of my mild prescription reading glasses.
I know enough street language to get by and understand conversations, but I struggle with Italian grammar. Feasting on the headlines, I conclude that
Rome is like any other large city, Toronto, New York or Los Angeles. When too many people traverse each other’s paths, they are bound to produce urban blight and seedy crime. People take action in their own self-interest, oft-times with brutality. Life can be cruel and short. Thomas Hobbes’ view of civil society is not some exaggeration.
Iread that two studentshave been discovered in the waters under Ponte Milvo, a stone bridge in northern Rome constructed in 206 BC. Authorities believe that the two traveling students, an alleged lesbian couple, carelessly fell to their deaths as they tried to attach a padlock to one of the lampposts and profess their love for one another. The bridge is a point of interest for such a ritual, which annually draws hundreds of young boys and girls. It involves a couple locking a padlock to the bridge’s lamppost and then throwing the key behind them into the Tiber River.
In another headline, a man in his early thirties, not previously known by police, has been discovered lifeless in the Hangar. Established in 1984, the Hangar is Rome’s first homosexual pub and still one of the more popular places for gay tourists. Police report that the man, a camera beside him with no memory card, was crouched in a tiny, very dark backroom of the club. The journalist, through inessential repetition, stressed that the death stemmed from a self-inflicted overdose of cocaine.
The most eye-catching news comes from the Vatican Press. Cardinal Pio, the Pontiff’s Secretary of State and controller of the Vatican
Bank, has passed away from natural causes during the Pope’s birthday celebration. How sad. Cardinal Pio was the Holy See’s right-hand man and dearest friend. The Pope has scheduled a dedication high mass for the Cardinal on Sunday. The article goes on to affirm that “a man of the cloth who recently returned from missionary work in Africa will fill the vacancy.” Several statements approve and praise the clergyman’s credentials. The successor is actually Cardinal Pio’s brother.
There is even an eloquent endorsement by a professor from the University of Trento. The Holy See’s describes this professor as “a financial advisor of the Vatican Bank and a treasured, life-long friend.” As if reading the newspaper was insufficient,
a television inside the gazebo changes from telecasting a musical to announcing the morning headlines from Rome. I turn to watch and listen as an attractive, large-breasted, scantily-attired female announcer mouths yesterday’s events.
The woman T.V. reporter speaks with speculation of multiple killings of mayors of major southern Italian cities. Conspiracy theories abound. One co-reporter contends that all these politicians were corrupt individuals snuffed by marginalized non-residents. The female anchorwoman fingers Communists and the Mafia for the more spectacular executions of three prominent magistrates, the head of the Treasury Police, and seven crime investigators of the carabinieri. She speculates that all these deaths are somehow linked. Although I find it hard to take this porn-like presenter seriously, the cavalcade of photos being broadcast are explicit and, the timing
of the killings, make me wonder about Italy’s state of affairs. They depict Italy in worse condition than a Middle East war zone.
There is a discrepancy between the two media giants. The newspaper did not mention two items that the news on television proudly broadcast. One, supported by numerous tourists, was the hint of criminality in St. Peter’s Square: carnage of men, women and children. The other, rumored by a nun within the Vatican, proclaiming that Cardinal Pio’s ring finger had been cut off and his gaudy ring has been stuffed up his nose.
I speak softly.
“My God, what damage! If Italy can handle this surely I can manage Emily.”
I can be really naïve when I let my heart overpower my thinking. I know it.
Chapter 18
Tarquinia, central Italy Piazza Cavour
Like a bee diving in for the sting, a black Vespa scoots into the intersection, mounts the pavement and careens to a stop underneath the rustic, iron, three-lights lamppost on the edge of Piazza Cavour. The male driver and female rider squeal louder than any motorbike. The attention they crave comes swiftly. Pedestrians turn to look, as do I, sitting a mere four meters away from the finish line.
Certainly, the scooter is a mechanic’s prize. It looks pristine and has zip. The driver, dressed in Capri pants and an unbuttoned short-sleeve shirt, is striking. His chestnut hair matches his olive complexion. His muscular physique, from defined abdominals to bulging biceps to carved calves,
exudes athleticism. The passenger is my petulant wife.
Emily is indeed beauty in motion. Her black tights leave nothing to the imagination. Every curve and crevice of her taut legs, buttocks and groin are carved. Her blue athletic bra is more suitable for a strip tease than exercise. A spectator might wonder only what color of cutoff socks Emily wears inside her white and pink trimmed runners. She sparkles fashion, sexuality and backroom, casting couch aspirant.
The young man kisses Emily on both cheeks and waves her ciao Bella (a fond goodbye). Emily watches her companion vanish back into the town’s network of streets. She knows I am watching and lingers, wanting to implant the moment in my memory.
Unabashedly, Emily walks over. “Where are the kids?”
“In the museum across the street. I thought you were going for a walk.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“And, what?”
I look at the smirk on my wife’s play-acting face and respond with contained anger.
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’m going to see what the kids have learned.”
Unruffled, my wife turns and exits before I have the opportunity to elaborate on my statement. Four old men perched on a small bench next to the small pharmacy absorb the drama with despondency. Itossmynewspaperonthetable,decapitating
my cappuccino cup from its saucer. I march across the street toward the Museo Archelogico hoping some Vespa will run into me so I can punch the motorist senseless.
Chapter 19
Tarquinia, central Italy Piazza Cavour
Business is languid. That is understandable. Although it is ancient Tarquinia’s major hotel, mainly locals frequent the establishment. Tourists, like Renzo and Emily, staying at the San Marco are the exception, not the rule. They are conspicuous.
The waiter, taking shade and resting against the building, watches Renzo crossing the street magnetically opposite to his wife. He stands in street clothes except for the white apron dotted with stains around his waist. He waits for Emily to pass him and enter the bar before taking out his cell phone and speed dialing.
“Mamma Teresa, giuro, (I swear). The stranger in town…it’s him.”
The man, clutching his cellphone with calloused fingers, is like Mercury, the messenger of destiny. He possesses the power to perceive that what was once unswerving and straight will soon evolve and twist into imbalance like a sorcerer’s magic wand casting black magic in his wake.
“He looks like a young Paolo, one hundred and ten per cent! He has his father’s height and your facial features. He signed the hotel registry as Renzo Salvo. Giuseppe and Esterina Salvo were your neighbors when you lived on Via Roma. I saw his passport. He was born here in Tarquinia. He is his son...Call Canada? Ah yes, I will find out from Giuseppe and Esterina what he is doing here. I’ll call from the Stazione Ferroviaria di Tarquinia (railway station).”
The waiter, casting his apron on the back of a patio chair, steps lively down the road to the bottom of the hill headed for the concealment of the train station.
Chapter 20
Tarquinia,