Americans -- Italy -- Fiction; Rome (Italy) -- Social life and customs -- 20th century -- Fiction; Upper class -- Fiction
When I arrived finally, the station was deserted; there was no coffee,
no wine, no moon, no ghosts. Just a drive through shadowy streets to the
sound of fountains, and the very special echo of travertine pavements.
During the first week Blair helped me find and fit out an apartment. It
consisted of five rooms in an old palace across the river and within
stone's-throw of the basilica of Santa Maria in Trastevere. The rooms
were high and damp and bad Eighteenth Century. The ceiling of the salone
was modestly coffered and there were bits of crumbling stucco in the
hall, still tinted with faint blues and pinks and gilt; every morning's
sweeping carried off a bit more of some cupid's curls or chips of scroll
and garland. In the kitchen there was a fresco of Jacob wrestling with
the angel, but the stove concealed it. We passed two days in choosing
chairs and tables, in loading them upon carts and personally conducting
them to our mean street; in haggling over great lengths of gray-blue
brocade before a dozen shops, always with a view toward variety in stains
and unravellings and creases; in selecting from among the brisk
imitations of ancient candelabra those which most successfully simulated
age and pure line.
The acquisition of Ottima was Blair's triumph. There was a trattoria at
the corner, a lazy casual talkative wine-shop, run by three sisters.
Blair studied them for a time, and finally proposed to the intelligent
middle-aged humorous one that she come and be my cook "for a few weeks."
Italians have a horror of making long-term contracts and it was this
last clause that won Ottima. We offered to take on any man she
recommended to help her with the heavier work, but she clouded at that
and replied that she could very well do the heavier work too. The
removal to my rooms must have arrived as a providential solution to some
problem in Ottima's life, for she attached herself passionately to her
work, to me, and to her companions in the kitchen, Kurt the police dog
and Messalina the cat. We each winked at the others' failings and we
created a home.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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