for the most part. I lived alone. Kept to myself. Took pictures. Bought an iron. I collected pieces of broken glass wherever I could find it – frame shops and the like. The Romans were generous, friendly, bemused by me. When they found out I was an artist, they fed me, saved broken pieces of glass for me, and offered advice on everything from love to where I should go for the best Cappuccino. This became my one extravagance. I even kept a photo diary of the intricate little drawings they made at different Cappuccino places. Each cappuccino artist had a signature design to top off the milky coffee.
I wrote long letters to my music man. He wrote short ones back. I was happy with the way my work was going. He was playing music and fighting with club owners to get paid. He missed me. I missed him. But I was a world away. And it was another world.
One day as I waited for my Cappuccino at a small table at a café called Rosati, a young man sitting at a nearby table said, “Excuse me, are you American?”
He was medium tall, with curly light brown hair and about three days growth of beard that set off his blue eyes. His smile, glittering, even white teeth against tanned skin, radiated like a movie marquee.
He picked up his espresso and moved over to my table. I didn’t know it yet but my photo-taking, glass-collecting adventure was about to take a detour.
Although his English was nearly perfect, he had a slight accent. Origin impossible to identify. He had grown up in Corsica cared for by a grandmother while his parents – one Corsican, one French – worked the photography concessions on various cruise ships plying the Mediterranean. Like most Europeans, he spoke a number of languages, including Italian.
“My American friends call me Pete,” he told me. “But my grandma calls me by my Corsican name, Petru.”
Once he had shaved, I swore he could have been the model for the Eros statue at the Museo Capitolino. Only a few years older than me, he looked innocent, almost pure I thought.
I never found out what Petru’s life plan was, but at the time he was acting as the “official” photographer for a theatre troupe that was ensconced at the Palazzo D’something or other, owned by the Marquessa D’something or other, up in the hills about twenty minutes outside Rome. Since Rome is nothing but hills, this did not exactly pinpoint the villa’s location. Not to worry, he would take me up there to see it for myself. On his classic Lambretta, circa 1957, a gift from the Marquessa to one of the troupe’s directors who had passed it along to Petru. The better to run errands on.
Two weeks and many late afternoon cappuccinos and espressos later, I climbed onto the seat behind Petru and hung on while he tooled around Rome, zipping between cars and circling around Piazza della This and Piazza della That until we began the ascent to the Palazzo itself.
I must say, having a title – whether real or manufactured – in Italy had its advantages. Although the Marquessa was not in residence during my brief visit, I did have the chance to see the splendor the other one millionth was enjoying. Not to mention the hundred-some-odd theatrical types who were feasting and lolling about like a troupe of monkeys in Roman Nirvana. Beautiful young people, intense looking veterans of the stage, and the hangers on, an odd mixture of sycophants, aspirants, and one English quasi journalist who was chronicling the feats of the troupe as it performed its way through Europe. It appeared to me that their wanderings had come to a screeching halt here at the palazzo. There was an ancient amphitheater in the round a few hundred yards below the palazzo gardens and Petru explained that the Marquessa had rented the old stone pit for the entire summer’s scheduled weekly performances.
Petru introduced me to the troupe’s director, named Eduardo or Eduard. I never did get it right.
“Ah,” he said with a flourish, “so you are the little American
I wrote long letters to my music man. He wrote short ones back. I was happy with the way my work was going. He was playing music and fighting with club owners to get paid. He missed me. I missed him. But I was a world away. And it was another world.
One day as I waited for my Cappuccino at a small table at a café called Rosati, a young man sitting at a nearby table said, “Excuse me, are you American?”
He was medium tall, with curly light brown hair and about three days growth of beard that set off his blue eyes. His smile, glittering, even white teeth against tanned skin, radiated like a movie marquee.
He picked up his espresso and moved over to my table. I didn’t know it yet but my photo-taking, glass-collecting adventure was about to take a detour.
Although his English was nearly perfect, he had a slight accent. Origin impossible to identify. He had grown up in Corsica cared for by a grandmother while his parents – one Corsican, one French – worked the photography concessions on various cruise ships plying the Mediterranean. Like most Europeans, he spoke a number of languages, including Italian.
“My American friends call me Pete,” he told me. “But my grandma calls me by my Corsican name, Petru.”
Once he had shaved, I swore he could have been the model for the Eros statue at the Museo Capitolino. Only a few years older than me, he looked innocent, almost pure I thought.
I never found out what Petru’s life plan was, but at the time he was acting as the “official” photographer for a theatre troupe that was ensconced at the Palazzo D’something or other, owned by the Marquessa D’something or other, up in the hills about twenty minutes outside Rome. Since Rome is nothing but hills, this did not exactly pinpoint the villa’s location. Not to worry, he would take me up there to see it for myself. On his classic Lambretta, circa 1957, a gift from the Marquessa to one of the troupe’s directors who had passed it along to Petru. The better to run errands on.
Two weeks and many late afternoon cappuccinos and espressos later, I climbed onto the seat behind Petru and hung on while he tooled around Rome, zipping between cars and circling around Piazza della This and Piazza della That until we began the ascent to the Palazzo itself.
I must say, having a title – whether real or manufactured – in Italy had its advantages. Although the Marquessa was not in residence during my brief visit, I did have the chance to see the splendor the other one millionth was enjoying. Not to mention the hundred-some-odd theatrical types who were feasting and lolling about like a troupe of monkeys in Roman Nirvana. Beautiful young people, intense looking veterans of the stage, and the hangers on, an odd mixture of sycophants, aspirants, and one English quasi journalist who was chronicling the feats of the troupe as it performed its way through Europe. It appeared to me that their wanderings had come to a screeching halt here at the palazzo. There was an ancient amphitheater in the round a few hundred yards below the palazzo gardens and Petru explained that the Marquessa had rented the old stone pit for the entire summer’s scheduled weekly performances.
Petru introduced me to the troupe’s director, named Eduardo or Eduard. I never did get it right.
“Ah,” he said with a flourish, “so you are the little American
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