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Novelo Rectangle

I first saw them at Hotel Raphael.&nbsp; Third day in the Eternal City, third day in the paradise of exiles, and I found myself on the cusp of sunset in Piazza Navona. The Hotel Raphael is a short clip away, and the Bromante Terrace a breeze of an elevator ride up. The gasp one makes clasping eyes over the city from here is the same one makes beholding the Sistine Chapel for the first time, or the Forum. In a state bordering on delirium, I ordered a verdicchio complimented by a plate of delicious apertivo treats, and scrambled to take what few pictures I had left. Although I had planned my trip rather carefully, I had not counted on electrical outlets in Europe being incompatible with US chargers. The low battery warning on my camera had been flashing since last night, and I was literally saving my best photos for last.&nbsp; Amidst the spectacle of Sant’Agnese in Agone so close it felt as if you held your breath and stretched out you could just graze the dome with your fingertips, il Vittoriano off in the distance in one direction, St Peter’s dreamily in the other, there they sat at one of the tables with a white umbrella top. The fairer haired of the two wore a yellow dress with small purple flowers embedded neatly in the fabric, sunglasses perched atop her head. The brunette sported a black dress sprinkled with white dots. Both were model attractive. Both smoked. Pink shopping bags rested under their table, exotic looking cocktails adorned the top. While I scampered about the terrace attempting to find the most majestic views in the fading light, I heard the fairer haired ragazza complaining to the waiter about her drink. She had an English accent, which left me all the more smitten. As I returned to my verdicchio and smoked a cigarette, it occurred to me that, completely relaxed and unemcumbered by worry, the breadth of the city stretched before me in all its caput mundi glory, this was very possibly the greatest city in the world. As I stole glances back to my ragazze’s table, glances mind you that were not returned, I flirted with collecting their tab. As I sat lost in reverie, allowing the pastel colored dreamscape to seep into my memory as the sun set on the infallible day, I wondered what harm could come of it. And I thought if I were smooth in any way, if a thimble of the dna of Marcello Mastroianni was in my mental and physical makeup, I would indeed summon the waiter to hasten over a round of drinks. Instead, I paid for my lone conto, absorbed a final intake of the incomparable skyline, and punted over to Agnese in Agone to catch a recital by a young, Harry Potter looking pianist named Michele D’Ascenzo.&nbsp; After the concerto I ambled my way to Via Corso with sidesteps to admire the Pantheon by night in a jam packed Piazza della Rotonda, and to enjoy a lugana at Salotto 42 in the Piazza del Pietra across from a glowing Hadrian’s Temple. I then humped up a bustling Corso to Via Borgognona, cars, buses, vespas and pedestrians darting up the thoroughfare, the warm smell of roasted chestnuts peppering the air. A family of English tourists approached me and asked for directions to Trevi Fountain. I happily obliged, although it pained me to inform them the water at the iconic fountain was shut off. The experience left me feeling that, three days in the city, I overwhelmingly belonged.&nbsp; By this time the legs were feeling a bit heavy. More importantly I was thirsty, so I popped into Hotel d’Inghilterra on Bocca di Leone with its elegant lobby salottos and repaired to the Bond Bar for a chianti. The Bond Bar is an intimate, cramped space that can barely seat ten people or so, and I sat at a table next to an old English gentleman nursing a scotch. In between sips of my chianti, and handfuls from the small bowls of nuts and olives provided, I scribbled down notes on my day’s activities on folded scraps of paper and was surprised when the gentleman produced a worn looking journal and confessed to recording his own adventures. “I have reached that age where I can no longer rely on my ruddy memory, so I find I must jot things down,” he said. Raising my glass I toasted him, his travels, and encouraged him to keep writing and prepared to leave. I wished I’d asked his name. I wished I’d invited him to accompany me for dinner. While our bodies grow old, our hearts remain young.&nbsp; When I arrived at Nino I breathed a sigh of relief they had my reservation. The maitre‘d who took it the night before didn’t write anything, simply asked my name and the 9:30 time. I was seated in the section by the entrance which was full. The hub of rigorous chatter littered the restaurant. I ordered the mozzarella di bufala to start which was scrumptious, the veal for secondi which was exquisite, and the first in a couple of sensational glasses of valpolicella. I don’t know if every traveler experiences this, but for some reason everything tasted better here. And the sentiment wasn’t confined to just food. The sights were more extraordinary, the paintings more illuminating, the history more legendary, the sunsets more magical, the gardens more bucolic, the spirits more intoxicating, the music more inspiring, the women more beautiful, the bambini more adorable, the clothes more chic, the churches more holy, the strolls more languid, the sleep more peaceful, the splendor more splendid, the love more everlasting, and most importantly the time infinitely better spent. Mi piace esistere…mi piace vivere…&nbsp; I was adrift in this train of thought when the maitre’d headed over with two female diners. I was about to dig into another piece of veal when I was struck by the apparel. The yellow dress with purple flowers seemed more pronounced. The black dress with white dots more form fitting. The pink shopping bags more fashionable. Lo and behold, they were my due ragazze from Raphael. I was practically gawking as the maitre’d escorted the two past my table to the other restaurant section. The ragazza in the black dress momentarily looked at me as they sailed past. I smiled and nodded, as if to say “Ciao! What took you so long?” A curious expression colored her face and they disappeared to their table.&nbsp; Was this a sign? Dialogue with the fates? It could only be. Too bad I could no longer see my darling ragazze. I mulled over picking up their dinner tab, and I thought if I were smooth in any way, possessed but a fraction of the gorgeous, romantic fervor of Alain Delon, I certainly wouldn’t have to think twice about it. Instead with a shrug I turned to ordering a gelato and amaretto, and resigned myself to the fact I was not Casanova incarnate. I stifled a moroseful laugh, pondered what purpose the verse of Keats or Byron served if I were to squash this possibility of possibilities, and requested my bill.&nbsp; A nightcap was in order. On a crisp, invigorating evening I hoofed it to the Piazza de Spagna. The piazza, immaculately lit, was deserted save for a smattering of tourists surrounding the Baraccia and spread along the barricade preventing them from accessing the Spanish Steps. I cannot stress how disheartened I was discovering this the day before. Armed, uniformed soldiers stood guard nearby, and one or two street sellers launched flourescent flight lights into the autumn air. Lit to the incandescent nines, the Trinita dei Monti loomed over the summit of the Steps like a beacon of towering hope. In a breach of serious cultural and religious etiquette, tarped on the chiese’s facade was a giant billboard for Spectre, the latest James Bond movie. As I slowly humped up Via Babuino to Piazza del Popolo, I made a mental note to flood the Italian Chamber of Commerce with testy emails over that egregious eyesore. The Hotel de Russie sits at the end of Via Babuino as it empties into Piazza del Popolo. The de Russie is like the Chateau Marmont of the Tiber, and the diamond in this hospitality ruff is the Stravinskij Bar, with an expansive terrace which extends to an outdoor restaurant and a separate indoor bar. As it was after eleven, there weren’t many patrons in the main terrace area, but those that were were impeccably dressed, mostly in slick black, and mostly all smoking. Light, relaxing music filtered through speakers on opposite ends of the outside bar. I sat near the center, at a table with dark umbrella top by a space heater, and when the waiter came I ordered a limoncello and lit a cigarette. Along with my drink, the waiter brought a tray with prosciutto and cheeses, and despite being extremely full I indulged in some. The limoncellos, along with most glasses of wine, cost more than entrance tickets to the Vatican Museum, are served at just the right ice cold temperature and absolutely worth it.&nbsp; I checked my watch. As I had learned the night before, the metro was already closed, but I’d had too sweet a day to mind. I stubbed out my fag and lay back in my seat, surveying my hip surroundings like a commendatore of leisure, at supreme ease and unburdened by responsibility of any kind. The waiter returned.&nbsp; “Dove Monica Bellucci?” I asked.&nbsp; “They have the premiere for Spectre here in the city last night,” he said.&nbsp; “Tutte merde!” I said.&nbsp; “Another limoncello?”&nbsp; “Si!” I chirped. As the waiter trailed off ta da! Who should enter the terrace but my darling due ragazze from Raphael and Nino. I nearly coughed up the swig of limoncello I’d just injested, and could barely contain my laughter at this telltale sign of providence. Improbably, the fairer haired of the two seemed even more resplendent in her yellow dress adorned with purple flowers, albeit now covered in a leather jacket; the brunette appearing more captivating in her black dress with white dots, likewise cloaked by a light jacket. As they sauntered to a table by the entrance the latter returned my gaze. A flush of recognition filled her eyes. I raised my swifter of limoncello and smiled. My ragazza smiled back, lay her pink shopping bags by her feet and sat down.&nbsp; So what then? The words raced in my mind like an aria by Puccini. The history of the day a mere footnote of this moment. I removed a random piece of folded paper from the breast pocket of my blazer and a pen. “So what then?” I wrote. The stirrings of adolescence, the fumblings at college, the aspiration of adulthood, the toil of work, the chipped signposts of the future…all reduced to the semi legible scratch on crumpled chits of paper, archived with so much dedication, all instantly discarded. So what then? All the cliches of a life lived plainly. So what then? The advice doled out by a favorite cousin on the eve of my trip: travel everywhere. Write until your hands bleed. Fall in love.&nbsp; So what then?&nbsp; The waiter returned. “Another?”&nbsp; “Si,” I said. “Per favore,” I added, “you viddy those ragazze at that table? Send them over a round of prosecco and put it on my bill.” The waiter nodded and left.&nbsp; Moments later the waiter, tray in hand, delivered the proseccos. Draped languidly in their seats, my due ragazze perked up. The waiter motioned in my direction. Their stares followed suit along with grateful shouts of “Grazie!”&nbsp; The waiter returned with the limoncello. “The bella ragazze give thanks,” he said and walked away.&nbsp; After huddling close for a spell and trading repeated looks at me between puffs on their cigarettes, the ragazza in the black dress with white dots raised her glass to me. The salute was duly returned. After a pause she stood up and, glass in hand, glided over.&nbsp; “Grazie,” she said sincerely.&nbsp; “Prego!”I said.&nbsp; “You were at Nino, right?” she asked.&nbsp; “Si,” I said. “I also saw you at Hotel Raphael earlier.”&nbsp; “You’re American,” she said, sounding relieved. “You did? You were there, too?” “I must say,” I said, “this stalking business, as it were? Not dignified! Will you stop?”&nbsp; She laughed. “We’re from Wales. Say, we’re meeting some friends in a few minutes. Would you like to join us?”&nbsp; I thought heavily for an instant. Suddenly dejected without knowing why I felt dejected and trying not to show it, I grinned. “Grazie,” I said. “That sounds lovely but I’m a bit drunk. I’m not sure if I’d be good company.”&nbsp; “Are you sure?” she asked. “You seem fine.”&nbsp; “Sorry, but yes,” I said, promising to throw myself into the Tiber later.&nbsp; “Well,” she said, “cheers!” We clinked glasses. “It’s great prosecco by the way,” she added. “No one’s ever sent me a drink before.” With that she returned to her table. The fairer haired ragazza was on her cellphone in an animated manner. She raised her glass.&nbsp; The waiter returned. “Another?” I shook my head. “The bella ragazze, you get married?”&nbsp; “No.”&nbsp; As I left I bid a hearty “Arrivederci!” to my due raggaze. “Wait!” my darling ragazza in the black dress with white dots exclaimed. She jolted over with what looked like a rolled up poster. “Here!” she said. “I want you to have this.”&nbsp; “It’s really not—“ I began.&nbsp; “Please have it!” she said, gently handing it to me before planting a kiss on me so quickly I almost ruined it by turning my head at the last moment. She smiled and retreated to her table. The mission done, I stepped into a much cooler night and near dead Piazza del Popolo. A few tourists gathered by the Obelisk, snapping photos atop the lions at the base, and a handful of others trickled in and out from the Corso, bookended by the due Santa Maria chiese Montesanto and Miracoli, and barricaded with military vehicles so cars couldn’t enter. On the opposite end, pedestrians could still be spotted entering and exiting from the grand Porto del Popolo. Most of the restaurants were closed, but one or two diners and staff filed out from others. The cab stand outside Canova lay deserted. A lone charge on a vespa sped through the piazza breaking the calm, engine sputtering along, like the day itself ebbing faintly until no more.&nbsp; I humped east up to Pincio Hill. The garden was barren of people but for a tiny few. A gentle wind stirred. Distant traffic hummed weakly. I found myself at the marble ledge of the terrace overlooking the luminous city, St Peter’s a mile or so ahead, awash in light in the darkness of evening. I fished out my camera. The light was problematic but the view so epic I could not resist. No go. The battery was morto. Figured. Even though where I stood was dimly lit, I decided to open up what my ragazza had given me.&nbsp; I laughed at my ill fortune. It was a poster of Roman Holiday, one of my favorite movies, and one I watched repeatedly before my trip. Specifically a still from the sequence where Gregory Peck chats up Audrey Hepburn on the Spanish Steps. The film’s title and credits were listed on the bottom of the print in Italian. Vacanze Romane. I loved it. Mon dieu! My darling one knew me! I didn’t even ask her name. And I thought if I had but a tittle of the romantic relish of Rossano Brazzi, the self sabotage undertaken at Hotel de Russie might have been quashed—I could be there right now, arbiter of la dolce vita, Garabaldi summoning the troops to immortality. But this mettle was sadly missing from me. Always the spectator alight, I would never inspire a nation of donne to swoon, and I would never look cool smoking a cigarette, and I would never look dashing in a trenchcoat and fedora, would never be anything but one of the faceless throng shuttling among monuments. Bury me next to Keats, and tucked underneath the eternal void at least a part of me will rest here forever. Bury me next to Keats, and within this sliver of earth, within l’espace d’une nuit, I can claim at long last what is rightfully, wholly mine. Bury me next to Keats, and all the yesterdays and all the tomorrows can’t shake the fever pulse of today. Hallelujah, at long last I belong.&nbsp; Caput mundi, caput mundi, the capital of the world a dazzling, hallucinating vision where history and the present are one and the same, where the dawn of today sparkles alongside the dusk of yesterday. Tomorrow doesn’t register, it is simply always NOW. In a world without tomorrow, anything and everything is possible. I shut my eyes. A long hump back to my apartment awaited me. I shut them tighter. I felt if I closed them tight enough I could almost hear the ancient voices of long ago, beckoning me to my destination, transplanting me as if I was already there. I opened my eyes. The city beamed. I shut my eyes again. It was as if I could hear footsteps navigating uncertainly in the darkness, the whispered voices more familiar, hushed and clear, the voice I wanted to hear. I opened my eyes and she was there.&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;

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DYING LIGHT OF THE ETERNAL CITY

Adonais

Marcelo Deugarte

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