SALVE ROMA! A Felidae Novel - U.S. Edition (8 page)

Meanwhile the lovers had left the alley and entered the big lightened street again. The emptiness that they left behind now seemed like a sad place in which something had gone astray beyond retrieval. According to his bitter face, my »partner« shared this impression.

»Now pipe down, Francis, before you say something rash.«

Next to me, Antonio shot an awkward glance at me.

So I piped down. Because I seriously needed a break to stomach this unexpected turn. The thought of homosexual love amongst us
guys
nauseated me so much that I didn’t only throw up my just eaten dinner but also my whole rhapsody of Rome. Of all things, why did I have to end up with someone
like that
? I thought. And how could guys enjoy something
like that
? In our modern sophisticated times it was bon ton to have a pretty laid back attitude towards this very issue. Apparently, people didn’t make a distinction between lovers of chocolate and lovers of this specialty. Only apparently though! In reality they secretly struggled to control their revulsion as much as needed in
order to put up a brave front.

And I, being known as a true freethinker everywhere, how did I manage to change my revulsion into neutrality? Then suddenly, a spectacularly sensitive solution crossed my mind: taking a powder, screaming bloody murder!

»
Et tu, Brute
?« Antonio eventually said, in reference of my knowledge of Caesar having been murdered also by his best and closest friend Brutus. Saying that, his face wasn’t boastful like someone who belongs to the politicall
y correct camp, but deeply sad.

»Well, uhm, I believe, uhm, you jump at conclusions ...« I started.

»You don’t need to keep talking, Francis! Or should I say keep lying?«

»Okay, smart ass, you’re absolutely right: I’m not a fan of such
tight
friendships. I frankly admit that. But at least I know now why you were abandoned.«

Even though my imagination refused working when faced with love among guys, I was still able to picture the consequences it had caused. In my mind I saw the pithy Roman again. The man in front of the mirror wasn’t just a ridiculous macho. Behind the chic suites and accessories hid bigotry and adamantine views on the right character of male sexuality. That the guy was keeping a real felidae-adonis as his mascot was part of his swank, hunky self-display. (I could almost hear the jokes about Antonio’s with velvet fuzz covered balls at these terrific parties.) But just as long as the mascot played by the rules and, like his mirror image, dutifully performed the macho en miniature.

So while Signore had splashed expensive aftershave at his face and tried on cufflinks in front of the mirror, he hadn’t just joked with his »little man«. No, he had kept an eye on him, and probably his cigarillo had dropped out of his mouth and burned a hole into his shirt, when he saw which gender Antonio had chosen for his acquisitive desires. The whole thing didn’t just seem disgusting and filthy too him, but like betrayal on their bromance.
Mamma mia
, my pet is gay! might have been his scream of terror. And with this scream he had dismembered the »little guys« in the middle of their flirtation, had grabbed Antonio by his neck and had given the pervert a permanent boot out of the door. Ever since Antonio had been homeless. Strange though, as my
sweet
Rome expert didn’t look
as if he lacked accommodation.

The analysis of this psychodrama had been pretty simple. But what about the drama inside my head? Wasn’t I myself a macho like the guy in front of the mirror, who believed everything beyond his sexual horizon to be filthy? Damn it, my actual plan had been discovering the hidden corners of this beautiful city instead of the unplumbed depths of my old head! So it came in handy that Antonio rose to speak again.

»Why, Francis, I guess you didn’t think that the first Italian you meet will be queer, huh? No wonder, the world more and more becomes a village. And everything becomes alike, the humans, the animals, and not to forget the common intolerance, which seemed to have infected everyone like an evil illness. Maybe your stomachache lessens a little when I tell you that I didn’t choose this. I was born this way. And I don’t hurt anyone. And – I’m proud of what I am!«

»In other words: I’m an uptight old fart, which would love to put guys like you into a concentration camp. Isn’t that what you think?«

»No, but your implied disgust at homosexuality brings grist to the mills of those who would build such camps for my kind.«

»Bullshit, I’m just old-fashioned. And in terms of intolerance, look who’s talking. It’s everyone’s right to nourish and cherish the most ridiculous prejudices, as long as he doesn’t get on the wrong side of somebody. Didn’t Kant say that? Or was that Woody Allen? Of course this generous consideration doesn’t apply to the problematic matter of mice, I guess we are at one on this point!«

In Antonio’s gored face the smooth smile showed up again and
let the good old dandy return.
I had a feeling that he got my point. That was very important. For the both of us. He might have made disappointing acquaintances often enough. But not one that would have made him forget how to enjoy himself. But this was different. Antonio liked me so much that it would break his heart if our new friendship died because of his confession. The same applied to me. But if you know think of the obvious, you’re totally wrong. Antonio had no sexual interest in me whatsoever. Aside from this delicate matter we were just tuned on the same wavelength.

»All right,
il mio amico
, go ahead and nourish and cherish your prejudice, while I think about how to cure you from them. It’s late, Francis. After this fine dinner we should look for a suitable bed for the night.«

»Do we need to sleep at the backdoor of some luxury hotel now because the people used to sleep behind the cardinals’ churches?«

»Now, now Francis, you’re in Rome, you will sleep in so many silk sheets that you will eventually long for a sleep on wet asphalt.«

»I remember that slogan. Leftovers followed it. Anyway, the silk sheets don’t sound too bad as long as I don’t have to shave my legs for that, hahaha!«

»Well, that would fit our hostess just fabulously.«

»Hostess? Isn’t it like against your club’s rules to hang out with chicks?«

»O Francis, you got to learn a lot about us. Has nobody told you that a gay guy’s best friend is a woman?«

»Not yet. And by now I’m so tired that it wouldn’t shock me if somebody told me that the Pope’s best friend is Marilyn Manson!«

We stood up and shook ourselves, so that the heavy weight in our bellies got into the right position for the hike that lay ahead of us. I just wanted to start going, when Antonio suddenly cut me off. His beaming turquoise moons looked so deeply into my average eyes that in my matt cond
ition I pretty much lost focus.

»Personal dispositions and opinions aside, Francis«, he said insinuatingly. »You can totally rely on me. The both of us will shoot down this beast, I firmly believe in that.«

»I don’t just believe in that, I’m sure of that.
«
I replied, broke away from his mesmerizing eyes and made my way through the darkness.

»How do you know that?« I heard a voice from behind my back.

»Statistics, hon«, I said and shrugged without turning around.

T
his time there were no leftovers but a trip to the real luxury. Though I could have had guessed that again Antonio’s cocky promise had a snag to it. Sleepy, we wormed our way through the romantic and meanwhile deserted alleys. Familiar faces, which I knew from illustrated books and Gustav’s enthusiastic monologues while he studied maps of the Ancient Rome, crossed our path. The gigantic shadow of the Pantheon grew towards us as we walked the Via dei Cestari, and when we reached the Piazza della Rotonda, suddenly we saw
it live and bodily.

Could there be any more simple building than the Pantheon? A barrel with a hemisphere on its top, technically that’s it. So ingeniously simple and yet of gigantic dimension. Thick bronze doors let to the circular room, which had the diameter and the height of almost 165 feet. The walls are about 20 feet thick! 27 BC, the temple is said to have been dedicated to the seven holy planetary god Neptune, Uranus, Saturn, Jupiter, Mercury, Venus und Mars.

At his late hour I didn’t dare to get more than a short glimpse. My eyes wandered along the coffered ceiling, which had once been an image of the firmament,
decorated with gilded bronze.
At daytime, an about 32 feet wide circular hole was the source of light, which evenly suffused the room. Now in the dark only a sallow light pillar could be seen. It was produced by the shining of the stars and through the giant hole in the dome it descended down into the dark hall as if it were Heaven’s salute to the great son of the Roman Renaissance, much-loved Raphael, whose grave was right h
ere inside one of the alcoves.

Antonio reminded me to move on, and after a while we seemed to have reached our destination. We faced a spotlighted wonder hewn in stone, Rome’s most well known landmark. A couple of ages ago, a not quite that cheap pope named Clemens had, much to the delight of the Romans, ordered to build a fountain in this spot. It was the Fontana di Trevi, the one where you’re considered to throw a coin at over your left shoulder, if you want to see Rome ever again. To call this baroque jewel a »fountain« is as appropriate as to speak of
Elvis as »quite a good singer«.

At this time of night, just a couple of twosomes were sitting at the edge of the pool and whispered sweet nothings. My eyes reveled in the piece of art, which leaned right against the palace of the Dukes of Poli. Underneath the middle of a three-axle triumphal arch the god Poseidon sat enthroned on a cart that was pulled by two sea horses, surrounded by sea shells, booming waves and fish-bodied sea gods. The water moved over artificial rocks and swirled around the figures until it was collected in a semicircular pool, just to begin the loop anew. The gorgeous illumination of the site and the quiet burble of the water provided the atmosphere with something so enraptured that I was temped to lie do
wn and fall asleep on the spot.

»We’re here«, Antonio said. »Don’t fall asleep yet!«

»Why not?« I replied. »Do we have to take a bath first?«

He pointed at one of the surrounding buildings and trotted off. One building among those that surrounded the plaza was notably eye-catching due to its particular splendor. The sand-yellow shining palazzo seemed to be newly renovated, or had never been allowed to go to rack. The very neatly arranged windows with their window blinds were as big as doors. Protruding balconies harbored the supply of several flower shops; cascades of liana-like plants sounded the depths out of giant terracotta pots so that half of the facade was covered with a green curtain; and upstairs on the roof there was a terrace as big a sports ground. And no store for luxury fashion spoilt the lower level, as it seemed to be common around here. My astonishment just wouldn’t come to an end when I noticed that there was just a single nameplate and a single bell on the door of the size of a portal. Both
of course polished and brassy.

Antonio beckoned me with a nod and pointed at a little flap in the door, that was usually used for mail. So we pretended to be mail and squashed ourselves through the flap. Inside sheer Belle Époque! The entree offered finest marble and sconces in the shape of light pink petals. Then we reached a parlor, which dripped with Persian carpets, chosen antiques and sofas with leaf work flourishes. From the height of about 2 miles hung a chandelier of the size of a tractor wheel with at least thirty lamps. Through a studio window we could see a backyard that lay in darkness. From a scratched record, Verdi’s resonated through the whole buildi
ng like the singing of ghosts.

A square, wooden staircase led to the upper floors. But the jewel in the crown was an elevator in the rear spot of the room, covered by an artfully forged cage. It was one of those open elevators that in the beginning of the last century had been built into town houses and offered room for only a couple of people. The door was an accordion gate, and it had a delicate control console, which reminded more of a jewelry box than of a gadget to push buttons.

»So when will it be at the butler’s leisure to get us an audience with Lord Muck, Antonio«, I said, still in astonishment. We stood in the mild light of Jugendstil chandeliers and let the eyes of the portrayed masteries in the paintings on the wall give us a stern look. The ladies and gentlemen were from different decades, and the variety of clothing, in which they were painted, ranged from velvet doublets to gold-embroidered tailcoats. Obviously, they were the host’s ancestors. I risked a glimpse into the cage of the elevator shaft that was decorated with flower ornaments. Upstairs, it spanned three floors. Downstairs, it let straight to the cellar. I couldn’t see it that accurately, as
this part was completely dark.

»Prince Savoyen, not Lord Muck«, Antonio said. He said down on the carpet and began to lick himself. First he devotedly licked his thin tail, which looked a little like a deft whip. »His house dates from the thirteen’s century. The House of Savoy played a crucial role in the checkered history of the creation of the Italian state. The Prince is the last descendant in his line and is one of those, which nowadays are called impoverished nobility. So far as this here and a dozen of equally comparable buildings in the town center can be counted as poverty.«