Rodin's Debutante

by Ward Just

  We managed to wrestle our luggage up the treacherous staircase but when we reached the room we were enchanted. It was very large with a high ceiling and a window that looked out on a tiny piazza. A bottle of Prosecco was chilling in a bucket. I opened the window to give us air and also to listen to the rain drumming on the flagstones of the piazza. In its utter privacy and strangeness, its breadth and height, its atmosphere of twilight, its great age and sense of occasion, the room was erotic. Laura felt it too. From one of the windows above the piazza we heard a burst of song and someone laughing. I poured two glasses of Prosecco and we undressed and sat on the windowsill and watched the rain fall and collect into puddles on the flagstones below. We were alone on our honeymoon in a place unspeakably exotic, remote as the farthest star in the heavens. We knew no one here and no one knew us. Laura and I tumbled into bed and did not leave the room for twenty-four hours, ordering dinner in that night and lunch the next day, the desk woman remarking each time how pleased she was that we liked our room; and we were not the first. There was no good reason to leave it, at least not until the afternoon, when the rain ceased and the sun arrived and we thought we owed it to ourselves to see a church or a palace. Debt paid, we found an open-air restaurant near the Piazza Dante and dined wonderfully on fish and two bottles of Prosecco. The stone horseman across the street from the restaurant was pockmarked from bullets and shrapnel from Allied bombing, all of it vividly described by the woman at the hotel. The Italian campaign, she said sourly, graveyard of the reputations of American generals. Our graveyard also, she went on, including her own niece and nephew, killed when bombs fell on their apartment. Naples was badly wounded in the Italian campaign, a useless enterprise, but war in general was a useless enterprise, would we not agree? When she asked us where we were from in America, and we said Chicago, she laughed and imitated a hoodlum firing a machine gun; Chicago's lurid reputation always preceded us. I remembered the war games I had played as a boy, never for a moment thinking of the Italian campaign or a pockmarked horseman or dead nieces or nephews.

  The next day we went in search of Vico's birthplace but never found it, waylaid as we were by two churches and a long lunch followed by a visit to the archaeological museum. Laura said she didn't care about our Vico failure. Vico seemed far away, even from Naples. Vico could wait until our next visit. The following day we departed for Rome on an ancient train that arrived exactly on schedule. We shared a compartment with two priests who chatted merrily for the entire journey, laughing frequently and rolling their eyes. I was convinced they were talking about girls, but of course that was most unlikely.

  Ten days later we found ourselves in Florence, Laura down with a nasty summer cold. She waved her hand feebly: Go away. See the sights. Report back. I wandered across the river to look at the Boboli Gardens, then strolled back again to the Piazza del Duomo. Everywhere I went I scrutinized the statuary and the interiors of churches, thinking they might give me an idea for a fresh project when I returned to my studio in Hyde Park. I photographed constantly with my Kodak but tried to keep what I saw in my memory too. I was trying to retain all of Italy and failing badly, the nation concealed behind the hedges of an unfamiliar language and an ambiance that was at once approachable and enigmatic, not unlike my marbles.

  I found a shapely square with a café and stopped for a Prosecco and a double espresso. The hotel was close by and I wished Laura were with me. I liked listening to Italian voices all around me, understanding little but the enthusiasm of their speech. The day was bright, a Wednesday, three in the afternoon. The square was crowded and I wondered if anyone actually worked in Italy besides cooks and waiters. Bus drivers. The policeman directing traffic and the tobacco vendors. Many of the shops round and about were chiuso. I lit a cigarette and sat back with my Prosecco, quite content in idleness and anonymity. Across the square was a very old building that looked to contain apartments, its windows as blank as the entrances to caves. I looked at it a long time, a building six stories high, chimney pots at the top. It seemed to have the dimensions of a perfect square, of wooden construction. The door looked heavy enough to withstand a battering ram. No one was visible at the windows. The interior appeared to be as still as the square was lively, its stern face signaling a seigneurial disapproval. The people at the tables took no notice. The apartment building had been there for centuries and, I reckoned, had become more or less invisible, as invisible as I was, a lone American on his first voyage abroad attempting and mostly succeeding in becoming one with the surroundings. Not speaking the language was an advantage because I had no desire for conversation.

  Then I felt a hand on my arm, the girl at the next table asking me in English if I could spare a cigarette for her and her friend. I passed them two cigarettes and a box of matches and when she said grazie and asked if I was American, and I said yes, the Canadian portion. She lost interest and after a brief smile returned to her tête-à-tête. I did notice her eyes blink when she saw my scar, but it may have been the mime, bone-white face and red stocking cap, moving among the tables and stopping every few moments to strike a pose. He carried a cup for the coins anyone wished to give him. I returned to my contemplation of the apartment building, thinking that Canadians were luckier than they knew. Now I had the idea that the apartment building was in fact a private house, a palace no less, and I guessed the family fortune had disappeared many years before. Probably it had not survived the first war. The building was in need of serious repair, the slatted shutters of the windows on the upper floors hanging drunkenly. I imagined the rooms crowded with artworks and every few years one would be put up for auction, here a Titian, there a Tintoretto, the proceeds from the auction allowing the family to maintain itself from one decade to the next. A daughter might marry an American millionaire and the millionaire would carry them for a while until he got tired of it or tired of the daughter or she with him. I made two photographs with my Kodak and ordered another Prosecco and meantime sipped my coffee.

  My neighbors at the next table departed with an amiable ciao. The girl and her friend floated through the tables in a stride so languid and unforced that they reminded me of cats, and at the last moment they executed a little sidestep to elude the mime, whose arm had suddenly barred their way. America had never seemed so far away, Hyde Park as remote as Ultima Thule, New Jesper the far side of the moon. I had difficulty recollecting the American ambiance, not that I was trying very hard. I thought of myself witnessing an avant-garde theater production where the audience was part of the show. All this was soon to disappear: our boat was due to sail in three days. Laura was already fretting about the freshman class she was teaching, her syllabus now in the hands of Professor Altschuler. They would teach the class together and that gave Laura the jitters. I grew drowsy in the bright sunlight. The door of the palace across the street opened to reveal a nun in full habit, looking cautiously around the square, locking the door with an enormous key and scuttling off, but not before she had glanced at the red-hatted mime standing statue-still a few feet away. It occurred to me that I had never seen a nun on the streets of Hyde Park, nor a mime. And then I heard a low laugh and a soft voice.

  I knew I would find you here, Laura said.

  I kissed her and said she looked better.

  Am better, she said. And I'm tired of staying in my room.

  The waiter arrived with my Prosecco. I gave it to Laura and asked the waiter for one more and two espressos. We sat a moment in affectionate silence and then I explained my speculations concerning the palace that I had first identified as an apartment house and turned out to be a nunnery. Unless I was mistaken once again. I pointed out the mime, who now appeared to be imitating the Statue of Liberty. Laura extracted a handkerchief from her purse and blew her nose. She said, I'm ready to go now.

  You haven't touched your drink. And I have one on the way.

  No, she said. I mean, I'm ready to go home to Hyde Park. I wish we were leaving tonight. I've had a wonderful time in Italy with you. But I've s
een enough. I can't look at unfamiliar things anymore, the churches, the galleries. I'm tired of being among strangers. Don't you miss it? Our apartment, your studio. The grit and bang of Chicago? That's where we belong. Italy is an interlude.

  Well, yes, I said.

  We've had a great time but it's over now. Don't you agree?

  I did not reply right away. I supposed I did agree but I wasn't sure. I had been an observer my whole life and there was plenty to look at in sunny Italy. I liked the idea of a nation in decline for two thousand years and not caring. I liked the idea of the mime and the nun. But Italy wasn't going anywhere. It would be here tomorrow and the next day and the day after.

  I said, We could take the night train to Naples and stay at our old hotel. God knows there are plenty of unoccupied rooms. Maybe we could get our old one back. I looked up as the waiter deposited my Prosecco and two espressos. I asked for the check.

  That was quick, she said. We clinked glasses and Laura took a long swallow.

  She said, Are you sure you want to?

  I didn't think I did. But I do now.

  You don't mind changing plans?

  They're our plans, I said, and we can change them if we want to.

  I'd like to spend our last days in Naples. Naples is familiar.

  It surely is, I said. And we can take an afternoon in Pompeii.

  THIS WAS A PATTERN that would repeat itself habitually during our long life together. It didn't matter if we were staying somewhere for a week or a month; two or three days before we were due to depart we had had enough and began to yearn for home, meaning Hyde Park. This happened in Paris and Athens and St. Petersburg and Vienna and Bucharest and Los Angeles and, much later, in China. China seemed much larger and more populous than any nation had a right to be. The journey was exhausting. In Xi'an, looking at the terracotta warriors, Laura assigned each of them the name of a faculty member at the university. She got to fifty or so before she ran out of names. That was the signal that we were done in Xi'an, done with China, done with unfamiliar food and strangers swarming wherever we looked. China was fabulous but the true pulse of life eluded us. At any event, we were always happy leaving Chicago and even happier returning.

  LAURA AND LEE arrived at their apartment in Hyde Park late on a sultry August afternoon. Laura ran off at once to visit her parents and tell them about Italy and the stormy voyages to and fro. Lee stowed their luggage in the bedroom and took a stroll in the neighborhood to stretch his legs. The day was sweltering, the temperature near one hundred degrees. He walked through empty streets to the dangerous neighborhood to assure himself that his studio was as he left it, and, aside from a family of mice in the closet, it was. He wondered about the empty streets and realized that of course everyone was at the lakefront. When he walked back to the apartment he thought to stop in at the liquor store to buy a bottle of Prosecco, a souvenir for Laura. The manager had none. He had never had a call for Prosecco. Italian, isn't it? Lee bought a bottle of scotch instead and returned to the apartment mildly let down. He wished he had bought a bottle of gin and some Schweppes and a fresh lime. The day was too warm for whiskey.

  He made a drink and called his parents, retailing adventures in Italy, Naples and Rome and Florence. The museums, the galleries, the hotels, the food, the scenery. Lee said he had acquired a new outlook on things but what that outlook was he could not precisely say. Italians had a different way of life. Industriousness did not seem to play any part in it. But they were a cheerful and voluble people and had suffered greatly during the war. Alas, he and Laura had not seen any communist demonstrations and, truth to tell, revolution did not seem to be in the air. What was in the air? his father asked. Ardor, Lee said after a moment's pause. He had shot six rolls of photographs and when he had them developed he would send a few along, give you an idea of the look of things. Lee attempted to describe the encounter between the nun and the mime but the story did not hang together. I guess you had to have been there, he said at last. But aren't you happy to be home? his mother asked. Oh, yes, Lee said, Laura missed Hyde Park terribly. His mother rang off then. She had something on the stove. Please come see us as soon as you can, she said, and Lee replied that they would.

  I'm glad you had a good time, his father said.

  Is everything all right? Lee said. You sound subdued.

  Remember last summer, Magda Serra and her mother were in New Jesper. They came to see me, not a productive conversation as I recall. Well, Magda's back. She insists on speaking to you and left a number.

  She does?

  She does. I'm afraid she was a little bit suspicious when I said you were about to leave on your honeymoon. She seemed to think I was keeping you from her. I said you would call her as soon as you got back and I gave her the date. I told her you went to Italy. I admit I was rushed, she called me in chambers while I was reading a difficult brief. I must say I did not care for her manner. She was curt. So it would be good if you called her right away. Will you do that?

  Of course, Lee said.

  I think she wants to talk about her life, his father said.

  MAGDA AND LEE agreed to meet at a restaurant on the harbor at New Jesper, a family-owned place that specialized in whitefish and lake perch. Magda's voice sounded thin on the telephone, watery, certainly not curt. Lee came up from Chicago on the train and walked the six blocks to the restaurant, Carl's Seafood, fishnets and creels hanging on the interior walls, and beyond the windows one ancient scow from Carl's fleet tied up at the pier. The bar was noisy with lawyers from the courthouse but the dining room was not crowded. Magda was seated alone at a table in the corner of the room and looked up when Lee approached. She was dressed in a white shirt and blue skirt, a scarab necklace at her throat, as if she were meeting a prospective employer. Magda's hair was freshly done.

  Oh, Lee, she said. He took both her hands in his and they embraced awkwardly. Thanks so much for coming. She smiled tentatively and Lee saw few reminders of her childhood self. She had been heavy but now she was as his father had said, slender and self-possessed where she had been self-conscious, always eager to please. Magda had been a girl from the wrong side of the tracks and knew it and wanted somehow to make amends. He tried to remember the name of the boy she went to the movies with, the lawyer's son, but could not. He did remember his eyeglasses and clownishness and her apple cheeks and high giggle, but there was no sign of them now. Lee was uncomfortably aware that he knew much more of Magda Serra's life than she knew of his and that put her at a disadvantage. When she asked him about his honeymoon he told her about Laura, how they met, her attachment to Hyde Park and the university, her father's work as a professor of economics, her mother's career in law. Laura was on track to become a professor of philosophy. Magda listened quietly, asking no questions. Lee knew he had gone too far in one direction and not far enough in another, speaking to her as if reciting an entry from Who's Who. He lamely described his studio and the work he did there, his marbles.

  She said, Where did you get the scar?

  A rumble, he said. My studio is in a dangerous neighborhood.

  No, really, she said. I want to know.

  I stepped outside to have a smoke and two boys jumped me.

  What happened to them?

  You know Chicago. It was a crime filed and forgotten.

  They went free?

  They were never caught. They went away, came back, and that was that. Lee opened his mouth to tell her about the clinic and Topper but decided against it. Magda looked at him most intently and seemed disappointed when he said nothing further. Lee had always been reticent, with a manner older than his years. He was friendly but there was always something withheld. Also, he was part of the system and she wasn't. He'd said to her, You know Chicago. But she didn't know Chicago. She had been to Chicago only once, years before, when she was a little girl. Her mother took her to see the Christmas windows of Field's and Carson Pirie Scott, brilliantly decorated in red and green and white, all manner of gifts in the window
s. They did not go into the stores. They had lunch at a cafeteria in the Loop and went to a movie and then they went home. Magda remembered the sidewalks crowded with beautifully dressed women carrying festive packages from the department stores.

  Their whitefish arrived, french fries and coleslaw on the side, iced tea in frosted glasses.

  And you, Magda. You've come back to New Jesper.

  I had to, she said.

  I don't understand, Lee said.

  I'm not sure I do myself, said Magda. There's so much I don't understand. That awful day and everything that followed. I am here but I feel I am looking at a blackboard where everything is written in a foreign language. I can read nothing on it. Nothing is familiar. I'm sure you have no idea what I am talking about. She smiled and said, You were always so nice to me, Lee. Do you remember helping me with my math?