by A. Sparrow
My head threatened to flutter off my shoulders. I suspected that some of my giddiness was due to low blood sugar. I had to eat something, so I stepped into this neighborhood pizza joint. My lack of Italian proved less of a hurdle than expected, once I figured out their ass-backwards system for paying for food.
I pointed at a couple of squares of cheese pizza and they whisked them up, wrapped them in paper and ribbon as if they were a birthday present, set a skinny can of Coke beside it and then handed me a slip of paper that looked like a receipt. But the big guy behind the counter refused my money, and when I went to reach for the pizza, he yanked it away.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to a lady at a cash register behind me. I handed her the receipt and a ten Euro note. She rang up the order and handed me back a different slip along with some change. This was the ticket to free up my gift-wrapped pizza. I walked out of that shop victorious, feeling like I had mastered some arcane ritual.
So I went down the street, munching pizza and systematically examining the names on every mailbox and doorbell in the foyers and outer walls of each building, looking for Raeths.
That pizza was gone before I had reached the end of the block. And man, that crust made Sbarro’s taste like sawdust. Even the Coke tasted better here, somehow less sweet than the American stuff and much more effective at quenching my thirst. I kind of liked this Roma place.
***
Street after street, building after building I searched and found not a shred of luck. I couldn’t find a name posted anywhere that was even close to Raeth. It was enough trouble finding names on name plates that didn’t end in vowels.
I did buzz a Carla with a ‘C’ at one point, just to be thorough, but he turned out to be a man whose brother’s name was Andrea. Go figure.
I worked my way up another short block, all the way to this major east-west thoroughfare between the castle and the walls of the Vatican. It was starting to get dark. Though the sidewalks were well-lighted, in some doorways I had to squint to make out the writing on the mailboxes. I wish I had brought a flashlight.
When I started, I was determined to find her if it took all night, but now I was beginning to wonder if I had badly miscalculated. Not every apartment was marked. Some buildings had no names above the buzzers, only numbers.
So I had probably bypassed dozens of anonymous apartments by now. Karla could be a needle living in a part of the haystack that I never got to see. That realization made my stomach bottom out.
I sat down to rest on a bench just outside the walls of the Vatican, on a street called the Via Belvedere. It had been dumb of me to assume I could just show up and find her without an address.
If I could only get back to Root, I could simply ask her. There, I knew where she lived.
But coming to Italy had raised the stakes, Would she be more or less likely now to tell me where she lived?
Why she had to play so coy with me, I didn’t know. It didn’t seem fair. She knew I was risking my skin, coming all this way.
I closed my eyes and invited those viny tendrils to come and wrap me in a ball and take me away. And when I felt something brush against my leg, I thought I had hit pay dirt, but it was just someone’s cat strolling by.
Though, I was starting to feel discouraged, I was a long way from abandoning all hope. Just being in Rome meant there was the possibility if running into her simply by chance, and as long as any shred of hope remained there would be no Root and no Karla. Coming to Italy had trapped me in a vicious cycle.
One would have thought that realization alone would suffice to drive me down a spiral of despair. But something was gumming up the works, and that something was that I was too darned close to finding her. For all I knew I could be sitting in her fucking neighborhood.
I still believed I could still find Karla here in Rome. I would just need to try a different tact.
Chapter 28: Bells
I was beginning to doze off on the bench when some police showed up in a little blue and white car and shooed me along. They were nice enough about it, though I couldn’t understand a word they said.
I really needed a nap, though. With the time difference it was only about six o’clock on the east coast, but I was running on fumes.
I went down this narrow, cobbled street called the Via dei Corridori. There were scooters and apartment buildings to my left and what looked like a low castle wall with bricked-in arches to my right. The wall looked just like the castle walls I used to doodle when I was eight, fighting slots and all. It was weird seeing plastic dumpsters juxtaposed against all that medieval architecture.
The Via met up with this larger street that curved around a massive set of columns that opened into a large open space just beyond. At this point I was just looking for a place to crash. I crossed the street, passed through the columns and … whoa! There was this giant obelisk in the middle. This was freaking St. Peter’s Square.
I sat down on some steps and just gawked, blown away by the immensity of it. There were scads of people wandering about. I wondered, what were the odds that one of them was Karla? I would have prayed if I thought that had any possibility of increasing my chances, but instead I just sat there in a daze, hunting through the swarms of faces for the one I sought.
I saw another policeman roust some bums on the other end of the steps and I knew I was going to be next, so I retreated, looking for someplace a little less public and exposed. By that point, even the dumpsters on the Via dei Corridori were looking attractive. I found an alley leading to a courtyard with some pocket gardens packed with parked Vespas.
I spread some paper on the ground and cozied up to a rosemary bush, only to be awakened a few minutes later by the end of a broom handle that some witch of a lady jabbed into my ribs.
I moved on to the next courtyard, found another space in the deep shadows beneath a broken street lamp and did the same. My arms were my pillow and this time the locals left me blessedly alone.
***
I was awakened by bells. Massive bells. Earth shuddering bells. There was an old woman watering flowers on the balcony above me, sending withering glances my way. I rolled over, my face coming inches from some dog poop and rose up. I smiled and waved at her before moving on, eyes crusted and all groggy. I’m sure I looked drunker than shit, though in truth I was more sober than a nun.
I couldn’t even see the sun yet, but I knew it was up because though the buildings remained dark, they were silhouetted against a brightening sky. Street lamps flickered off as I wobbled down the alley, heading to the St. Peter’s Square and the source of the ringing.
I found a fountain with a drinking spout. It seemed sketchy to drink from such a place, but I had seen other people doing it, so I rinsed my mouth and swallowed.
While I was at it, I dunked my head and rinsed my hair, wishing I had some soap. One of these days I would have to bite the bullet and find a cheap hotel room if such a thing existed in Rome, otherwise I wasn’t going to be able to tolerate being in my own skin. Being a clean freak and homeless was a frustrating combination.
I had to pee really bad, but there were too many people around to just let loose on some wall. I saw a crowd lining up to get into St. Paul’s so I joined them, figuring they might have public restrooms in there.
I was wondering how steep the admissions charge would be when saw there was no one selling tickets. The line was just for security. They were checking purses and having people empty their pockets.
I had nothing to worry about. I had no weapon of any sort, though it might be prudent to pick one up if I was going to continue sleeping out on the streets.
When I finally got in, I made a beeline for the restrooms near the bag check area. I freaked when I saw myself in the mirror. I looked like some victim from a concentration camp. Where my hair wasn’t plastered to my skull, it stuck straight out. I had a beard like the fur on a mangy dog, and my clothes were all smudged and blotched with dust and grease.
I was pretty
much to myself the whole time in that washroom, and it was a good thing because it gave me a chance to do some pretty intensive cleaning up, even though all of the soap dispensers were empty. I must have gone through a hundred feet of paper toweling and I still looked like crap when I was through.
I peeled my shirt off, rinsed it and wrung it out. The dingy water I squeezed out of that thing disgusted me. It went against all instinct to put that rancid rag back on over my relatively clean skin, but I sucked it up, promising myself I’d get a new outfit by the end of the day and get this set of clothes laundered. There were gift shops nearby, but I wasn’t about to get myself a Pope John Paul T-shirt, never mind that Benedict creep. My new wardrobe would have to wait.
I went into a stall and checked the wad of cash in my pocket. It was all there, all fourteen hundred or so. All this skimping had to stop. It was time to invest in making myself human again, and that meant buying more than a slice of pizza.
I left the washroom and started to leave, but the enormous void I could sense behind me pulled me in like a vacuum. The sheer size of the basilica’s interior stunned me. You could fit a good-sized village under here.
I wandered around, looking at all the sculptures and chapels tucked away along the sides. I reached this place with a barrier where a guard was letting a few people in a time to go down to a group of pews tucked down at the end. They were dwarfed by all the space around them. It was like someone tried to stick a church inside a massive cavern.
I started to walk away. I had no interest in attending any mass. For one thing, I wasn’t Catholic, and for another, I didn’t believe in the existence of a Supreme Being, even despite (or maybe because of) my experiences in Root. The only faith I had was in the certainty that the universe was a very weird and mysterious place.
But this huge awning caught my eyes. It was about a hundred feet high with spiraling columns that look like something straight out of nature, some massive set of Kraken’s tentacles frozen in place as they twisted and writhed.
The guard let me in past the barrier. I’m not sure why. I sure wouldn’t have, if I were him and saw myself in a queue. Maybe I looked like I needed to pray.
So I went up to this awning thing for a closer look. Its surface was dark brown. Twisty, viny things threaded their way up to the canopy. I felt this sort of déjà vu happen, certain I had seen some semblance of this before in Root. Some of the facades of Luthersburg had columns like these. I wondered if Karla had anything to do with their design.
I thought at first that the columns were carved of wood—massive boles, felled by barbarians in some primeval forest, trees that may have held gods themselves for the pagans who worshipped there, but the placard told me they were clad in bronze, which almost impressed me more because it meant this was the spawn of a single human’s imagination. Turned out, some guy named Bernini created the thing, and it was called a ‘baldacchino’, whatever that was supposed to mean.
When I walked around the back, a shiver ran through me. High above the altar, framed by a writhing mass of sculpted humanity, was that window with the alabaster dove. It was glowing faintly and it seemed a miracle that it glowed at all because all the morning light was striking the other end of the basilica.
I went to the backmost pew and knelt, not because I was overcome with any urge to pray, but because everyone here in the sparse crowd was kneeling. I ignored the mumbo jumbo going on at the altar and stared up at the dove.
Karla’s replica, as compelling as I found it, did little justice to the real thing. Its placement blew me away, smack amidst a tangle of battling, struggling, groping angels and demons, with little cherubs floating above the fray. And at the center of all that chaos, a pure and simple bird landing in a starburst of alabaster, bloodied at the edges, brilliant at its core, like a beacon of hope in a mad world.
Once again, my inspiration came hand in hand with a curse. The hope that it gave me that I was getting closer to Karla in the flesh pulled me ever farther from Karla in the spirit.
Chapter 29: Occupy Roma
I walked all the way back to the Spanish Steps, to that Occupy encampment where I had seen some people using laptops. I had no interest in protesting anything, I just wanted to see if someone would let me borrow their computer for a minute, just long enough for a quick Google search.
Search terms: Raeth and Rome and Karla.
I had hoped I could find some electronics shop or library on the way over so I wouldn’t have had to resort to this, but no dice. Where was an Apple store when you needed it?
The encampment seemed to have grown since the day before. Every bit of space on the grassy islands was now taken up by tents and awnings. There were also more police on the scene, some arrayed in a sparse cordon in front of a bank. Another group milled about near a bus, pulling on riot gear. They joked around with each other, not looking stressed in the least.
I hovered on the edge of a group of people sharing a card table. A girl in a floppy hat kept glancing over at me while she engaged in an intense discussion with a guy typing frantically on a MacBook Air. She patted her friend’s shoulder and approached me directly, her eyes quick and sharp.
“Sembri perso. Posso aiutarla?”
“Excuse me? I … I don’t speak Italian.”
“I say you look lost. Are you okay?”
“Um … yeah. I was just hoping to borrow someone’s laptop … just for a second … to do a quick web search?”
“Um … maybe later, okay? Now, Gaetano is updating the web site. We are busy planning a big action—a solidarity march for Occupy London. They are evicted from St. Paul’s last night. But right now we are too few. We need more people to come. You will march with us, yes?”
“Um … sure.”
“You are American? Are you the visitor from Occupy Boston?”
“Um, no … I’ve actually never been to Boston.”
“Wall Street? Zuccotti Park?”
“Sorry, no. I’m actually from Florida.”
“Oh, interesting! I never met anyone from the southern Occupations.”
“Yeah, well. Neither have I.”
That last comment didn’t seem to register with her, thankfully. A girl wearing pink from head to toe got up from one of the laptops. A guy, also in pink, immediately took her place.
“Hey, would you mind if I had a crack at one of those? I would only need a minute.”
“Yes, but I am telling you, now is not a good time. Caterina and Bruno are trying to get the live feed working. But you could join our media committee. You would have more access this way.”
“Um … well …. “
“I am Angelica, by the way.”
“James.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Not really. Not yet.”
She wrinkled her nose at me. “Where have you been sleeping?
“Last night? Kind of … on the street.”
“Tonight you will be in a tent. Yes? And I think you could use a bath. Come with me.” She took me by the hand and led me over to a guy with long gray hair, all scraggly and thinning on top. They spoke to each other in Italian. He gave me a once-over with this grave but kindly look in his eyes and handed her a key.
“Come. We have a place for you to wash. And some clothes we can give you from people who donate.”
She marched across the piazza with long strides for someone so petite. We passed a group of folks all dressed in black who were congregating against a wall. Some wore bike helmets and fingerless gloves. One woman was soaking kerchiefs in a plastic basin filled with wine vinegar. One man carried a hand-painted sign bearing slashed A for anarchy over a slogan in Italian.
“These guys. Are they with you … or against you?”
“Good question,” said Angelica. “They are Black Bloc. Sometimes they are helpful. But usually they just make trouble. But we will not turn them away. Tomorrow we will need everybody we can get.”
“What’s the sign say?”
“Police attack. We
fight back. They come today, hoping for a mob so they can do some smashing.”
“So what do they like to … smash?”
“Banks, usually.”
“Really? Why?”
“Because the bank hurts the small people, stealing houses, giving bonus. I can sympathize but I don’t believe in the smashing. The public, they see only them and they turn against us.”
There was another guy in shades standing by himself, leaning against a scooter, watching everybody go by very carefully. I thought he might be a journalist or something, but he wasn’t taking any notes. He glanced at me, looked down at his phone and started following us. What the fuck?
Angelica led me down this very narrow alley and through a door that seemed much shorter and narrower than usual. It made me think of hobbits even though the door wasn’t round.
A dim and narrow stairwell led up one floor to an even dimmer and narrower hallway lined with apartments. Cardboard boxes were stacked along the wall. A group of people stood chatting outside an open door.
“Ah! You see, I don’t even need the key. Somebody is here.”
“Where are we?”
“Vincenzo’s apartment. He is sharing with the movement. Storage. Headquarters. Showers. I think you need, yes?”
“Oh, cool! That’d be nice.”
“Your shirt. What size?”
“Um … medium … I guess.”
She fished around the boxes and pulled out a purple T-shirt with a giant 99% printed in white.
“I am sorry, there are no pants. But we do have lots of these.” She handed me a couple pairs of white tube socks. “And here is a towel.”
She yelled into the apartment. Someone responded from the bathroom. The door burst open and a bearded guy bustled out, a towel wrapped around his waist.
“It is free for you. Go and wash and then, when you come back to the camp, we will find you something to eat, yes?”
“Gosh, thank you. This is awfully nice of you guys.”
“Now go and get clean! I am tired of people calling us the dirty hippies. Yes?”
