by Edward Docx
‘OK. If you score more than a 50 per cent “yes” … then go for it! You are in love! So tell your parents (not that you have any): buy a house: get married: have kids: start the whole show again. Great.’
Thus spoke the morning.
But, as I say, the night voices come from deeper, clearer places. And so my decision stood. Even as she packed her bags for Sacramento and looked up ready to go – hands on hips at the end of my bed. Especially as she packed her bags for Sacramento and looked up hands on hips at the end of my bed. My decision stood.
‘Thanks for washing my stuff,’ she said. ‘So, I’ll see you in a couple of weeks, right?’
‘Yep.’ I got out of bed. ‘Then I’m going to whisk you off somewhere very special. On a mini-break just like I know all the ladies love.’
She grinned. ‘Especially travel writers.’
‘It’s somewhere you haven’t been.’
‘Tell me.’
‘You have to wait ‘til you get back.’
‘Can I guess?’
‘You can – but I won’t tell you if you’re right.’ The taxi beeped on the street outside.
She kissed me. ‘Right, I have to go. It takes fifty thousand hours to check in for American flights these days.’ She gripped her bags and stood for a further moment. ‘How does it go?’
‘What? How does what go?’
‘The – you know – the I-don’t-go-because-I-am-weary-of-thee-or-whatever poem.’
‘Oh that. It goes: “Sweetest love, I do not go / For weariness of thee, / Nor in hope the world can show / A fitter Love for me …”’
‘That’s it.’ She smiled. ‘That’s what I’m doing. That’s exactly how I’m not going – or whatever.’
I held her for a moment. ‘You’re not a very good student.’
‘I’ll read them more and argue with you better.’
For my money, ‘Song’ is surely the most beautiful poem of parting in the English language. But, as with ‘The Dream’, I am now struck as much by the disquiet on the way to the steadfast declaration of the final couplet as I am by the couplet itself.
Let not thy divining heart,
Forethink me any ill,
Destiny may take thy part,
And may thy fears fulfil;
But think that we
Are but turned aside to sleep;
They who one another keep
Alive, ne’er parted be.
22. The Ecstasy
As ‘twixt two equal armies, Fate
Suspends uncertain victory,
Our souls, (which to advance their state,
Were gone out), hung ‘twixt her, and me.
To Rome then. Eternal city of love and faith, of Venus and the Vatican, of sacrament and sacrilege. Where everything collides. And grandmothers live. To Rome.
Riding down the Viale di Trastevere, we stood close together by the doors, hanging on to the suspended straps and swaying along in that curiously unrhythmical dance that tram rides everywhere require of their passengers.
‘Where do we get off?’ Madeleine asked, deliberately swinging further than necessary after a minor change of direction so that her face was pressed up against mine. We were passing the elaborately porticoed façade of the Ministero Pubblica Istruzione.
‘At the Piazza just before the river – it’s only about another two stops,’ I said.
‘The river being the Tiber?’
‘Yup – although they call it the Tevere; hence, I think, Trastevere.’
‘So give me it in three sentences.’
‘What?’
‘The introduction to your piece: “Forty-eight hours in Trastevere.”’
‘Oh right … erm … something like … Trastevere is the closest Rome comes to a properly defined neighbourhood. In the best traditions of counter-culture, it is situated across the river from the main city, much like the Left Bank in Paris, and enjoys a similar reputation for bohemians and artisans.’ I paused. ‘Actually, that’s probably bollocks. I think it just used to be the poor part of town – sort of slums and lacklustre artists – narrow lanes. Somewhere not to go after dark. But these days, because it’s so well preserved, all the tourists come to wander around and – you know – it does look great – and it is kind of cool in its own way – distinct from the rest of Rome.’
‘Not very pithy – as introductions go. But I get the picture.’
Our tram ran down its own empty lane in the centre of the road but on either side cars were horning and revving their way determinedly in and out of the city, while the scooters swarmed around them taking advantage of every fleeting gap. We came to a halt and everyone was thrown forward just far enough to cause universal loss of composure.
‘One more stop,’ I said.
The trip had been easy enough to arrange: I had called my grandmother and we had enjoyed our usual telephone marathon during which I explained that I was nearing illumination time on the Donne and that I felt like a break and wondered whether I could come and visit for a weekend … with a friend. (Oh the euphemisms of family life.) And, seeing as Grandmother knew the best examples in the world, I thought that maybe she could point me in the right direction and I could look in at the library to garner some ideas for versa! design – if she could fix to get us in; and oh yes, I asked, did she know anywhere nice that we could stay – like the Vatican apartment she got me the last time – because, if so, I wouldn’t need to bother her. I told her the prospective date and she said what a shame but that she was away in Orvieto (with Professor Williams) that weekend, until the Saturday afternoon, but it would be lovely to see me then – why not dinner all together on Saturday night? And of course she could find us somewhere to stay and arrange for one of her underlings at the library – perhaps Father Cedric would be so kind – to meet me on the Saturday and get me inside the Vatican because it would take for ever to get official access on my own. I said that this would be perfect and she promised to send me an e-mail with everything that I needed to know – where to collect the keys and so on, as well as some good references for the best Bâtarde – all on one condition: that I would bring with me copies of the work that I had completed so far so that she could have a look at them; and that I would definitely come for Christmas again, which was really two conditions, she knew, but once you pass seventy then really, Jasper, you can’t be expected to observe the more pedestrian laws of life.
The third weekend in September duly arrived and Roy Junior drove us to the airport, taking so many short cuts that the route somehow felt much longer than it actually was.
Privately, I feared the usual fourteen-hour delays while they hastily air-fixed a plane together and we sat marooned in the corner of some powder-blue departure lounge looking on in dismay as our fellow countrymen – the world’s most embarrassing travellers – treated all and sundry to an extended exhibition of our least attractive national characteristics. But there were no problems or delays. And in any case, I had not counted on how curiously calming an experience taking a trip with a professional would be-all the usual minor apprehensions disappeared; one felt sure that people, places and events would all be faced with patient equanimity and that reports of missed flights or cancellations would be shrugged off like news of an undone lace. After all, this was, as Madeleine pointed out, something like her thirtieth visit to an airport since the start of the year.
Having cleared security – where I couldn’t help but admire the bulging scrapbook full of rainbow colours and unfamiliar alphabets that Madeleine so nonchalantly brandished as a passport (there were stamps in there from countries that did not even exist any more)– we took off on schedule and flew south across Europe, over the Alps and down the Italian coast, reaching Rome at six o’clock. Our first view of the city was from the air – of ochre buildings, bathed in the evening’s light, nothing too tall or glinting, only churches, palaces and triumphant ruined gateways, and all looking as beautiful as only the Eternal City can look.
I was glad I had sugge
sted we take the tram ride down the Viale di Trastevere once the airport train had dropped us at the eponymous stazione. It was a more intimate way to arrive than by taxi. In the same spirit, once we were set down on the pavement, I didn’t take Madeleine directly to our rendezvous at the Piazza S. Egidio, but chose a route through a series of ramshackle back streets so that her first real hit of the city could be as captivating as possible.
We trundled along, suitcase wheels clicking behind us over the fanned cobbles, and I watched her absorbing the surroundings: on either side, the uneven old town houses crammed together in dilapidated terraces, but looking sexy and suntanned nonetheless in their various shades of brown – almond, amber, caramel, nut, tobacco, sienna or deep dark orange-yellows – with now and then just the occasional facade tricked out in a precocious pink. Here and there some of the buildings had been entirely renovated while others were swathed in scaffolding, but always the prevailing atmosphere was one of dishevelled style – wooden shutters that needed painting, terracotta tiles that had baked too long in the sun and cracked, and the elegant Italian arches – slightly chipped and worn. We swung by a couple of restaurants – chairs carefully positioned outside so as to maximize the possible number of tables, menus confidently displayed on their chalk boards, daring the passer-by to pass by. We admired the odd cascade of vine, the flower pots in the windows, the lines of washing hung high above our heads and I pointed out the fountains that ran with drinkable water night and day – to the great pride of every true Roman citizen. On the Via della Pelliccia, we stood aside to let a yellow taxi edge past and then watched as an old woman dressed in regulation black emerged and stood self-importantly aside while the driver unloaded her shopping. A young man came out of the launderette looking harassed with a mop.
‘What’s the name of the place where we’re picking up the keys?’ Madeleine asked.
‘It’s called Ombre Rosse. It’s the best bar in Trastevere. My grandmother drinks there. We have to ask for Massimo. It’s just up there. He will be expecting us.’
We entered the Piazza S. Egidio.
‘OK – this is it.’ I looked at my watch. ‘Do you want to wait here with the bags and I’ll go fetch the keys?’
‘Sure,’ she said, taking out a cigarette from her breast pocket. ‘But what should I do if a handsome young Roman comes and sweeps me off my feet?’
‘It won’t happen. They’ve all got the Madonna complex. The better looking the woman, the less action she gets. Back in a minute.’
The apartment succeeded in giving the impression of being much bigger than it was by stubbornly remaining as one long room. There was a short run of kitchen units, a dining table and a living area and then, at the far end, a low futon bed, framed by identical dark camphor wardrobes. The floor was covered in brick red tiles; two tall windows looked on to the street on the right; and huge, thick oak beams ran along the ceiling. The whole was as cool and airy as marble. We didn’t waste any time.
‘Give me three minutes,’ I said, ‘and I’ll have us something worth drinking.’
Snatching up the keys, I shot back out to Via della Scala and into the tiny wine shop, where I bought the only vintage Laurent Perrier they had and a hideously over-priced white burgundy, which was, at least, ready chilled. Madeleine, meanwhile, must have unzipped her case, fished out her favourite Oscar Peterson, found the stereo and worked it all out. Because when I got back she was already prancing around to the strains of ‘Wine and Roses’. I found two glasses and, after she had taken a careful moment to restart the song, we stood barefoot on the bed, hooked through one another’s arms and drained our drinks dry. This led inevitably to refills, which in turn seemed to require more joke jazz dancing, which likewise – by the time ‘You Look Good To Me’ had come on – somehow seemed to demand striptease.
At nine, I got up to check on the temperature of the Laurent Perrier.
‘We’ve still got time to get ourselves up the hill behind to the Piazzale Garibaldi – if you want to see the city at dusk,’ I said, wishing that the icebox wasn’t so small. ‘Our table is at ten-thirty and it’s only thirty minutes walk to the restaurant – maximum.’
‘What’s the alternative?’
‘Well … I could give Oscar an encore and we could just lie here until it’s dark or this bottle gets cold enough to open. Whichever happens first.’
‘Fuck Garibaldi.’
With the exception of a brief and aberrant moment of what I suppose I will have to characterize as jealousy on my part, that first night in Rome went OK. More than OK. The air was balmy and the street lanterns were lit on the Ponte Sisto when we stopped midway across to survey the view: up the river, the mad crenellations of the Castel San. Angelo and the squat shape of St Peter’s, looking almost eerie in the strangely subdued spotlights which cast the dome in a shade approaching cardinal red; downriver, the old island hospital stranded and quarantined midstream. Beneath us, the scrawny Tiber seemed to be dawdling even more unhurriedly than usual; a wise old man forever passing through town whom nobody ever bothers to consult.
Back in London we had struck a wardrobe deal – modern life being such a turgid dress-down affair. We had agreed to dress up. So I was in my best dark-blue single-breasted suit, cut classically with vents (by a moonlighting Chinese tailor who works out of an attic on Carnaby Street) and teamed with my roster of non-negotiables: my New York shoes, a white shirt and a silk tie. Madeleine, though, was an ode to flirtatious cool: she wore a cerise Anna Molinari dress, which dipped to a draped ‘Y’ at the back (and seemed constantly to swish about her knees), with a pair of strappy sling-back shoes.
We hadn’t managed to finish the Laurent Perrier and since it was far too pretty to leave oxidizing, we had brought it with us. I took a swig and passed it across to Madeleine and we set off the rest of the way across the bridge.
‘I shall be falling over by the time we get there,’ she said, as we waited for the lights to change on the far side.
‘Does it matter?’
‘No. But you mustn’t take advantage of me.’ She handed the bottle back and smiled warmly. ‘Or I will have you beaten up next time we go to a ball.’
‘I can think of worse things.’
We swung left down the Via Giulia where kindly Raphael had once lived, before taking a right on to the Via del Mascherone. Every twenty steps or so, the pools of light around the street lamps caused the buildings to glow more intensely and a wooden window frame would declare itself in great detail before the shadows deepened again and forms replaced features. A cat sidled out of a darkened doorway and Madeleine leant forward, pulling on my arm, to hiss at it. (Her dislike of cats was, I came to realize, surpassed only by her loathing of dogs – ‘filthy disgusting animals’.) We stopped again to drink some more by the ancient fountain in the Piazza Farnese, which, except for the listless guards who stood smoking beneath the motionless French flag, was quiet.
‘It’s supposed to be the most beautiful of all the Renaissance palaces in Rome,’ I said, looking up at the vast facade of the palazzo. ‘The French rent it for a nominal fee in return for some place that the Italians get in Paris. I would love to see inside.’
‘The Italian embassy in Paris is on the rue de Varenne,’ she said, lighting a cigarette. ‘But I would say that the French have the best deal – as usual.’
‘Oh right. Have you been?’
‘Yes. My father works in Paris and –’
‘Oh yeah – you said.’
‘– he used to take me to parties at the Hotel Gallifet – where the Italians have their receptions – when I was on holiday from boarding school, so that I would look forward to seeing him.’ She exhaled. ‘Guilt.’
I had forgotten the French connection. ‘You don’t like him, do you?’
‘No,’ she shrugged. ‘Well, yes, actually – sometimes. He’s an eloquent, intelligent man. Used to get called brilliant. Double firsts all the way. But he’s a complete waste of space, the worst kind of, like, hypocrite. Spe
nds all day with his stiff-upper-lip friends talking about being awfully decent but he has actually behaved like a pathetic bastard all his life. Everything important he fucked up.’
‘Did you know your mother?’
‘Not really. She looked after me for a few months then she drank herself to death. That and the pills apparently. Impressive, huh?’
I nodded slowly.
There was silence, then she said: ‘Don’t you wonder about your parents?’
‘Yes – of course. Sometimes. But – you know – you don’t miss what you never had so I don’t get down about it or whatever. People think orphans spend all their lives being sad and lonely but the no-parents thing gets to be normal if it has always been that way and you don’t really notice what difference it makes. In fact, in a sense, it makes you much more relaxed than your peers – more resourceful anyway. And you get this excellent relationship with the over-sixties – like my grandmother and her pals – because you both think the generation in between are complete arseholes.’
Madeleine smiled. ‘I can’t wait to meet her.’
‘You’ll like her.’
We entered Campo dei Fiori, made our way through the musters of vociferously appreciative Italian men, crossed the angry traffic on the Corso Vittorio Emanuele II, wandered through the Piazza Navona and, having disposed of the last of the wine, pressed the doorbell of Il Convivio.