Rome Noir Read online

  I have a powerful, expensive car. I pull up, knowing I’ve been spotted.

  In Piazza dei Cinquecento, I drive around the heart, mine, that of the city.

  At the drink stand, there’s a fat, sweaty man. He is an actor made for the part, as if in the entire city, in all the stands of Rome, there were only variations of that same role, in male or female versions. Performing specters, full of life that I cannot think of as sentient, with open shirts, oil stains on their undershirts, hands gripping the glass, squeezing the life out of it before handing it to the customer. And the customer, a young man with heavy cigarette breath, his curls straightened to look more gorgeous and his beard pointlessly shaved to make him appear older, takes the glass without bothering to be polite. Rome is not polite. Rather, she is a slut, astute and well aware of her urges, who when caught with her hands in the till absolves herself by displaying her illustrious medals: Nero’s crown, the Colosseum’s stones, grass, cats, the Pope, political figures. They have all lied. All of them. Including the cats.

  I have an expensive car, that is known here, which does not necessarily make me one of the family. I am the rich uncle: My eccentric manias are tolerated as long as I bring money. My gaze is not heavy. It skims, in order to procure what I need: targets with curly hair. Shoes with a wedge, to appear taller. Sweaters tight across the chest, in colors like small suns in the night. I wonder what life drifts through those heads. But it doesn’t matter to me. It really doesn’t matter to me. The thoughts are mine. The body I look for elsewhere.

  The boys arrive, three of them, walking down the sidewalk from Via Volturno to Via Einaudi. They materialize out of partial darkness. Nights are never very dark in the city. There is always too much light to hide by, but not enough to see. I adjust my glasses, I turn the wheel, I am not thinking, I release a desire and a fantasy that proceed side by side, searching for someone.

  The three boys arrive, but only one approaches, talks to me. A slight uncertainty, hesitation resulting from his young age. I am never afraid, I am not in a hurry, I do not have a primary need. This is a slow, philosophical city. It is not wise as some think, no. It wears a cloak of wisdom that has frayed over time but that still holds up, thanks to patching, and continues covering a king who will never be nude. We, or those who do not know better, will always see a jewel-covered brocade instead of a flabby, swollen, though still immortal body. The night envelops this body in a warm wakefulness, that inherits from the day an ancient lethargy: the mellow rhythm of one who has experienced magnificent times and conserves the memories, eyes closed. Thus the hesitation, the rejection, the slight wavering of the expression, the exaggeratedly seductive walk as he moves away—all fit in. The boys I love, I reflect, are the breath of this city.

  It’s like a breath that I am lacking. As I said, I am a foreigner.

  And yet I know that it is a common situation, one that is shared. This piazza is thronged with ghosts who do not belong. It is a city of the world, Rome is, lost in the idea of an empire that once was. We all continue to look for it. It is a treasure hunt, tonight’s hunt, and I can’t find the ticket that will get me to the next station. The last stop … I can’t even find a mate, a crew that will play with me.

  The three boys are standing motionless in front of the drink stand. They’re speaking in low tones.

  The fat guy inside doesn’t even look at them: You can only survive in these places by never really and truly being present.

  One boy shoves another.

  The third one laughs.

  The curly headed one glances my way, turns serious, murmurs some more.

  If I try to scan the syllables, I still can’t manage to understand what they’re saying. We adore conspiracies when we are young. Then we get old and we need proof, certainties, unclouded waters.

  With the air of keeping a secret that he will not reveal, curly top advances boldly. He walks around the car and, without smiling, gets in.

  I drive off swiftly. Via Cavour.

  It unwinds like an artery through a body that is being drawn right now, before my eyes. The blood of the city throbs there, secretly. I try to grasp its rhythm as I listen to the words and breathing of the boy beside me. I breathe the scent of an aftershave that is cloying. I try to concentrate on what my momentary, hesitant companion is saying. I am unable to separate the sound from the dark throbbing of Rome’s blood, which becomes deafening, arrogant, and obstructive when Via Cavour flows liquidly into Via dei Fori Imperiali. The wound has eviscerated the city. A knife slash, deep, precise, that severed memory at the beginning of the twentieth century, suturing the past to the present. There were gradual steps before this operation. The Medieval period was lost. The Renaissance was lost. What remains to us are only the past and the present, with a void in between.

  But you don’t know. You breathe beside me, ill at ease. You hide your uneasiness by dictating rules. You tell me what you want to do and what you don’t want to do. You repeat that you are not a femme. You say you want to be paid well. Your laugh is strained. You smile. Then you act like a tough guy. You tell me to watch out because you’re a tough guy. And you’re not a femme. It’s just for the money.

  I say nothing. I listen to your breathing. I try to take possession of it. You have to understand: I don’t want to hurt you. It’s just that yours is a breath that I am lacking.

  Empty.

  The gaping mouths of the Colosseum are arresting desolation. I’ve always thought that it was the blood that made them noble. The death of others, especially if it is bloody, illuminates objects. The life that once was has left a spectral breath, captured in a thousand films. The gladiator, grown old, gropes in the dark, trying to stand up to the parameters of the battle. He has been there for a thousand years, waiting for an enemy, and all he sees, instead, is a swarm of lunatics equipped with cameras. He poses, flexes his muscles, yawns. In the beginning, he tried to tell people that none of it was true and that death in the arena was miserable and illegitimate, that a gladiator was brought there filthy and emaciated, that the savage beasts had no trouble devouring him, and that at times the gladiator almost failed to defend himself. His only desire was to die quickly, as soon as possible, and become a ghost. In the beginning, the gladiator-ghost wanted to unmask the lie, but later, like everyone else, he surrendered.

  Now he roams around, gaunt, appearing in the dark cavities and passing through them silently. A cat tries to steal his mantle, but it’s a just playfulness. Cats can recognize ghosts. It is we men who have a hard time doing so.

  You busy yourself with your sweater, beside me. You take it off, pumping up your muscles. Your tang invades the car and I accelerate. I smile. I am never completely captivated. I am never entirely able to let myself go. I nonetheless observe myself succumbing to desire.

  You take off a shoe as well.

  The dirty feet of Rome walk on roads a thousand years old. Dirty feet run on improvised little soccer fields, wear shoes that are too tight, clamber on loose heels, get injured, heal, are liberated. In the end, they are sheathed again. Dirty feet inside clean shoes, with a heel.

  History flows along in confused rivulets. It’s an illusion that it is linear. We like to think so, to imagine a beginning and an end, because that way we can understand. History instead dupes us. It is a ball of yarn unraveled by a cat. I am the cat and I rush toward Via di San Gregorio with my prey in my teeth. I don’t bite down though: I don’t want to wound it. Only to allow myself, in the end, to become the victim. It is a subtle desire to imagine one’s own death and transform it into legend.

  No one knows what’s in store for him. We try to imagine. But life is a master of fantasies. I am a disciple. As clever as I am, I will never be able to really understand.

  At one time, chariots raced in the Circus Maximus. The echo of the shouting and applause remains in the air and is not erased. If you gather the dust, you feel how light it is and it slips through your fingers like the years that have gone by. But nothing has been erased. It
is an illusion that the past disappears. Its strength lies in being transformed. Today’s gladiators confront one another in a different way, but the taste of dust and blood remains, in the mouth, as the only reliable trace of the battle.

  In this city, the body of a kidnapped politician may be found.

  In this city, young revolutionaries and young policemen have died and will die.

  In this city, we have seen and will see different weapons taken up with the usual rage inside.

  The taste of blood is not erased.

  There is no past. It is all, in fact, in a perpetual present.

  You don’t know.

  That’s what I like: Your mind does not know, your body cannot know.

  The taste of blood is not erased.

  Viale Aventino is another artery on which I speed along, a subtle virus in the body of the city. Houses of fictitious nobility conceal the Lungotevere from me, to my right. I miss the water. I want to go fishing for memories in the river. If I could rob corpses of their memories, I would.

  But there is no time, there is no time.

  The water flows along, immutable. Rubbish has accumulated, making the flow heavy and sluggish, deceptively harmless. There are treasures at the bottom of the Tiber, which has cushioned blows and concealed sins. The river does not disguise itself. From the bridges, we see ourselves in the filthy water for what we are: aggregates of mongrel desires that we are ashamed to confess.

  You, however, are not ashamed. There is a straightforward, simple artlessness in the awkward gestures with which you open the window and lean your elbow out. You watch me out of the corner of your eye, proud to be in control of the situation. You interpret my silence as acquiescence, and in fact it is. I am ready, my boy, to do anything to have you: You are certain of this. The defiance you show is a performance that I am gladly willing to humor. Under your skin, your tense muscles prevent fluid movements. You are a young puppet, resisting the strings that control him. But the strings are strong and the puppeteer shrewd and determined.

  Is it me?

  The puppeteer has no emotions. He is lucid and stern. He is not seeking memories but money. He has no desire for flesh. He does not love you and is not attracted by you. He is not prepared to caress you. He does not think of you as the body of this city. He does not drive around at night scouring Rome in a luxury car. He has no money to spend on you to make you happy. He does not want to make you happy. He does not want to feel your skin beneath his fingers. He is not speeding along Viale Aventino (or is he? Is there a car following us? Maybe.). The puppeteer is a stern, organized individual. He could never fall in love, even for a minute. He is the ideal executioner, because he believes in punishment as education. It’s his mission.

  The puppeteer is the black heart of this city.

  It’s not me.

  I’m not pulling your strings.

  Rather, it seems, you are pulling mine.

  The body grows. The city expands beyond its confines. Toward its confines is where I’m bringing you.

  Via Ostiense: It is an evening of great roads that lead where I want to go. The street dwellers slacken. We are few, we nocturnal travelers, closed within this private world of metal and glass, silent with our thoughts.

  The houses become different, Rome removes her false dignity and exposes bits of skin. Smooth, dark, wounded, filthy, soft, young skin. The skin of a body chasing after a ball. The skin of a mouth screaming. The skin of a hand that grasps, caresses, strikes, pinches, scratches.

  Skin.

  The skin of Rome begins to be exposed.

  That is what I want, madam: to expose you in order to reach your heart.

  But you are hungry, and heart, yours or mine, matters little to you. You are hungry and restless. You look around, look behind you (is there a car following us? Maybe.).

  I’m not concerned. Young boys are anxious and nervous. I’m not concerned. I never am.

  The fact remains that you’re hungry.

  I stop.

  Eating is a rite. The food enters the body, intriguingly prepared. The gestures recall other sensualities. The eyes allow a pleasure to surface, this time permitted, that alludes to other less licit pleasures. And it is not the mind that does all this.

  Your mind does not know that you are eating this food as if it were, for me, a preview of the moment when you will eat my body.

  I am silent, watching you. The November night evokes ghosts, but it is quiet. The trattoria has no indiscreet eyes: a simulation of a broken family, where everyone hates everyone but doesn’t show it. Around us, time has passed, and in a more evident way than in the city. Even the darkness is more worn and tired. Poverty wearies everyone. Those who have always been rich don’t know it. But we know it well. In our veins, as in those of Rome, plebeian blood flows.

  Hearts beat at close distances. In deeper silence, I try to measure your emotion, to feel the throbbing that drives the thin blood into your hands as they fret nervously. You chew, forgetting to close your mouth. A bit of food falls out.

  Rome is layered with remains.

  You pick up the bit of food and put it back in your mouth. Now it is you.

  It is time to go. The city that never really ends pushes us out. I can’t resist the urge. I speed along in the car. I am the virus in this city’s blood. And you accompany me, without my having truly captured you.

  Via Ostiense runs parallel to the river, and like the river, glides inexorably to the sea. I do not resist the current. I go where the water of desire leads me. Curiosity takes shape, side by side with your fear. I feel it, your fear, though I do not understand the reasons for it. I will not do you any harm. How could I?

  Via Ostiense and its secret ways. Something leads me where we both want to go. Of this I am certain: We both want to get there.

  The place is waiting for us.

  The city can be seen from outside, mirrored in the garbage that it has pushed out.

  The city appears unfinished and ongoing, in houses never completed but left waiting for better times. Brackish water has rusted what remains of old industries, looming shadows in the darkness that has deepened. It is a darkness that has teeth, this one: dangerous. It devours, leaving only stripped bones that shine in the sunlight. The skeletons of unfinished buildings are also bones, which someone will hasten to cover with the flesh of bricks, and then fill in the spaces with wretched lives.

  I turn off the Lungotevere onto a lesser road, a small unknown blood vessel that you and I know. Fields and piles of refuse on both sides. Rummaging there, among the garbage, we learn many things we don’t know about the city. It is a necessary rite in order to understand. As disgusting as it is, it’s the refuse that tells us the most: What people don’t want is more significant than what they keep, because we are afraid of waste and hasten to get rid of it. Over time, the refuse grows and invades and expands and breeds and is transformed. Into what, I don’t yet know. But it interests me. It interests me to rummage through the scraps of these insignificant lives.

  Through the small piazza, glimpsing the absence of movement. Exploits declaimed in small, out-of-the-way bars, the shabby trick of a con man who dupes people, wondering fruitlessly why they are here. The road I am following, that suddenly seems to turn back toward the heart of Rome, is also a rotten trick. And now it’s a fraud. That’s not where we’re going.

  And the heart that interests us is another.

  There are soccer fields, poor simulations separated from the road by only a net. They contain the echo of a thousand little matches, a ritual that fascinates me, in practice and in memory. It is a mythological ritual, that of the game: Playing on a mangy field amid piles of garbage, we all feel like champions, and we will earn lots of money, we will be applauded, we will marry a model and bring beautiful children into the world. It is a fairy tale, a bag-lady version of the noblest myths, and it helps us. That’s what fairy tales are for: to give meaning to the throbbing of a heart that is otherwise useless.

  We are
lives that occupy very little space in the world, you and I. We go unnoticed. The throbbing of our heart is only important to me and to you; no one else can hear it.

  Here, the city has become silent, turning into a village of illicit lives, plaster and cardboard models of a well-being that does not exist.

  This is a group of houses built piece by piece, over time, with scavenged materials. Closed within them, miserable solitudes dream of recouping by the weekend a wealth and power that they will never have. They won’t find it. Rebellion is like these streets that don’t go anywhere and end at some point without really leading to any specific place. Small dead-end vessels that pour blood into the mud.

  The Romans are builders of roads, but over time they’ve lost their direction and their use.

  Ours is a government that builds roads, but does not know how to pursue a course sensibly.

  The Romans, over time, began to build roads not to get somewhere, but just to show that they could do it. Then, without having completed the project, they ended up stopping halfway, stranding themselves in a desolation without trees, a small unpaved piazza bordered by a fence of pink and green stakes.

  I’m not a femme, you say.

  I breathe. Air and an intense taste.

  We do what I want, you say.

  I don’t take off my glasses. I never take them off.

  What about the money? you ask, your eyes looking for something outside.

  Ghosts. I try to hear rustling. But all I hear is the blood flowing, in your body and mine.

  Because if you don’t give me the money I’m not doing anything, you explain.

  I scratch around in my residual rationality, trying to return to reality.

  In the meantime, you open the door and get out.

  It’s not true that all places are the same at night, because you don’t visit places only with your eyes. All places have odors (this one is briny, and permeated by the smolder of cheap barbecue with traces of smoke and sweat close by—yours, I think). There are colors as well. As I too get out, following you, I find myself staring at this fence of pink and green stakes. I am distracted.