One week I tried to do everything right so I would not get a piece of gristle. I washed the station wagon and helped Grandma in the garden and brought in wood for the house fires, but all I got on Sunday was a little bit of gristle. So then I said, Grampa, I said, I don’t understand why you cook steak for us every Sunday if it makes you so unhappy. Mother knows how to cook and she could at least scramble some eggs and I know how to make sandwiches. I could make sandwiches. I mean if you want to cook for us that would be nice but it looks to me like you don’t and I think it would be nicer if instead of going through this torture chamber we just had some scrambled eggs in the kitchen. I mean I don’t see why if you ask people to have supper with you it should make you so irritable. Well, he put down his knife and his fork and I’ve seen his face get purple when the fat was burning, but I’ve never seen it get so purple as it did that night. You Goddamned weak-minded, parasitic ape, he shouted at me, and then he went into the house and upstairs to his bedroom, slamming about every door he passed, and my mother took me down into the garden and told me I had made an awful mistake, but I couldn’t see that I had done anything wrong. But in a little while I could hear my father and my grandfather yelling and swearing at one another and in the morning we went away and we never came back and when he died he left me one dollar.
It was the next year that my father died and I missed him. It is against everything I believe in and not even the kind of thing I am interested in, but I used to think that he would come back from the kingdom of the dead and give me help. I have the head and shoulders to do a man’s work, but sometimes I am disappointed in my maturity and my disappointment in myself is deepest when I get off a train at the end of the day in a city that isn’t my home like Florence with the tramontana blowing and no one in the square in front of the station who doesn’t have to be there because of that merciless wind. Then it seems that I am not like myself or the sum of what I have learned but that I am stripped of my emotional savings by the tramontana and the hour and the strangeness of the place and I do not know which way to turn except of course to turn away from the wind. It was like that when I went alone on the train to Florence and the tramontana was blowing and there was no one in the piazza. I was feeling lonely and then someone touched me on the shoulder and I thought it was my father come back from the kingdom of the dead and that we would all be happy together again and help one another. Who touched me was a ragged old man who was trying to sell me some souvenir key rings and when I saw the sores on his face I felt worse than ever and it seemed to me that there was a big hole torn in my life and that I was never going to get all the loving I needed and that autumn once in Rome I stayed late in school and was coming home on the trolley car and it was after seven and all the stores and offices were closing and everybody was going home and rushed and someone touched me on the shoulder and I thought it was my father come again from the kingdom of the dead. I didn’t even look around this time because it could have been anybody?a priest or a tart or an old man who had lost his balance?but I had the same feeling that we would all be happy together again and then I knew that I was never going to get all the loving I needed, no, never.
After my father passed away we gave up the trips to Nantucket and lived all the time in the Palazzo Orvieta. This is a beautiful and a somber building with a famous staircase, although the staircase is only lighted with ten-watt bulbs and is full of shadows in the evening. There is not always enough hot water and it is often drafty, for Rome is sometimes cold and rainy in the winter in spite of all the naked statues. It might make you angry to hear the men in the dark streets singing melodiously about the roses of eternal spring and the sunny Mediterranean skies. You could sing a song, I guess, about the cold trattorie and the cold churches, the cold wine shops and the cold bars, about the burst pipes and the backfired toilets and about how the city lies under the snow like an old man with a stroke and everybody coughing in the streets?even the archdukes and cardinals coughing?but it wouldn’t make much of a song. I go to the Sant’ Angelo di Padova International School for Catholics although I am not a Catholic and take Communion at St. Paul within the Gates every Sunday morning. In the wintertime there are usually only two of us in church, not counting the priest or canon, and the other is a man I don’t like to sit beside because he smells of Chinese Temple Incense although it has occurred to me that when I have not had a bath for three or four days because of the shortage of hot water in the palace he may not want to sit beside me. When the tourists come in March there are more people in church.
In the beginning most of my mother’s friends were Americans and she used to give a big American party at Christmas each year. There was champagne and cake and my mother’s friend Tibi would play the piano and they would all stand around the piano and sing “Silent Night” and “We Three Kings of Orient Are” and “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing” and other carols from home. I never liked these parties because all the divorcees used to cry. There are hundreds of American divorcees in Rome and they are all friends of my mother’s and after the second verse of “Silent Night” they would all begin to bawl, but once I was on the street on Christmas Eve, walking down the street in front of our palace, when the windows were open because it was warm or perhaps to let the smoke out from those high windows, and I heard all these people singing “Silent Night” in this foreign city with its ruins and its fountains and it gave me gooseflesh. My mother stopped giving this party when she got to know so many titled Italians. My mother likes the nobility and she doesn’t care what they look like. Sometimes the old Princess Tavola-Calda comes to our house for tea. She is either a dwarf or shrunk with age. Her clothes are thin and held together with darns and she always explains that her best clothes, the court dresses and so forth, are in a big trunk but that she has lost the key. She has chin whiskers and a mongrel dog named Zimba on a piece of clothesline. She comes to our house to fill up on tea cakes, but my mother doesn’t care because she is a real princess and has the blood of Caesars in her veins.
My mother’s best friend is an American writer named Tibi who lives in Rome. There are plenty of these but I don’t think they do much writing. Tibi is usually very tired. He wants to go to the opera in Naples but he is too tired to make the trip. Tibi wants to go to the country for a month and finish his novel but all you can get to eat in the country is roast lamb and roast lamb makes Tibi tired. Tibi has never seen the Castel Sant’ Angelo because just the thought of walking across the river makes Tibi tired. Tibi is always going here or going there but he never gets anywhere because he is so tired. At first you might think someone should put him into a cold shower or light a firecracker under his chair and then you realize that Tibi really is tired or that this tiredness gets him what he wants out of life such as my mother’s affections and that he lies around our palace with a purpose just as I expect to get what I want out of life by walking around the streets as if I had won a prize fight or a tennis match.
That autumn we were planning to drive down to Naples with Tibi and say goodbye to some friends who were sailing for home, but Tibi came around to the palace that morning and said he was too tired to make the trip. My mother doesn’t like to go anywhere without Tibi and first she was gentle with him and said we would all go down together on the train but Tibi was too tired even for this. Then they went into another room and I could hear my mother’s voice and when she came out I could see she had been crying and she and I went down to Naples alone on the train. We were going to stay two nights there with an old marquesa and see the ship off and go to the opera at San Carlo. We went down that day and the sailing was the next morning, and we said goodbye and watched the lines fall into the water as the ship began to move.
By now the harbor of Naples must be full of tears, so many are wept there whenever a boat pulls out with its load of emigrants, and I wondered what it would feel like to go away once more because you hear so much talk about loving Italy among my mother’s friends that you might think the peninsula was shaped more like a naked woman than a boot. Would I miss it, I wondered, or would it all slip away like a house of cards, would it all slip away and be forgotten? Beside me on the wharf was an old Italian lady in black clothes who kept calling across the water, “Blessed are you, blessed are you, you will see the New World,” but the man she was shouting to, he was an old, old man, was crying like a baby.
