what about the children of the poor …”
“Miranda, you just can’t be talking this way right now, not in this place, not on a day like today. Just save it, I promise we can talk about the poor another time. Right now, I’d like to buy you an ice cream. Fix your mind here. Choose now: three flavors.”
She sees that she has made a mistake. When they were young, he might have loved her for worrying about the poor in the midst of what seemed to be a great party: the sound of the water, the delights of harmonious space, the coming and going of all these people and the great fixed stone gods. But now, she knows, she seems ridiculous to him, pretentious, even boorish. She seems that way to herself, although she knows that everything she’s said is right.
“I will choose hazelnut, coffee, pistachio, and give up thinking about the impossible poor, the miserable dead.” She is trying to make a joke of her seriousness, because she can see that it is laughable, really, particularly here. Yet she means everything she said. But she knows she must pretend not to mean it. She must pretend to think herself absurd, to believe that nothing is more important than the best possible choice of ice cream. Or else she will be one of those unbearable people, one of those people no one wants to be with. And she wants him to want to be with her.
“For now,” he says, putting his hand on her shoulder. It’s the first time he’s allowed himself to touch her, and they both understand that something has changed and that they must not acknowledge that it has.
“Tomorrow,” he says, “we’ll only be able to take a short walk. And we’ll have to meet early. Lucy and I are going to see my cousins in Orvieto.”
“Yes,” she says. “How nice.” She’s relieved. He has a life in Rome apart from her, and she is glad to take her place among the things in his life that are unimportant, provisional, able to be let go. At the same time, a small wet patch forms below her ribs, coldish, thickish: she will be more alone tomorrow than he will. He will have his daughter, his cousins. She wonders if any of his aunts and uncles are still alive. She thinks of them and the long Sunday meals she was once invited to be a part of. Tomorrow, when he’s surrounded by loving, familiar people, she’ll be on her own.
Sunday, October 14
VILLA BORGHESE
“Certain Kinds of Weather Once Enchanted Us”
They walk up the Viale Magnolia; it pleases her that a road should be named for a tree. The park is empty, except for focused dog walkers. Serious runners.
“This is new,” he says, “Italians running. A few years ago, if you saw someone running here, you knew they were American.”
“How do you know they’re Italian?”
“Only Italians would be that carefully dressed and coiffed even for a run.”
She likes that he notices what people wear; it’s something Yonatan would never do. It makes Adam seem more feminine, safer.
He looks at his watch. “I’m afraid we only have time for a short walk, before Lucy wakes up. Before I wake her. If I don’t, she’ll sleep and sleep. She might not wake till the sun is down.”
“Don’t you remember, Adam. Those adolescent sleeps. So deep. They were like heaven.”
“It’s hard to call back that kind of memory. For so many years now, I’ve woken up at dawn.”
She pulls her jacket closer to her. “The weather has changed overnight. The atmosphere is different.”
“The whole question of weather is different here. A different kind of question. Less frightening. Perhaps, also, less exhilarating. I do remember, about being younger, that some weathers used to make me feel exhilarated and other kinds made me feel quite frightened.”
“Yes, that irrecoverable fall of darkness, like a knife blade. Just at this time of year: October. You just wanted to beg for it: a few more minutes of life outdoors, a bit more light, that precious sense of coldness, because soon you’d be called in, into warmth,
“Miranda, you just can’t be talking this way right now, not in this place, not on a day like today. Just save it, I promise we can talk about the poor another time. Right now, I’d like to buy you an ice cream. Fix your mind here. Choose now: three flavors.”
She sees that she has made a mistake. When they were young, he might have loved her for worrying about the poor in the midst of what seemed to be a great party: the sound of the water, the delights of harmonious space, the coming and going of all these people and the great fixed stone gods. But now, she knows, she seems ridiculous to him, pretentious, even boorish. She seems that way to herself, although she knows that everything she’s said is right.
“I will choose hazelnut, coffee, pistachio, and give up thinking about the impossible poor, the miserable dead.” She is trying to make a joke of her seriousness, because she can see that it is laughable, really, particularly here. Yet she means everything she said. But she knows she must pretend not to mean it. She must pretend to think herself absurd, to believe that nothing is more important than the best possible choice of ice cream. Or else she will be one of those unbearable people, one of those people no one wants to be with. And she wants him to want to be with her.
“For now,” he says, putting his hand on her shoulder. It’s the first time he’s allowed himself to touch her, and they both understand that something has changed and that they must not acknowledge that it has.
“Tomorrow,” he says, “we’ll only be able to take a short walk. And we’ll have to meet early. Lucy and I are going to see my cousins in Orvieto.”
“Yes,” she says. “How nice.” She’s relieved. He has a life in Rome apart from her, and she is glad to take her place among the things in his life that are unimportant, provisional, able to be let go. At the same time, a small wet patch forms below her ribs, coldish, thickish: she will be more alone tomorrow than he will. He will have his daughter, his cousins. She wonders if any of his aunts and uncles are still alive. She thinks of them and the long Sunday meals she was once invited to be a part of. Tomorrow, when he’s surrounded by loving, familiar people, she’ll be on her own.
Sunday, October 14
VILLA BORGHESE
“Certain Kinds of Weather Once Enchanted Us”
They walk up the Viale Magnolia; it pleases her that a road should be named for a tree. The park is empty, except for focused dog walkers. Serious runners.
“This is new,” he says, “Italians running. A few years ago, if you saw someone running here, you knew they were American.”
“How do you know they’re Italian?”
“Only Italians would be that carefully dressed and coiffed even for a run.”
She likes that he notices what people wear; it’s something Yonatan would never do. It makes Adam seem more feminine, safer.
He looks at his watch. “I’m afraid we only have time for a short walk, before Lucy wakes up. Before I wake her. If I don’t, she’ll sleep and sleep. She might not wake till the sun is down.”
“Don’t you remember, Adam. Those adolescent sleeps. So deep. They were like heaven.”
“It’s hard to call back that kind of memory. For so many years now, I’ve woken up at dawn.”
She pulls her jacket closer to her. “The weather has changed overnight. The atmosphere is different.”
“The whole question of weather is different here. A different kind of question. Less frightening. Perhaps, also, less exhilarating. I do remember, about being younger, that some weathers used to make me feel exhilarated and other kinds made me feel quite frightened.”
“Yes, that irrecoverable fall of darkness, like a knife blade. Just at this time of year: October. You just wanted to beg for it: a few more minutes of life outdoors, a bit more light, that precious sense of coldness, because soon you’d be called in, into warmth,
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