Afternoon -1968

The noontime Roman sun was already burning his back when Eric arrived at the address
he had been given. He was nervous and sweaty and still wondering why he had decided
to come. His eyes wandered up the dirty brown façade of the once yellow building to the
dirty iron windows flung open on the upper floor. The townhouse was bigger than he had
imagined. He wavered for a moment wondering what the man inside had in mind when
he invited him to lunch. Finally curiosity got the best of him and he took a deep breath
and gave the wrought iron bell chain a slight tug. Stepping back, he looked up at the
open windows again, half expected some fat cleaning lady to lean out and start bellowing
at him in Italian, to go away.

But instead, he heard the sound of a creaky door lock. Looking at the old wooden door
he quickly fixed a smile on his face. It whined on old hinges as it was pulled back just a
crack. The soft edge of a craggy, old man’s face peered suspiciously out from the dark
interior; his yellowing, brown eye darting up and down. Then the eye softened and
looked into his while a slightly predatory smile lifted his thin lips.

“Andomo! Andomo, Come! Come!” he cried loudly, pulling the creaking door open
wider and beckoning Eric into the house with series of short, sharp waves of his boney
hand.

“Graecize”, replied Eric, his voice harsh with dryness, as he stepped cautiously into the
dark, and much cooler interior. The old servant slammed the door shut behind him and
then took a moment to fuss with the ancient lock. Eric stood waiting and looking around.
It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness of this apparently
windowless room; a yellowed painting of a young nobleman slowly resolved on the far
wall. Then he heard the tapping sound of shoes moving hurriedly away from him. He
turned toward the sound and caught a glimpse of the old man’s white jacket and baldhead
as he turned into a doorway. Eric moved quickly to follow.

The older man turned abruptly to his left into yet another narrow hallway; a beam of
dusty light from a tiny window casting his shadow upon the frescoed wall. By the time
Eric caught up to him, the man was midway through pushing open a set of tall, dark
wood doors. Eric again was beckoned forward by frantic waves of the long boney hand.
Eric walked into a large, but sparsely furnished room.

The butler was around him in a flash standing behind the red damask couch that faced out
toward a bank of floor to ceiling windows, hung with gauzy white curtains. His
outstretched hand to indicating this is where Eric should sit.

Eric walked over to the sofa. “Graecize”, he smiled.

Unexpectedly, the man gripped his arm and leaned forward to help him sit down. He
stayed bent over for a moment too long gazing fondly into his eyes. Then he straightened
up, spun around and hurried away; his black boots clicking madly on the highly polished,
but buckling, wood parquet floor.

As soon as the man was gone, Eric craned his neck to look up at the ceiling. He loved
painted ceilings more than any other design feature found in Italian homes and buildings.
He was surprised and delighted to find this one was not the standard religious fare of
cumulus clouds and haloed saints, but a lush bucolic scene, resplendent with leaping
nymphs and grinning satyrs.

A subtle movement caught the corner of his eyes and he quickly looked back down to the
windows, embarrassed to be caught so obviously gawking. But it was only a soft breeze
lifting the filmy set of curtains. Eric glanced around to be certain he was still alone and
then went over and gingerly pushed one of the curtains aside.

Beyond the slightly opened window lay a small, walled garden of tumbling dark green
vines, pink-red roses, and golden nastursums. Centered upon the garden’s heart, was a
circular, aged-brick patio. Upon it, two chairs flanked a small, square table draped with
a snowy tablecloth that ruffled gently upon the errant breeze. The flask of ruby wine,
light golden loaves, and jug of olive oil gathered atop it glistened like jewels despite the
dappled shade of the neighboring olive tree.

A bird swept down from the trees gnarled branches to pick at the bread. Entranced, Eric
dared to push the window open a bit more, it groaned slightly. The bird squawked and
flapped away at the sound. He could smell the glory of roses now. He pushed the
window open a bit further.

The sound of splashing of water filled his ears. He smiled; wondering at is source. Until
he spotted, just beyond the olive tree, about halfway up the fern covered northern wall, a
faded ceramic lion’s head with a mossy trickle of water running down from its mouth into
a shell-shaped marble bowl.

He leaned out holding onto the window latch. He was feeling a bit giddy. This is so… so
amazingly Italian, he thought, the smile spreading across his face.

He heard a creak and turned back into the room. The owner of the house, the man who
had invited him, Alonzo, had entered through the pair of dark wood doors. He bowed
slightly to Eric and then came up and greeted him with a kiss on each cheek. His skin felt
oily and thin against Eric’s newly shaved cheeks. His breathe sweet with anise. Eric
tried to appear causal but his heart was pounding

“I am so glad you could come’” he said, in a slow, heavily accented English. He took
Eric’s chin in his strong hand and gently moved his face back and forth. “Much, much,
better. I am glad to see you took my advice. You have such a handsome, strong
American face. Why would you want to you cover it with such a messy beard?”

Eric blushed. He looked away feeling uncomfortable. He still wasn’t sure why this
sophisticated Roman gentleman had struck up a conversation with him two days before.
They had both been wandering through a veritable orchard of marble statues at one of the
Vatican museums when Alonzo had approached Eric and offered to guide him through the
assortment of Renaissance sculpture. For Eric, it had been a fascinating journey and as
the afternoon drew to an end, he invited the older man for a glass of wine. As they
parted ways he had offered Eric his card and invited him to lunch.

“Please, come out to the garden, Carlo has fixed us lunch.” Invited Alonzo, moving
toward the door and pushing it open with a slight bow.

Eric gave a sheepish smile and walked through the door feeling acutely self-conscious of
how disheveled he appeared next to this polished gentleman who was dressed impeccably
in dark tailored trousers and a cobalt blue silk shirt. Europeans were not as he had
expected.

Alonzo placed him in the chair that faced the tumbling roses and the splashing fountain.
The heat of the late spring day, under the dappled shade of an olive tree, was
intoxicatingly pleasant. Bees buzzed, birds sang, and the occasional butterfly floated
lazily by as their conversation drifted back and forth, touching lightly upon art,
philosophy, and each of their travels. The pasta was simple and wholesome, the wine
rich and mellow.

Carlo removed their plates and brought espressos and another bottle of wine. They bolted
their coffees and then leaned back sipping the rich wine. Their conversation drifted on
encompassing the state of the world and each of their favorite books while the bright heat
of mid-day mellowed slowly into the honeyed glow of late afternoon.

When the second bottle of wine was finally drunk, the erudite gentleman leaned across
the table and took Eric’s hand. Eric’s heart was pounding… here it comes. He started to
think of ways to extricate himself. Alonzo’s expressive brown eyes were moist as he told
Eric in his beautifully accented English how grateful he was to Eric’s father and all the
American soldiers who had come across the sea to fight and die to free them from that
most despicable tyrant, Mussolini.

He told him that he and all his countrymen would be eternally grateful in their hearts if
not always in their minds to the American people for not being like the Soviet Union and
turning Western Europe into a slave camp as had happened to the East. Eric, who was
caught up in his anti-Vietnam War fury was startled. It felt odd to be proud of his country
again. A few moments later Carlo came out and told the Alonzo he best retire for his nap
so he would be fresh for a reception that evening.

The gentleman sighed and rose. He took Eric’s arm and walked him to the door. He
thanked Eric for a delightful afternoon and kissed him on the cheeks again. Eric stepped
out on to the noisy street, the glow of that afternoon wrapped around him like a cloak,
warding off the loneliness he felt in this large and very foreign city.

Over the next two weeks that Eric stayed in Rome, he sometimes wandered past the
gentleman’s house, hoping to see him again. Once even, when loneliness made him bold,
he held the door chain as he looked up at the open windows on the second floor. But a
few moments later, embarrassed, he let it go and hurried away afraid of spoiling that
perfect afternoon.