away, offering a clubby male hug.
“Hullo, Chands,” Jonathan said.
When Jonathan was a graduate student at the Academy, Chandler Manning was the librarian. Chandler spoke with a vaguely British accent, with his jaw thrust forward. He was American, but from his many years abroad and facility with languages, he had abandoned his native inflection for a foreign air that would make few guess his childhood origins were a small mining town in northwestern Oregon.
“Ladies and gentlemen”—Chandler turned to the semicircle of people on his tour and spoke to them effortlessly in German—“this is an honor, really. The former Rome Prize winner who dazzled us all.”
They nodded enthusiastically, as if Jonathan were an unexpected monument not on their itinerary. One of the tourists took a picture of him.
“Seven years it’s been, Aurelius?” It was a Chandler affectation, nicknaming the world around him to make it instantly his own. Marcus Aurelius, Roman emperor A.D. 161-180. “I still remember you running around this Forum,” he said, leaning in with a close, nostalgic smile. “Could date the stones of this place to the year, couldn’t you?”
“That’s overstating things, Chands,” Jonathan said politely. “How are the ancient cults treating you these days?”
“Not ancient cults, Jon, it’s the modern ones I’ve been up to.” He handed Jonathan a card. It looked vaguely occult with green designs resembling crop circles. Jonathan glanced down at the card. It said, “Roman Kaballah: Eternal Knowledge in the Eternal City.”
“Need anything at all while you’re here, Aurelius, you call that number, or just show up. I’m around.”
Jonathan looked up from the card. “ Kaballah? You’re not serious, Chandler.”
Chandler shrugged. “Commercial mysticism and some entrepreneurial savvy go a long way these days. Bought some dead occultist’s library just off the Campo dei Fiori for a song. Place is just magic. Up to two lectures per evening. Even have a girl at the receptionist desk taking credit cards.”
Not that this surprised Jonathan. He remembered how Chandler could captivate entire tables of scholars over drinks at the local pub by the American Academy, the Thermopolium. Showing off his photographic memory for a pretty Italian bartender, he would combine codices by Benedictine monks with Egyptian astrology to produce a theory that the sphinx was really a representation of Saint Paul. It was nonsense, of course, but the only offensive part to Jonathan was how the party tricks masked Chandler’s remarkable ability to synthesize endless material spreading across centuries and recall details at a moment’s notice.
“Sounds like you’ve found your calling, Chandler.”
“And you?” Chandler leaned in rather close, his eyes wide open. He flashed a deadly serious face. “Your exit was the stuff of ancient myth.” Chandler stood back, as though to give space to the grandiosity of the statement. “Myth,” he repeated. “I mean, after the tragedy in the catacombs that night, it’s like there was damnatio memoriae about you,” he said, referring to ancient Rome’s political tradition of blotting out inscriptions and defacing statues to erase the memory of previous emperors. “Remember how the academy keeps portraits of former Rome Prize winners above that little wooden bar off the villa’s salon? Well, they even took yours down. Nerve, I tell you.”
“Listen, Chandler”—Jonathan’s eyes caught the long line for the Colosseum—“I’m in a terrible rush, but it’s good to see you. Really.”
Jonathan edged away, a tight-lipped smile, holding up Chandler’s card as though intending to use it.
Chandler moved his pointer in Jonathan’s direction, holding it like a tilted foil. “One more thing.”
He tapped Jonathan’s chest with his pointer, an air of playful menace. He turned to the members of the tour group, again in German. “Did I mention that Marcus here was not
“Hullo, Chands,” Jonathan said.
When Jonathan was a graduate student at the Academy, Chandler Manning was the librarian. Chandler spoke with a vaguely British accent, with his jaw thrust forward. He was American, but from his many years abroad and facility with languages, he had abandoned his native inflection for a foreign air that would make few guess his childhood origins were a small mining town in northwestern Oregon.
“Ladies and gentlemen”—Chandler turned to the semicircle of people on his tour and spoke to them effortlessly in German—“this is an honor, really. The former Rome Prize winner who dazzled us all.”
They nodded enthusiastically, as if Jonathan were an unexpected monument not on their itinerary. One of the tourists took a picture of him.
“Seven years it’s been, Aurelius?” It was a Chandler affectation, nicknaming the world around him to make it instantly his own. Marcus Aurelius, Roman emperor A.D. 161-180. “I still remember you running around this Forum,” he said, leaning in with a close, nostalgic smile. “Could date the stones of this place to the year, couldn’t you?”
“That’s overstating things, Chands,” Jonathan said politely. “How are the ancient cults treating you these days?”
“Not ancient cults, Jon, it’s the modern ones I’ve been up to.” He handed Jonathan a card. It looked vaguely occult with green designs resembling crop circles. Jonathan glanced down at the card. It said, “Roman Kaballah: Eternal Knowledge in the Eternal City.”
“Need anything at all while you’re here, Aurelius, you call that number, or just show up. I’m around.”
Jonathan looked up from the card. “ Kaballah? You’re not serious, Chandler.”
Chandler shrugged. “Commercial mysticism and some entrepreneurial savvy go a long way these days. Bought some dead occultist’s library just off the Campo dei Fiori for a song. Place is just magic. Up to two lectures per evening. Even have a girl at the receptionist desk taking credit cards.”
Not that this surprised Jonathan. He remembered how Chandler could captivate entire tables of scholars over drinks at the local pub by the American Academy, the Thermopolium. Showing off his photographic memory for a pretty Italian bartender, he would combine codices by Benedictine monks with Egyptian astrology to produce a theory that the sphinx was really a representation of Saint Paul. It was nonsense, of course, but the only offensive part to Jonathan was how the party tricks masked Chandler’s remarkable ability to synthesize endless material spreading across centuries and recall details at a moment’s notice.
“Sounds like you’ve found your calling, Chandler.”
“And you?” Chandler leaned in rather close, his eyes wide open. He flashed a deadly serious face. “Your exit was the stuff of ancient myth.” Chandler stood back, as though to give space to the grandiosity of the statement. “Myth,” he repeated. “I mean, after the tragedy in the catacombs that night, it’s like there was damnatio memoriae about you,” he said, referring to ancient Rome’s political tradition of blotting out inscriptions and defacing statues to erase the memory of previous emperors. “Remember how the academy keeps portraits of former Rome Prize winners above that little wooden bar off the villa’s salon? Well, they even took yours down. Nerve, I tell you.”
“Listen, Chandler”—Jonathan’s eyes caught the long line for the Colosseum—“I’m in a terrible rush, but it’s good to see you. Really.”
Jonathan edged away, a tight-lipped smile, holding up Chandler’s card as though intending to use it.
Chandler moved his pointer in Jonathan’s direction, holding it like a tilted foil. “One more thing.”
He tapped Jonathan’s chest with his pointer, an air of playful menace. He turned to the members of the tour group, again in German. “Did I mention that Marcus here was not
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