only make it until about 2pm before I have to rush home and make myself some pasta. I march myself quickly past the aforementioned trattorie, as I know there will not be a vacancy at this hour and if there was I would not leave them without having had three courses of delicious traditional Roman home cooking. After being a resident in this suburb for twelve years I have no more leeway when it comes to my waistline and I have to keep myself in shape for my love.
And so today I saunter home. But where is this idyllic spot? I’m not going to tell you. I don’t want anyone coming here, unless they are invited by me and then the second rule of Fight Club applies. Suffice to say that if you stop and pay attention the city will – slowly – reveal its more subtle delights. But only if you show it true homage, only if you woo it properly, demonstrating your commitment and dedication, just like in any relationship.
I should explain at this point that rather than being in a monogamous relationship as I was when I first lived in Rome, I have now been in a committed threesome for about ten years. My husband, who had separately fallen in love with Rome and who was also dating her, seemed like a perfect candidate when our first few hundred dates consisted of just walking around the city together.
Chapter 3
Francesca and Rita
Francesca and Rita are our neighbours. Were our neighbours. Today is a sad day, as it is the first day without them. They moved out yesterday, after renting here for fifty years. It is the end of an era and everyone in the whole apartment block is sad.
Francesca moved here with her parents when she was nine. Her playmates are still mostly living here too. Their parents all knew each other, and she and her playmates stayed here even after they were married, with their husbands and wives. They had their own children, who are now also friends.
Antonio and Gianni played together as small boys. Antonio still lives in the same apartment underneath us and has lived to see Gianni marry Antonella, who became Francesca’s best friend. Marianna’s mother and Francesca’s mother were best friends when Marianna and Francesca were children. Marianna helped Francesca nurse her dying husband, who introduced Marianna to hers.
We live in a tightly knit neighbourhood. It is unwise to get annoyed at anyone, as they are usually related to someone you know quite well or depend on: the pharmacist, the mechanic, the owner of the local trattoria (Antonio’s brother owns ours). Many people live within walking distance of where they grew up and where their extended family lives. The inhabitants of this suburb are polite to, though a little wary of, outsiders. They are fiercely proud and protective of their suburb, and find it a little unusual that anyone would voluntarily come to live here. For generations the traffic has been going the other way.
It probably explains why I get stared at a lot. If I lived in one of the suburbs that are popular with foreigners I wouldn’t get a sideways glance, but here people have the look of ‘but why would you choose to live here, with us?!’ It explains partly why, when your neighbours do get to know you, they embrace you with the fierceness of a mother about to be separated from her firstborn. In fact, you can’t get away from them ever again.
We have a well-kept, shady garden area as part of the apartment complex we live in. Our apartment complex is not public housing but was built for employees of the post office just up the road. Marianna is one of the only post office employees that still lives here. The communal area consists of a rather large space surrounded by trees and grass, shaped by hedges and containing three separate sitting areas, complete with benches. It is astounding to have this kind of facility in Rome. Most apartment blocks are built one right up against the other, with barely a wall between them. The last one I lived in I didn’t need an alarm clock – the man on the other side of the wall had one and it always went off at the time I needed to get up.
I was overjoyed when I first saw the garden. I imagined myself sitting there at any time of the day, relaxing in my own bit of green space. But the reality is I go there stealthily. First I scout from my balcony to see if anyone is sitting in it, then I run there as quickly as possible to avoid being spotted by anyone else. I sit in the part farthest away from the buildings and bury my head in a book, scowl or close my eyes and chant if anyone comes close.
This amount of preparation and strategic planning is necessary. I discovered early on that sitting there by myself was a beacon for anyone else in the apartment block to come down and join me. Apparently, what I am communicating by sitting by myself in the garden is, ‘Help! I am lonely and would like some company, please come and talk to me.’
Francesca often watched me when I was in the garden, waving and smoking from her balcony. She folds boxes for a living and is also a sarta (dressmaker). The boxes are the staple part of her income in a country where there are no unemployment benefits or pensions for widows. Her husband knew the man she folds boxes for. Out of charity, the work was passed on to her after her husband’s death. She is a woman who always manages to look elegant, from her fingernails to her hair. She has a rasping cough, never walks anywhere and has laughter always on her lips. She is a chain-smoker, so there is always a cigarette on her lips as well. The entire house smells of smoke. She is always at home, as is her twenty-five year old daughter, Rita. Rita is tiny, like most Italian women at that age, and could pass for fifteen. She is beautiful and has the dark features of her Arabic father.
As I often worked from home, Francesca was always coaxing me over for a coffee or a chat. It was a welcome relief for me, from a day spent concentrating in front of a computer. Nothing much happened in their lives from one day to the next, or in mine, so our conversations went like this:
Francesca: Well then, what have you got to tell me?
Me: Well, nothing much.
Francesca: Is everything okay?
Me: Yes. Is everything okay with you?
Francesca: Yes. Well that’s good then. It is better that way. What more can one ask for?
Smoke, smoke, sip, sip.
Francesca: Yesterday I ate [name of dish] for dinner.
Me: Did you? I had [name of dish].
Francesca: Yes, I cooked it in [method of cooking] way.
Me: Well I always cook it in [method of cooking] way. How was it done in [your method of cooking] way?
Francesca: Well, you know, okay I suppose. It was missing [ingredient]. Next time I will put in more [ingredient].
Me: Ah yes, [ingredient] is often missing. Apart from that is everything okay?
Francesca: Yes. With you?
Me: Yes.
Francesca: Well we can’t ask for more then, can we?
Smoke, smoke.
Francesca: More coffee?
What first attracted me to Francesca was that she would often ring my doorbell wearing only her pyjamas. At midday. I would usually still be wearing mine, and the relief to find someone else that not only thought that was okay, but that it was okay to go calling in them, was enormous. Sometimes Rita would poke her head out of their door and she would be wearing only her pyjamas too. Sometimes we would spend quite a bit of time chatting together from our doorways, drinking coffee, in our pyjamas. Francesca would always invite me in, but I refused to cross the threshold of my house wearing only my pyjamas. I find it hard enough to get dressed some days as it is. This never stopped Francesca though, or Rita, who would
