by Ian Wallace
Presently Wel called back: “We’ll break into the Trevi open very shortly.” Dhurk said: “There’s still a bit of twilight, and I don’t want to see the fountain until after dark.” Actually, Dhurk made me blindfold him with his big handkerchief; and now it was my turn to mount hazardous rearguard.
What I shall call Trevi Square exploded around us. I had only an instant to gasp-glimpse the floodlighted, mythologically ornate marble fountain with its spreading plash-pond surrounded by enamored tourists, mostly students with dogs and lovers, when Wel announced: “There’s the eatery,” and he led us to a very small place—led, indeed, blindfolded Dhurk. Through a plate-glass display window, two of us could see the restaurant’s vegetatively modest character; inside, it was a tiny-wonderful peasantry.
A shy slender lovable anemic youth-boy was our gargon or whatever, and he led us to the window table which was a rectangular affair with one end against a wall and places for four. Dhurk insisted: “Seat me with my back to the fountain”; this was done, and Wel and I sat facing him and the water-wonder beyond.
Removing his blindfold, Dhurk contemplated the depths of the restaurant, which was shaped like a small store. What he saw were lavish festoonings of onions and scallions and garlics and other colorful dried vegetables along with several gaggles of smoked herring. He said with satisfaction: “Exactly the sort of place I had in mind. Is the fountain behind me nearby?” “Very near,” softly I told him. “Don’t you hear it?” Dhurk murmured, “Indeed I do—”
What the bashful one served us was modestly delicate-rich: some kind of flaky-flavorful fish, something like plaice, topped with a quietly incredible creamy sauce, with a dollop of unsauced spaghetti on the same plate (fairly decent for Rome, although you go to Naples for pasta), and a tiny-leaf lettuce salad with a delectable oil-and-vinegar dressing, all to be sip-washed down with a decent ordinary bland white wine in an unlabeled clear bottle with a second-hand cork. We took our time over the small good supper. We debated ordering ice cream or more fish; we desisted on the ground that not-quite-enough of an enjoyed thing is better than too much.
After perhaps forty-five minutes of slow savorful destruction, we lingered over what was left of the wine.
Dhurk said: “Whenever you are ready, I will resume my blindfold.”
Wel raised a finger; a blousy middle-aged woman in the back caught the signal and bellowed for our waiter, who was probably her son. Bashful was unfailingly polite; this really wasn’t his sort of business, but what other sort of business could he have? Wel paid the check and tipped generously; the boy picked up the paper money, studied it, and' dug into a pants pocket for change; Wel told him, “No change, Signor—it includes your gratuity.” The lad wilted, tried to express thanks, couldn’t, bolted.
When we returned our attention to Dhurk, already he was blindfolded. We arose, flanked him, helped him to his feet, tendered him out of the restaurant, walked him toward the fountain which now for the first time I could visually imbibe in all its luminous lush-classical glory. I eased a couple of spectators apart and engineered Dhurk to the low-walled edge of the pond, so that he dead-center faced the multispouting sculpture of the backwall.
I removed Dhurk’s blindfold.
Dhurk stood contemplating.
Dhurk blurted a little chuckle, repressed it, stood contemplating.
Dhurk tore off his jacket, kicked off his shoes, leaped into the shallow pond, and somehow contrived to sink beneath its surface. While the crowd stared aghast at the blasphemy, Dhurk rose lip out of the shallowness on his back, floated, roared out his body-shaking mirth.
It was Dhurk’s very first human laughter.
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