We begin a gradual descent toward the Church of the Trinità dei Monti at the head of the Spanish Steps. Midway toward our goal rises the wall of the Académie Nationale de France, outside which is parked a white, very tall, unmarked Renault van. At the top of the stairs we encounter more young students, japing as they congregate. At last we begin our descent of the travertine steps themselves, which Qian-hui must take large strides to negotiate. As we approach the Piazza below, the crowd begins to thicken. At the foot of the stairs we must thread our way through a choir-like arrangement of black-jacketed youth. Qian-hui takes a seat on the lowest step to consult her guidebook. For lunch she has chosen McDonald’s.
Up and off, we pass Byron; “Chemisier / Shirtmaker,” reads its sign. For an instant we are caught together in the window of a fancy couturier called “Les Copains.” Continuing on into the Piazza Mignanelli, we encounter a police van looking for customers. A man in camel’s-hair coat and a yellow tie strides by, leaning back on his heels in a self-important way. As author records him, we almost pass the entrance to McDonald’s. Following a distinguished-looking man in an olive cape, we enter the restaurant. Fancy counters surround a gazebo-like area at the center of the large serving arena. A semicircular mural offers a view of the rooftops which we have just looked down upon. Next to a tile-clad house in the painting’s foreground sits a sensitive Japanese boy in rimless glasses eating French fries.
Exiting, we quickly reenter the Piazza di Spagna, crowded with yellow cabs waiting for fares. One driver, in a “Yankees” sweatshirt, stands, his arm atop his vehicle’s open door, conversing with a colleague, his door open too. Having reviewed the eastern side of the Piazza, we turn into the Via Frattina with its expensive shops, in search of children’s size white jeans for Qian-hui. We have entered Versace’s and mounted the narrow chromium-railed stairs of its all-white interior. Sales personnel in black tight-fitting pants, black sweaters showing their cleavages, help us examine racks of color-graded jeans in orange, lemon, citron. At last a white pair appears but proves too big. All the while we are bathed in the driving beat of house music, which emanates from an empty DJ stand in the narrow hallway. In black baseball cap, body shirt, studded belt and luggy black shoes the DJ returns to his station, modifying the beat to fit the moment. On either side of the door hang two large translucent plastic carry-all bags, “Versace” in yellow, “Jeans Couture” in red, a medallion in gold on each. The phone rings. A black-clad sales person picks up its black receiver.
Back out on the street, we examine Murano glass, fashionable cutlery, fancy shoes. Chic oriental girls, old ladies in cashmere with beige bonnets, highly dressed men in middle age are also scanning the scene. A pigeon stops at our feet; despite adamant whistling on Qian-hui’s part, it will not budge. Stepping around it, we return up the Via Condotti toward the Spanish Steps, stopping in the plaza to study for the last time the pink-stuccoed Keats-Shelley Memorial House, its brown shutters already closed. About the Fontana della Barcaccia, its suns spewing forth its waters from either end, stand semi-attentive Japanese tourists with their guide. A man in an “H” tee shirt, the word “Harvard” on the crossbar, sits down on the fountain’s ledge, as two carabinieri prance behind him on white stallions. Exiting, we pass “Bevington’s Tea Rooms,” one of the “o”’s in the “Rooms” missing.
Musing on the Piazza’s role as nineteenth-century habitat of famous artists, author asks Qian-hui why she thinks they congregated here (Goethe, Gogol, Berlioz and Baudelaire at the top of the steps in the Caffè Greco; Henry James and Robert Browning below, in the Via Bocca di Leone; Stendhal, Balzac, Wagner and Liszt nearby). “They thought that this place was romantic, that they could find inspiration because so many other artists were also here.” Asked why, in the next generation, the Piazza became the site of fashionable shops, she replies,” Because tourists thought it romantic to be where many famous artists had been.” “Keats,” author observes, “died when he was 25. Do you think that’s romantic?” “Wo bu hui jue-de.” (I don’t think so.)
“Which,” author asks her, “do you prefer in Rome? Looking at the famous monuments, or watching the people on the street?”
“Watching the people on the street,” she replies. “They are all so different. I like to watch the way they behave. I don’t prefer the monuments at all,” she laughs.
“Me neither,” says author. “And by the way, what did you think of Versace’s?”
“I thought it was very fashionable. Maybe because the brand is so well-known. But I didn’t think the clothes were very good looking.”
“What do you think of the clothes in the other shops?”
“I think the children’s clothes are the best-looking,” she laughs. We move on to discussing our experience in the Villa Borghese, Qian-hui explaining why she did not want to visit the Modern Museum. “Rome itself is a kind of museum, so you don’t have to go inside to see things. Statues are everywhere.”
“And inside the museum there is not much going on, is there?” author offers by way of agreement. Asked about the horses that she has seen today, she replies,
“Some were very cute, some were horrible. I was afraid of getting bit.”
“So you didn’t want to get too close.”
“But they were very beautiful, especially their eyes.”
“And what about those carabinieri that we saw on horseback?”
“That was a lot of fun, the horses were having fun, but the policemen riding them didn’t seem to be having much fun.”
*
Having emerged from the subway into Piazza Barberini, we are heading down the Via del Tritone toward the Via Due Macelli. It is cool again, but low barometric pressure makes the blue-and-cream-scumbled skies seem ominous. As the poem opens we at once join Aeneas, who, since the fall of Troy, has been pursuing his way toward Latium. In preparation for today’s adventure author has reviewed, standing at a book stall in the Stazione Termini, a comic book version of Vergil’s Aeneid in 24 “canti.” Into the Via del Tritone also enters the Via Francesco Crispi, making it difficult to sort out our precise route. He has just left Sicily, blown back in the wrong direction by a storm let loose by Aeolus. At last we identify the street by a marble plaque set into the side of a large brown nineteenth-century building. In turn provoked by Juno. “D.C. = Assassinio,” reads a graffito. Who, knowing. “No,” another. That a race of Trojan origin will in the future threaten her beloved city. “Palestina.” Carthage. “Libera,” reads a third. Seeks to hinder Aeneas. In a bookstore window, under “Selezione: Reader’s Digest.” In his progress toward eventual success. Sits a record collection: “Italian Graffiti: Le Più Belle Canzoni degli Anni ’60.”
As a consequence, some of his ships are wrecked. Outside it waits a blue cash truck. His fleet scattered. On its door “Mondial Pol Roma.” Neptune, however, pacifies the sea. The guards within it eyeing author suspiciously. Enabling Aeneas to reach the Libyan coast. Two municipal workmen, their jackets in orange with silver illuminating stripes, are putting down new white lines on the street. The rest of the ships arrive. The taller of the two, who is running the machine, wears an earring in his left ear. The Trojans, among them Aeneas and his faithful companion, Achates. Two gay middle-aged tourists pull their luggage trolleys up onto the sidewalk and continue. Are hospitably received by Dido, widow of Sychaeus and queen of the recently founded city. Across from us rises a three-story Renaissance-style building, huge bees embossed on the keystones of its arches. She has fled from Tyre. Which define fashionable shops: “Catello d’Oria,” selling gloves; “Archimede Secuso,” tableware; “Red and Blue,” men’s clothing. Where her husband had been killed by his brother Pygmalion king of the land.
Outside 59E, “Mettimi Giù,” a white-cabbed Fiat, its yellow lights blinking. Venus. Has stopped. Though Jupiter has revealed to her the destiny of Aeneas and his race. “Speedy Coffee,” reads the sign on its side, a little mouse running to hold aloft the bean that forms the “o.” Dreading the hate of Juno. “Distribuzione automatica.” And the wiles of the Tyrians. A truck passes reading “Angelo d’Ani.” Designs that Dido shall be smitten with. “Milano-Roma.” “Love for Aeneas. In yellow on red. In author’s scheme ARES’ “S” is red and blue, APHRODITE’S “D,” yellow. (Thus Book I concludes.)
Again we traverse Piazza Mignanelli. “Time,” reads a sign in red, “On Sale Here,” against a yellow ground. At Dido’s request, and at his leisure, Aeneas relates the fall of Troy and subsequent events. “Banca di Roma,” says a much larger sign overhead. We are passing “Ristorante Nino.” The building of the Trojan Horse. Having made a deviation into the Via Borgognona to explore Rome’s haute couture in greater depth, we stroll past Givenchy. The guile of Sinon. Past Mimmina. The death of Laocoon. Past Filippo Uomo. The firing of the city. Past Murda, who is showing thigh-length white fur jackets. The desperate resistance of Aeneas himself. Another in stylized black-on-bronze fur imitation. And his comrades.
Ahead in the street a white Bobcat is digging a trench. The death of Priam. Having arrived in the Via Bocca di Leone, we pause before number 12. And his own final flight by the order of Venus. “Gianni Versace,” reads an elegant sign in black on white-outlined mirror. Two manikins in lemon-yellow suits, one with black stripes down her sides, stand in front of a lesbian poster, in which two skinny models: one with her hand on the other model’s face, she holding the first model’s hand. The second window displays a gold manikin, her midriff showing beneath a yellow-zippered top; behind, in another photo blow-up, a curly-haired Roman boy has placed his hand on a long-haired lanky model’s thigh. In the third window two gorgeous sales girls smile at author, as they remove the tops from two full-breasted gold manikins. Now they strip off the manikins’ black tights, fitting them with two new pairs in sky blue. Behind the manikins, behind the sales girls: a photo of two lesbians embracing.
Moving on upstreet, author situates himself before a red motorcycle chained to the railing of a shop called “Cahier d’Art e Splendore.” The white Bobcat snarls, as it deepens the trench. In red jacket and blue pants a workman shovels up a single paving stone that had fallen in. Author assumes a new position across from Albergo d’Inghilterra; behind his back, in a fancy shop window, the gold letters on a black-bound book read “Vanitas.” Within the courtyard is a shop called Miss V, its diagonal double door handles meeting to form the letter. Into a scalloped basin attached to the hotel, water pours forth from the mouth of a limestone mask, drenching below the waist the fish-like bodies of athletic satyrs.
Hoisting his father Anchises onto his shoulders, Aeneas takes his son Ascanius (Iulus) by the hand. At the corner of Via dei Condotti exquisitely black-clad Japanese tourists wait at the door of Salvatore Ferragamo. As we cross the intersection we glimpse, rising high above the Spanish Steps, the phallic obelisk, a cross atop a star atop a trefoil, all atop its pyramidal tip. In the window of Metassi white pearls are strung about black velvet neck stanchions. THOUGH HERMES WAS SAID TO HAVE AN EMERALD PHALLUS, THOTH’S WAS MADE OF DIAMOND.
We stroll on past Ungaro, past yet another Versace outlet, where a mauve shift has a ruby chemise thrown over it; a ruby shift, a mauve chemise. At the corner of Via delle Carrozze a woman dressed in black from head to toe passes us, as we pass Rocco Barocco, who is showing jackets in purple, magenta, pink, orange and yellow. At Galitzini a mummified queen in a fur hat wears a blue Latin cross on her cadaverous breast. On our left we skirt Yves St. Laurent: Rive Gauche, a square purple patch before the “Rive,” an orange one after the “Gauche.” At the crossing of Via della Croce, beneath a neon Greek cross, the temperature, also in neon, reads 11 degrees, the numbers now changing to 10:54. Creusa, his wife, tries to follow, but is lost. Suddenly we encounter a pyramid of blossoms for sale; yet more flowers: dried, fresh cut, potted. “Enoteca Antica: Wine and Bar,” says a sign in white on gray; in deliberately awkward letters, it hangs from a single iron strut projecting from the wall. Her ghost tells him of the destiny that awaits him. Across the street, in a window of the Bar Gastronomia, sit three freshly baked cakes, two of them lettered “Moka,” a third with a coffee-cup depicted atop it, finely shredded chocolate for steam. Within the bar, behind its brass-fitted counter, a sign reads “Teatro Olimpico.” We continue on past a cool, clean, inviting vegetable market, where a yellow scooter is parked against a red one. “Hexagon,” reads a silver-outlined sign on the latter, its ground in pink. Distracted momentarily by the urge to murder Helen, Aeneas resists. (And so we arrive at the end of Book II.)
We have exited Rome’s fanciest street into the Via Vittoria. Aeneas’ narrative continues. Behind us lies the Piazza Augusto Imperatore, ahead, the Via del Babuino. He and his companions build a fleet and set out. In a shop window is pasted a triangle of six letters:
S
O L
D E S
Before the doorway, in a “Wrangler” tee-shirt, a full-breasted woman sweeps the cobblestones with a red-handled green broom, an orange pail of water at her feet. (The individual books in SENTENCE OF THE GODS are also color-coded.) They touch at Thrace, where Aeneas hears the voice of Polydorus, his murdered kinsman, speaking from the grave. We turn the corner to face in gold on blue: “Antichità. Apolloni.” Thence he proceeds to Delos. We are passing “Libreria Francesco Romano,” its letters reading in gold on a red ground. The Delian oracle. We have entered Via del Babuino, WHERE RUBENS AND POUSSIN ONCE RESIDED Bids them seek the land. At the window of Antonacci e Frati a man in blue overcoat and brown pants stands to view a painting of the Forum. Which first bore the Trojan race. In which a gray-hatted painter works beneath a white umbrella, as two monks in black inspect his progress. CLEARED IN 1525 BY CLEMENT VII the straight lines of the Via del Babuino offer us a view all the way to Piazza del Popolo. The skies have begun to clear; two birds over-fly the street’s six-story buildings. This is wrongly interpreted to mean Crete. A red van stops – a painter’s truck – reading “Bedford Rascal.” Whence they are driven by a pestilence. We are passing a church on whose gray front is painted a single graffito in robin’s-egg blue: “Mafioso.” Now Aeneas learns that Italy is meant. Traditional Chinese figurines in dark blue pants and yellow jackets, their mouths erotically open, stand on the red velour of an antique shop’s window. On their way. Up ahead. The Trojans land on the island of the Harpies.Three red cars have boxed in a blue van. And attack them. We stand at the corner of the Via Laurina, formerly – an ancient plaque on the wall informs us – the “Via Peregrinorum.” In a jewelry store two porcelain clowns revel in gold. In a stamp store, special displays: “Fontane d’Italia”; “Carte Italiane”; “Cinema Italiano.” The last series, in honor of “Il Cinema neorealista,” includes Visconti’s Ossessione, de Sica’s Ladri di Biciclette, Rossellini’s Roma: Città Aperta.
In search of the Lion Book Shop, we reach at last a sign for “La Libreria Inglese,” only to find that it “has moved to the Via Ripetta, in vicinity of Piazza Augusto Imperatore.” As we turn back, we enter first the Via della Fontanella. A debonair woman of 26, in a black chemise and red silk scarf, pushes her bike past us on the sidewalk. We turn again into the Via del Corso, where a sign in gray on white reads “Onyx.” A blue-clad worker escorts a blind man around a yellow dump truck blocking a bookstore’s entrance. It’s 11:21. (Numerology also figures in all aspects of the work.) The Harpy Celaeno prophesies that they shall found no city till hunger compels them to eat the tables at which they feed. We are passing a pizzeria; “Siamo Aperti,” reads a sign on its door. Across the street from Chiesa Gesù Maria, on the steps of Basilica San Giacomo, highly-dressed celebrants are emerging from a funeral, author’s companion mistaking it for a wedding. A blue Mercedes hearse is parked at curbside. A passel of blond, black-clad teenies crosses the Corso. Ahead reads an ad for the movie “Il Sindaco,” the enormous face of Anthony Quinn towering over more Italianate Italians. In the gleaming window of “Satti Papetti Orientale” the whole of the Corso is reflected, as a red van, followed by a green van, passes before author’s eyes/behind his back.
At Buthrotum they encounter Helenus the seer, son of Priam. Andromache, having at Hector’s death married Achilles’ son, takes as her third husband Helenus, with whom she founds this Troy Novant. Her husband instructs Aeneas in the route that he must follow to achieve his goal. First he must visit the Cumaean Sibyl; next he must seek a secluded stream, where he will find a white sow with a litter of 30 young; only then may he found his city. Aeneas pursues his way, visiting in Sicily the country of the Cyclops, where he discovers a Greek left behind by Odysseus. At Drepanum his father dies. Setting sail once more, he at last reaches Libya. (And we, the end of his wanderings, the end of his narration, the end of Book III.)
At Queen’s Junior, its letters reading white on gold, an attendant, having cleaned its window with a squeegee, moves on to cleaning its travertine threshold. In Book IV, one of Vergil’s most famous episodes, his hero is cordially received by the Carthaginian queen. In the shop’s interior a red-jacketed, heavy-set woman in black pants, her white teeth showing behind large red lips, talks amiably to a customer just arrived. Some have likened her to Nausikaa, some to Circe, some to Penelope. At Simona we pass a display of lace underwear. Though bound by a vow to her dead husband, Dido confesses to her sister Anna her passion for Aeneas. At Vico we view a display of Yale bulldog tee-shirts. When their hunting expedition is interrupted by a storm, Dido and Aeneas take refuge in a cave and are united – some say married – through the design of Juno and Venus. Rumor of their love reaches the neighboring Iarbas, whom Dido had rejected and who now appeals to Jupiter. The god orders Aeneas to leave Carthage. Dido learns of her lover’s preparations for departure, which Mercury’s visit has precipitated. Aeneas’ sorry excuses call down upon him the Queen’s withering rejoinder. Yet Aeneas remains steadfast, blaming all on Apollo, on Fate, on the future glory of Rome. Dido, having made her last, anguished, ineffectual entreaty for delay, prepares for death. Upon a pyre she throws Aeneas’ cloak and armor, along with the bed that she has shared with him. As she catches sight of the Trojan fleet sailing away, she plunges his sword into her breast and falls upon the pyre. (Thus Vergil imitates the extremity of Medea, the suicides of Ajax and Cleopatra, and Hector’s demise, as this duplicitous Odysseus of his betrays a loving Calypso.)
Book V, much admired for its imitation of Homer’s Iliadic games, follows. Turning into the Via dei Pontefici, we head for Piazza Augusto. The Trojans return to Sicily. To continue our search for the Lion Book Shop. Here the anniversary of Anchises’ death is marked by sacrifices and athletic contests, including a race among four ships. A gray Toyota Landcruiser parked at curbside, its tag reading “Centro Storico.” Gyas, leading in Chimaera, heaves his pilot overboard for not hugging closely enough to the turning point. In front of it, a blue Jaguar. Before long Cloanthus overtakes him in Scylla. Meanwhile, Sergestus in Centaur runs aground. A red Volkswagen. Mnesthus in Pristis presses hard on Cloanthus. On its hood an inscription reads “Italwagen.” But the latter goes on to win the critical contest. As we enter the Piazza Augusto a fleet of four white cars quickly exits. Next a foot-race, in which Nisus, leading, slips and falls, then deliberately trips Salius to award the victory to his friend Euryalus. By himself author begins to circle Augustus’ tomb. A boxing match follows. A white pigeon arches overhead.
As he descends steps to the dirt floor surrounding the circular tumulus, the cypresses also surrounding it rise even higher. Aeneas stops the fight. The earth is rank. There follows a shooting-match, next a riding display with 36 youths led by Ascanius. Author reaches the tomb’s entranceway, a dim sun shining down from above a church. As the games continue, weary of wanderings, and incited by Juno, the Trojan women fire the ships. Across the way, on a baroque edifice, a plaque reads “Achilleus Ratti.” Four of the Trojan ships are destroyed, but a rainstorm quells the flames. We have reached a black grate. As the Trojans sail away in the vessels that remain, Aeneas’ helmsman Palinurus, overcome by sleep, falls into the sea and drowns. Through it: the rectangular tombstone of Augustus. (And thus Book V concludes.)
Book VI, Vergil’s ode to the onset of middle age and the dawn of historical consciousness, opens with Aeneas’ visit to the Cumaean Sibyl, who foretells his wars in Latium. As Fitzgerald has it: If you will pluck a black branch – on which the tree’s fruit with leaves of gold – you may enter this nether world through the cave of Avernus. “SHE FLUNG HERSELF WILDLY INTO THE CAVE-MOUTH, / LEADING, AND HE STRODE BOLDLY AT HER HEELS.” According to another source: Only when they have reached the Styx, may they view the ghosts of unburied dead. “The Ara Pacis, completed in 9 B.C. after nine years of civil unrest and war with Gaul and Spain, celebrates the Emperor’s achievement of peace.” Among them Palinurus, who recounts his recent fate and begs for burial. “The relief surrounding it depicts allegorical figures from Rome’s most sacred national myths.” It is the Golden Bough that gains for Aeneas Charon’s permission to cross the river. “Along with portraits of Augustus and his family, statesmen and priests.” Cerberus must be pacified with a drugged honey cake. “On one of the reliefs, Aeneas, Augustus’ legendary ancestor, is shown sacrificing a white sow, as part of his quest to found Rome.” To the hero are pointed out various populations of the dead: “Augustus himself appears with members of his family and political entourage on their way to perform a sacrifice.” Infants; those unjustly condemned; those who have died from love. “Thus by association with the sacrifice of Aeneas their act came to represent.” Dido once more is depicted as receiving the (to her) inadequate excuses of Aeneas, whom she accordingly spurns. “A symbolic re-founding of the city.” Finally: those who have fallen in war. Thus it served to redefine the upstart Augustus as a near-divine figure.”
Next they approach the entrance to Tartarus. Nothing could be more serene. Where the worst criminals suffer torment. Than the famous relief. But turn aside to Elysium. Which depicts Tellus. Where the blest enjoy a care-free life. Who personifies the earth’s fertility. Here Aeneas finds and vainly seeks to embrace Anchises, who expounds for him the principle of reincarnation. The two nymphs to either side of her symbolize air and water. He points out for his son those men who, in the future, will be illustrious in Roman history. As Fitzgerald has it: The scene represents the three elements of the world subjected to Roman power. “ILLUSTRIOUS ROME WILL BOUND HER POWER WITH EARTH.” From Romulus and the early kings to the great generals of later days to Augustus himself. “HER SPIRIT, WITH OLYMPUS.” And his nephew Marcellus. It may be said to symbolize. Aeneas and the Sibyl, having viewed the whole of the underworld, take their departure by way of the Ivory Gate. The peace and prosperity that Augustan rule had brought to Italy. And the passageway through which false dreams are sent to mortals. (Thus the first half of Vergil’s epic ambiguously ends.)
As author emerges from the moat surrounding Augustus’ tomb, a blue-capped bus driver eating a panino stands looking down at him. Behind the driver is parked his idling bus, behind it a Fascist building, whose inscription reads: As Book VII opens, the Trojans have reached the mouth of the Tiber. “Il popolo Italiano è un popolo immortale.” Here the Harpy’s prophecy is fulfilled. “Che trova sempre una rimavera per le sue speranze, per la sua passione, per la sua grandezza.” For the Trojans eat cakes of bread which they have used as platters. On the wall of the building perpendicular to it a mosaic mural shows the Wolf, above which Romulus and Remus, borne – it would appear – by Hercules; above whom in turn a man arises from a pool of water, two horses still in the pool behind him.
As we round counterclockwise the final bend of Augustus’ tomb the Ara Pacis comes into view, enclosed within a Fascist-columned, glass tank. Eagerly approaching the doors, we find them chained shut. Of this land, Latium, Latinus is the king, Amata the queen. On its Tiber flank – now we must circumambulate this monument too – a graffito reads “Viking Nazio,” the “z” turned into a swastika. Their daughter is Lavinia. At the southern end of the monument a bus load of Italian school children has noisily congregated. Once through the entranceway we encounter a plaster-of-Paris model of the monument itself on a scale of 1:20. It too is enclosed, this time in Plexiglas. The goodliest of her wooers is Turnus, king of the Rutuli. Behind it, beneath a silver scaffolding that rises to the ceiling of the glass enclosure, stands an old movie screen. But her father was divinely warned to marry her to a stranger who was later to make his appearance.
Author mounts more steps to circumambulate the altar’s exterior. The embassy sent by Aeneas is welcomed by Latinus. At its northern end a display of photographs commemorates the archaeological task of recovering the monument. Who offers alliance and the hand of his daughter. In one view Mussolini stands above a beret-clad, kneeling worker, Il Duce’s pickax raised on high. Author completes his tour of the altar’s exterior beneath the oblivious gaze of closely packed priests, statesmen and Augustan family members, all betogaed in low relief, their noses darkened by curious fingers. As we reach the entrance once more, a sign above a display of postcards reads “Panorama.” Next we turn to mount the steps to the sanctum. The inner space is 99 per cent conjectural.
Exiting the Ara Pacis, exiting Piazza Augusto Imperatore, we enter the Via Ripetta. Juno calls out the Fury Allecto, who stirs Amata and Turnus to fierce hostility against the Trojans. As we traverse Piazza Ferro di Cavallo, an unshaven policeman, accompanied by a disheveled policewoman, glower at us. The little square is filled with black-jacketed students sitting on its walls to converse in groups of two or three. Ahead reads the cross-topped obelisk at the center of Piazza del Popolo. It is three minutes past noon. The wounding by Ascanius of a stag from the royal herds causes an affray. “Ipnosi,” reads a sign lettered in red against a black ground; “Psicologia Ospedale San Giacomo: Reparto Ortopedico Traumatologico,” a plaque opposite. At number 43 stands a Chinese restaurant named “Hua Du.” Latinus is overborne. Its red doors, each in a half circle, are joined at the center with two red bars, two rectangular brass handles meeting to form a square. The Italian tribes gather to expel the Trojans. Across the way, in rubbed-off white against brown, an awning reads “American Bar.”
“March,” says a graffito in blue, to one side of a doorway. Vergil enumerates these and their leaders.“Anna,” one to the other side in red; atop the door in black, yet another reads “Hide.”Notable among them. A black man passes in a black-and-blue-striped cap. Besides Turnus are: In a black fedora and broad-collared camel’s-hair jacket an elderly Italian woman with a cane makes her way across the narrow street. Mezentius, “scorner of the gods,” a tyrant hated by his people. We cross the Via del Vantaggio. Messapus. From within a restaurant a woman knocks on its window, as author stands with his back to it. The Volscian warrior-maid, Camilla. Across the way, its door completely open, stands “Annibale,” a butcher’s shop. And Virbius (son of Hippolytus). “Le Carne,” reads its awning. At number 242, before the Caffè Sergo, an Indian dressed in white parka, blue shirt and tie, glares at author. “Bingo,” reads a graffito, marking in purple the mauve-painted stones of a wall at the entrance to the Via Angelo Brunetti. It is time for lunch. We have almost reached the Piazza del Popolo. “Pizza Ré,” reads a restaurant’s sign in blue on red. Across the street stands the recently resituated Lion Book Shop, but it is not yet open for business. On its steps, under a half-raised lattice, sit two painters, each behind one strut of a tall white-paint-streaked ladder. Striking Chaplinesque poses, they munch on their sandwiches. “Panefformaggio,” read the black letters that join a salmon with an ocher facade. “Lunchtime” reads its awning. Two more workers – also painters – stroll across the street diagonally in their spattered pants. We have reached the entrance to the Piazza. (And the end of Book VII.)
A yellow tow truck crosses the Square. “At the center of Piazza del Popolo rises the obelisk of Pharaoh Ramses II.” Near its center, which is more or less deserted, is parked a blue hatchback police car. “Some 3200 years old.” We are skirting the two baroque churches. “Fronting on the Square stand Santa Maria di Montesano (1662), on the left, by Bernini.” On our left, the inscrutable obelisk. “And Santa Maria dei Miracoli (completed in 1677), by Carlo Fontana.” Pulling together two small round tables, covered in non-matching yellow table cloths. “A third church, Santa Maria del Popolo, stands at the Piazza’s north end.” We take seats outside at the “Restaurant Canova.” “Its chapel houses Caravaggio’s ‘Conversion of St. Paul’ and ‘The Crucifixion of St. Peter.’” The waiter places a Greek flag in front of author.
A waitress arrives with two green napkins and two sets of knives and forks. Aeneas faces war reluctantly but is encouraged by the god of the river Tiber. The two massive churches standing now to our left, a comprehensive view of the Piazza emerges. Who sends him to seek the alliance of the Arcadian Evander. Companion points out a fly on the basket of bread that has just arrived. The founder of the city on the Palatine hill. Her freshly-squeezed orange juice appears. Part of the future Rome. An ambulance, its siren wailing, passes through the Piazza.
Two women walk by with their babies, one in a stroller whose cushion reads “Comics,” “Sport,” “Cartoon.” Two more ambulances race across the Piazza, the second following closely behind the first. (We have entered Book VIII of Vergil’s masterpiece, the circular Piazza before us reading like a shield laid flat on the ground.) Directly before us, atop a pole, is an octagonal street sign: “Stop,” it says, in white on a red ground; beneath it, on a circular blue sign with a white directional arrow, someone, in black magic marker, has written “monk.” Ordinary people move about the Piazza in random fashion. (Vulcan, we recall, at the request of Venus, had forged armor for Aeneas.) Cars within it are parked irregularly. On the shield he depicted various events in the future history of Rome. Trees are set in planters at uneven intervals. Down to the battle of Actium. Taxi cabs marked “Comune di Roma” have queued across the small alleyway in front of our table.
At mid-shield, as though in imitation of the Mediterranean surrounded by a burgeoning Empire, he pictured the sea, as Fitzgerald has it,
SURGING, ALL OF GOLD,
AS WHITECAPS FOAMED ON THE BLUE WAVES AND DOLPHINS
SHINING IN SILVER ROUND AND ROUND THE SCENE
PROPELLED THEMSELVES WITH FLUKES AND CUT THROUGH BILLOWS.
In the first taxi an overweight driver, lighting a cigarette, leafs through a book, studiously marking passages.
HERE YOU COULD SEE LEUCATA ALL ALIVE
WITH SHIPS MANEUVERING, SEA GLOWING GOLD
AUGUSTUS CAESAR LEADING INTO BATTLE
ITALIANS, WITH BOTH SENATORS AND PEOPLE,
HOUSEHOLD GODS AND GREAT GODS:
To our right, at a table on which has been set the Italian flag, an important conversation is taking place.
THERE HE STOOD
HIGH ON THE STERN, AND FROM HIS BLESSED BROW
TWIN FLAMES GUSHED UPWARD, WHILE HIS CREST REVEALED
HIS FATHER’S STAR.)
As foretold by Helenus, Aeneas sees on the bank of the Tiber a white sow with her litter. Companion leaves in search of the ladies’ room. Evander promises him support and urges alliance with the Etruscans. As author examines the imposing structures that border the Piazza, some with domes, some with medieval turrets, neither direct observation nor consultation with his guidebook enables him to determine their identity.
KNOWING NOTHING OF THE EVENTS THEMSELVES,
HE FELT JOY IN THEIR PICTURES, TAKING UP
UPON HIS SHOULDER ALL THE DESTINED ACTS
AND FAME OF HIS DESCENDANTS.
He leads Aeneas through the city and explains the origin of various Roman sites and names. Giving up, he turns instead to watch three girls, all in miniskirts and high-heeled clogs, argue about which table to take. (And thus Book VIII comes to a close.)
Companion returns to report that she has been unable to find the ladies’ room, her Italian not up to the task. While Aeneas is thus absent, Turnus blockades the Trojan camp. Author off to reprimand wait-personnel at this outrageously priced restaurant for their poor service. He sets the Trojan ships on fire. Two gorgeous waitresses cajole him into better humor. But Neptune turns them into sea-nymphs. He returns to table, where, having finished our bread 30 minutes ago, we are still awaiting our lasagna. Dressed in white pants and a black jacket, his collar turned up against the cold, a man on a bike pauses before us to examine a map. On the line of receding tables are flags in red, black and yellow, for Germany; blue, white and red, for France. Across the way a digital clock reads (proleptically) 18 48.
At night Nisus and Euryalus pass through the enemy lines to summon Aeneas. A black woman, in a red-sleeved, black bomber jacket, her hair died carrot orange, pauses on a motorbike to remove her sunglasses. They slay some of the enemy in their drunken sleep. An Italian man in purple leather jacket, his hair slicked back, approaches her from the sidewalk. But fall in with a hostile column and are both killed. Before long they have entered into an argumentative discussion. Nisus gallantly striving to save his friend. Behind them, from this perspective, rises a marble statue, perhaps of Flora, a basket of grapes and other fruit at her feet. The Rutulians assault the camp. Her face is half-covered with soot stain. Ascanius performs his first exploit. Beneath her, in brown on white, a sign with directional arrow reads “Villa Borghese / Pincio / Villa Medici.” Turnus is cut off within the rampart but escapes by plunging into the river. (And thus we reach the end of Book IX.)
Our lasagna arrives. The gods debate in Olympus. A brown-jacketed tourist in blue pants and blue tie approaches the first taxi in the rank, opens its door and gets in. Aeneas secures the alliance of Tarchon. He appears to be an Eastern European. King of the Etruscans. The taxi has still not departed. He returns to the seat of war. Tourist exits taxi. Accompanied by Pallas, son of Evander. Takes out pager phone and puts it to his ear. And Tarchon. In his hand he holds a tall book in red, white and green stripes. Turnus, to prevent the junction of the Trojan forces. His hair is parted down the middle. Opposes them on the shore. He now reenters the taxi, which starts up and leaves. In the ensuing battle he kills Pallas. Driver of the next taxi gets out to solicit a customer. In pursuit of a phantom Aeneas, contrived by Juno. Briefly he speaks to a blond woman, who now gets in, and they too are off. He is borne away to his city. Meanwhile, as an orange number 17 bus waits in the Piazza. Aeneas wounds Mezentius. A white car stops to drop off a passenger. Whose son, Lausus, tries to save him. A blue sports coupe swiftly circles the Square. Reluctantly Aeneas kills the lad. Honking.
Meanwhile, the black woman has finished her argument with the purple-jacketed man. Two laborers cross the Piazza, bearing heavy beige sacks of cement on their shoulders. A priest passes our table, scowling down at author. A short-haired woman in chartreuse shift stops in front of us, smoking a cigarette; nervously she taps the heel of one orange sling on the asphalt. Another horn honks. Mezentius addresses Rhaebus, his gallant horse, and again faces Aeneas. In non-matching black jacket and black pants, our waiter clears the table next to us. Quickly, three times in succession, another horn honks. Leaving behind the German flag. Both horse and man are killed. And three peanuts. (Thus Book X concludes.)
Two lower-class types stroll by, one in a gray, one in an aquamarine, jacket. Aeneas celebrates the Trojan victory and laments Pallas’ death. The number 17 bus at last sets out, leaving behind a bus number 117. A truce with the Latins is arranged. A tall high-breasted younger woman in long black hair appears; standing alongside the first taxi, two drivers take note of her. The Italian chiefs debate. Bending over, she kisses the short-haired woman in chartreuse shift on both cheeks, adding a third kiss for good measure. Drances proposes that Turnus and Aeneas shall settle the issue in single combat. Together, in lively conversation, they enter the restaurant. Turnus accepts. In dark glasses and a green sweatshirt, a cellular phone protruding from his back pocket, a worker strides by smoking. A report interrupts the debate. Suddenly he stops, changes his cigarette from his right hand to his left, takes out his phone and puts it to his ear. Aeneas and his army are moving against the city. For greater privacy he turns his back on the restaurant. A cavalry engagement follows. After a brief conversation. In which Camilla takes the lead. He turns again to face the tables, gesturing toward our waiter. Tarchon plucks Venulus from his horse and carries him off before him on his saddle-bow. “Arrivederci,” he says with a flourish. Camilla, killed by Arruns, is avenged by Opis, messenger of Diana. He turns on his heel and departs. (Having sealed her fate and sought revenge for it, Vergil thus brings to a close his eleventh Aeneid.)
As the final book of the epic opens, we rejoin the Latins in a state of discouragement. A heavily-armored police vehicle, having circled half the Piazza, zooms up our alleyway past a sign reading “Area Pedonale.” Concerned about his decision to meet Aeneas alone.Companion says she feels a little strange sitting outside to eat. Latinus and Amata try in vain to dissuade him.A small yellow bus marked Scuola” suddenly slams on its brakes to avoid an accident. A compact is made for the single combat. Several people appear from different sides of the Square to congregate beneath the obelisk. In the meantime, Juturna, sister of Turnus, stirs up the Rutulians. A Japanese family crosses the street, the sixteen-year-old daughter in a pink dress. And the general fighting resumes. Together she and her parents scrutinize author and companion. Aeneas is injured by an unknown hand. Pigeons arise from the floor of the Square to fly about in a large flock. But Venus miraculously heals the wound. Three brightly dressed Italian matrons exit the Piazza. Seeing the city of Latinus left unguarded. A raunchy woman in red leather miniskirt, black fishnet stockings takes a seat on a ledge and lights a cigarette. The Trojans attack and fire it. A purple van marked “Tema” rounds the corner and stops. (What, we are tempted to ask, is Vergil’s message in all this? Over the centuries, the question has of course occasioned many responses. Aeneas in victory, some think, expresses Rome, bespeaking its new imperial aspirations but also its innovative principles. As Fitzgerald renders his hero’s words:
“I SHALL NOT MAKE ITALIANS UNDERLINGS
TO TROJANS. FOR MYSELF I ASK NO KINGDOM
LET BOTH NATIONS, BOTH UNCONQUERED, BOTH
SUBJECT TO EQUAL LAWS, COMMIT THEMSELVES
TO AN ETERNAL UNION. I SHALL GIVE
RITUALS AND GODS TO BOTH. MY FATHER-IN-LAW,
LATINUS, LET HIM KEEP HIS ARMS, AND KEEP
HIS ROYAL AUTHORITY.”
All well said. Yet, as the poem moves to conclusion, we witness tragedy unfold. Amata takes her own life. And a stern fate, as we shall see presently, awaits Turnus too. We call for the bill. Having pursued Trojan stragglers, Turnus reenters the scene. When it arrives, author pays it. The opposing forces suspend their struggle, and he and Aeneas fight. Only as he is leaving the restaurant. Aeneas wounds Turnus. Does he notice. Even now he would spare him. Three blood-like drops of tomato sauce. But when he sees on his tunic a broach that Turnus had taken from Pallas. On his brand-new jacket. An angered Aeneas buries his sword in the enemy’s breast. A man in a yellow Volkswagen bug stops to pick up his wife.
Transition to Trastevere. “The Roman Empire and its Power Centers.” As we are crossing the Tiber we sight a graffito on its right bank. “The Organization of the Roman Provinces.” “La Mia Libertà,” it reads. “Iberia.” Looking back at the left bank, we sight another: “Tarragona:” “Pane.” “A Port at the Mouth of the Ebro.” Along the right backside, yet another: “Merida:” “Joe.” “The Town of Augustus’ Veterans.” “Found in Merida, this marble portrait of Augustus shows the emperor in his capacity as Pontifex Maximus the leading religious authority of the Roman state.” At the entrance to Via Paolo Mercuri, yet another: “By the time he received this office, in 12 B.C., he already had supreme command of the army, as well as legal, political and administrative power.” “FUCK YOU.”
Having ascended bus number 280, we are following the Lungotevere. “Gaul and Germany:” On the opposite bank a graffito in bright silver reads: “Cornerstones of the Empire.” “China.” “Nîmes:” A black man in a wine-colored thigh-length jacket. “The Pride of Gallia Narbonensis.” Gets off the bus. “Orange:” Quickly over a levee the Tiber descends. “A Colony Founded by Julius Caesar.” At the Ponte Garibaldi we turn inward. The amphitheater at Arles; the aqueduct to Nîmes; the monumental gate of St. André at Autun (Augustodunum). We are following in the shadow of a tall black truck. The Maison Carée. On whose back window in white is the single letter. The triumphal arch at Orange. A gold Ferrari passes the black truck. “The theater at Orange is the only one in which the statue of Julius Caesar has survived.” We prepare to descend into Viale di Trastevere. “Trier:” Two men, dressed in hats and topcoats. “A Flourishing Town of the Late Empire.” An orange tool chest open at their feet. The Porta Nigra. Are surveying this broad avenue. “In the fourth century Constantine’s baths were converted into a barracks.” “ROMA,” read large black letters against a yellow ground, both daubed on a bank’s marble entrance. “Then in the Middle Ages it was reused as a church.” Two tall, long-haired roughnecks, having overtaken us, turn about to consider their chances. “Britannia:” At the next crossing a parked Bentley. “A Province under Military Rule.” Protrudes onto yellow zebra stripes. “The Danube Provinces.” Three winos, their backs against a wall, sit on a blanket together. “This reconstruction indicates the size of Diocletian’s fortified palace.” We pass a café called “Omnia.”
“Greece:” “Anti-Fascismo Militante,” reads a hastily-scribbled graffito. “In the Footsteps of Ancient Splendors.” We have entered the Piazza of Santa Maria in Trastevere. “Asia Minor:” In a peasant cap a layabout plays with a tennis ball on the steps of its fountain. “Ephesus, Sardis.” Two black dogs hesitate to join him in a game. “The Eastern Provinces:” Meanwhile, four stoned English girls amble through the Square. “Baalbek, Caesarea, Jerash, Palmyra.” Carrying by its green neck a bottle of white wine two-thirds full, a tottery character takes a seat on the top step. “Special Provinces:” An artist in an olive cape reins in his white dog to keep it from attacking the black strays. “Egypt, Crete, Cyrenaica.” On the other side of the fountain a red-haired girl in a brown parka sits alone, in her hand a single rose wrapped in cellophane. “Africa:” “New Age,” read the yellow letters on a red poster. “The Granary of Rome.” Three young priests stroll past talking loudly. “Volubulis, Timgad, Sufetula.” As we exit the Piazza through a narrow alley, high above, in a glass-enclosed niche. “Sabratha and Lepcis Magna.” A faded color photo of Michelangelo’s early Pietà looks down.
*