They depict Italy in worse condition than a Middle East war zone.
There is a discrepancy between the two media giants. The newspaper did not mention two items that the news on television proudly broadcast. One, supported by numerous tourists, was the hint of criminality in St. Peter’s Square: carnage of men, women and children. The other, rumored by a nun within the Vatican, proclaiming that Cardinal Pio’s ring finger had been cut off and his gaudy ring has been stuffed up his nose.
I speak softly.
“My God, what damage! If Italy can handle this surely I can manage Emily.”
I can be really naïve when I let my heart overpower my thinking. I know it.
Chapter 18
Tarquinia, central Italy Piazza Cavour
Like a bee diving in for the sting, a black Vespa scoots into the intersection, mounts the pavement and careens to a stop underneath the rustic, iron, three-lights lamppost on the edge of Piazza Cavour. The male driver and female rider squeal louder than any motorbike. The attention they crave comes swiftly. Pedestrians turn to look, as do I, sitting a mere four meters away from the finish line.
Certainly, the scooter is a mechanic’s prize. It looks pristine and has zip. The driver, dressed in Capri pants and an unbuttoned short-sleeve shirt, is striking. His chestnut hair matches his olive complexion. His muscular physique, from defined abdominals to bulging biceps to carved calves,
exudes athleticism. The passenger is my petulant wife.
Emily is indeed beauty in motion. Her black tights leave nothing to the imagination. Every curve and crevice of her taut legs, buttocks and groin are carved. Her blue athletic bra is more suitable for a strip tease than exercise. A spectator might wonder only what color of cutoff socks Emily wears inside her white and pink trimmed runners. She sparkles fashion, sexuality and backroom, casting couch aspirant.
The young man kisses Emily on both cheeks and waves her ciao Bella (a fond goodbye). Emily watches her companion vanish back into the town’s network of streets. She knows I am watching and lingers, wanting to implant the moment in my memory.
Unabashedly, Emily walks over. “Where are the kids?”
“In the museum across the street. I thought you were going for a walk.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“And, what?”
I look at the smirk on my wife’s play-acting face and respond with contained anger.
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’m going to see what the kids have learned.”
Unruffled, my wife turns and exits before I have the opportunity to elaborate on my statement. Four old men perched on a small bench next to the small pharmacy absorb the drama with despondency. Itossmynewspaperonthetable,decapitating
my cappuccino cup from its saucer. I march across the street toward the Museo Archelogico hoping some Vespa will run into me so I can punch the motorist senseless.
Chapter 19
Tarquinia, central Italy Piazza Cavour
Business is languid. That is understandable. Although it is ancient Tarquinia’s major hotel, mainly locals frequent the establishment. Tourists, like Renzo and Emily, staying at the San Marco are the exception, not the rule. They are conspicuous.
The waiter, taking shade and resting against the building, watches Renzo crossing the street magnetically opposite to his wife. He stands in street clothes except for the white apron dotted with stains around his waist. He waits for Emily to pass him and enter the bar before taking out his cell phone and speed dialing.
“Mamma Teresa, giuro, (I swear). The stranger in town…it’s him.”
The man, clutching his cellphone with calloused fingers, is like Mercury, the messenger of destiny. He possesses the power to perceive that what was once unswerving and straight will soon evolve and twist into imbalance like a sorcerer’s magic wand casting black magic in his wake.
“He looks like a young Paolo, one hundred and ten per cent! He has his father’s height and your facial features. He signed the hotel registry as Renzo Salvo. Giuseppe and Esterina Salvo were your neighbors when you lived on Via Roma. I saw his passport. He was born here in Tarquinia. He is his son...Call Canada? Ah yes, I will find out from Giuseppe and Esterina what he is doing here. I’ll call from the Stazione Ferroviaria di Tarquinia (railway station).”
The waiter, casting his apron on the back of a patio chair, steps lively down the road to the bottom of the hill headed for the concealment of the train station.
Chapter 20
Tarquinia, central Italy Museo Nazionale
The palace that houses the Tarquinia national museum belonged to notable families before transcending to the city and then the Italian state. Prestigious popes used it as a stopover. Within its walls resides a collection of Etruscan sarcophagi and priceless artifacts that celebrate the wonders of the Etruscans. I have read that many townsfolk believe that descendants of the Etruscan dead persist in a secret society emanating from within this center: a haunting underworld known only to privileged citizens.
As I stand under the frame of the museum’s gargantuan gate looking into the courtyard, I am engulfed by nostalgia. I have been inside here many
times as a youngster. The octagonal well in the center, the many ground floor and pointed portico archways; the mullioned windows as well as the Greek, Egyptian and Phoenician pieces were my sanctuary and playground as a youth.
Still awestruck after all these years, I walk through the tall, thick wood door. The palazzo is a masterpiece of Gothic-Renaissance architecture built between 1436 and 1439 for the Cardinal of Corneto. Corneto is the former name of Tarquinia, Tarquinii in antiquity. Benito Mussolini resurrected the ancient name in honor of the town’s ancient majesty.
I step forward to view the courtyard- centered mansion with three floors supported by magnificent columns. Plentiful porticoes grace the Renaissance-era palazzo. The structure emphasizes symmetry and proportion. There is a mathematical precision to the columns, pilasters and lintels. Every niche arouses interest and contemplation.
My son, Mark Anthony, who is tall and sturdy, towering over his sister, Christina, who is a lovely replica of her mother, including the take- it-or-leave-it attitude, are gazing at the trinkets in the small store at the far end of the courtyard equidistant from the well in the center of the square and the front entrance of the building. Their attention is engrossed on a sketch of two winged horses. A workwise, smartly groomed curator, who speaks remarkably flawless English, is providing an explanation—a metaphoric recital mixed with philosophy, spirituality and mythology.
“These horses are harnessed to a chariot.
One horse is white. The other is black. Together with the charioteer, they are a representation of life’s struggle. The white horse is the symbol of love, truth, modesty, temperance and courage. The black horse epitomizes insolence, pathology, egoism, and wickedness. The charioteer is the soul of this allegory. For every individual, family, city or country, the soul’s journey is a
