Chapter five, part two. The City of Rome.
Part of my Novel The Road to Ancona.
On the way into the city, Chico explained that Rome is set in a basin surrounded by seven hills. Speaking over the PA he said, ‘This basin traps the heat and humidity from the river Tiber and the patches of marshland on its outskirts,’ he explained, reciting information that he learned by heart on his training course. As the coach wound its way through the crowded, narrow streets, Michael could see some of the great historical remains of the capital of the Romans. The coach made its slow way, through the congested roads, to the Hotel Marco Polo, in the Via Magenta, arriving outside at around six o’clock. Michael and Richard were allocated to a small room at the top of the five-story building. Fortunately, there was a lift – a blessing in disguise – its winding gear, very near to their room, clanked and groaned all night. The boys put down their bags on the beds. Michael opened the window and looked out on the roofs of the nearby houses. ‘So these are the eternal slums,’ he commented. Richard lay down on one of the beds and closed his eyes. The heat was stifling. The open window admitted only a feint breeze. Michael noted the impressive, highly polished wood of the wardrobe and gold-embossed ornamentation on the ceiling. The room was neat and clean and a large mirror had been placed over a narrow writing desk which had an ornately carved chair. There was a wash basin in the room with gleaming steel taps. To his surprise, Michael discovered that the hot water was very hot and the other tap gave water that was very cold. Unlike the plumbing in the Hotel Britannia, both taps produced water that was crystal clear.
Michael sat down on the other bed and began to study the sheets that Chico had given him, outlining the trips, visits and events that were included in the Rome excursion. He thought of talking to his friend about what they might do during the three days of their visit but decided against this idea, given what had happened in Assisi. He decided that it would be better just to go with the flow and let his friend decide for himself what he wanted to do. Michael resolved to go along with whatever Richard wanted to do; being with him would be better than being away from him, even if that meant sitting around in bars and missing the great sights of the fabulous ancient city. Richard snoozed on his bed and Michael studied paperwork on his bed, occasionally writing comments in his notebook.
The boys went down to dinner. Michael was impressed that the food was served by smartly dressed waiters using silver service in which they placed the food items onto the guest’s plates using a spoon and fork. Their main course was spaghetti served in a bolognese sauce. Michael’s previous experience of this famous Italian foodstuff was limited to what he had got out of a tin, but this tasted considerably better. He was amazed at the length of the strands of pasta. One of the guests had to show him how to eat it – by winding it round his fork pressed against a spoon.
The air in Rome was hot; much hotter than in Cattolica where the breezes from the Adriatic Sea cooled the land. Chico was busy trying to sell sightseeing trips to the guests; Michael found out the cost of these coach trips around the city. When Richard suggested they go on one, Michael mentioned that they were short of lira and it would be less expensive to buy a map and explore the city on foot. Richard was all for going with everybody else but then that was him all over. Michael was the lone explorer, the adventurer who preferred to make his own way in the world. ‘Listen, Michael, I think we should go with everyone else,’ Richard argued, ‘I know it will cost 1,400 lira but I am sure it will be worth it now we have come all this way to be in Rome. It’s one of the world’s greatest cities and now we are here we should at least see a few of the sights.’
‘So you want to pay out over a thousand lira to be herded around like sheep,’ Michael replied, contemptuously. They were about to launch into one of their famous arguments when Chico appeared. Richard handed him the money and Michael sheepishly followed suit. He wanted to spend his first evening in Rome with his friend and knew that going along with his plans would be the only way he could do that.
After dinner, they boarded the coach and were soon on their way to the first stop. The coach dropped them at the Vatican. The tour guide, who had been allocated to the group, began his commentary as he led the party through the inside of the building. Michael thought he came out with a series of banal statements and was not impressed. Betty, however, was entranced and bellowed enthusiastically, issuing a series of oohs and aahs at the end of each of his statements. The guide was a short, stumpy man with a loud voice who kept clicking his fingers at people if he wanted their attention. He seemed to have brought several of his relatives with him. Michael had seen films of the Vatican on the television but now he was actually standing there, it seemed smaller. They were given a whistle-stop tour of the Basilica of Saint Peter. Michael looked at its opulence and elaborate ornamentation and thought of the stark simplicity of the monastery at Assisi with with its deeply spiritual atmosphere and plain stonework. As they galloped through its gilded magnificence, his mind was drawn back to the paintings of Poor Clares and poverty-vowed friars of the Franciscan orders he had seen in the previous basilica.
They also spent a whole ten minutes in the Sistine Chapel, which Michael thought had a distinctly musty smell, looking at the paintings on the ceiling before being led down into the crypt to see where the Popes were buried. The tour guide drove them on relentlessly from place to place, snapping his fingers when he wanted them to move.
‘Any moment now I expect to see a Border Collie appear at the edge of the crowd,’ Michael remarked. If any strangers stopped to listen to his words, the guide would order them to clear off, as they had not paid for his services. If anyone in the party dared to talk while he was speaking, he would immediately stop and glare at them with his bulbous eyes. Only when he had commanded complete attention from the party would he continue. He also had an alarming habit of molesting the females in the group.
‘I thought Hitler was dead,’ Michael remarked to Richard as they watched the guide strutting about while he was narrating his script. ‘I’m surprised to find him still alive and working as a tour guide in the Vatican.’
Their stay at the holy city was brief and they were soon back in the coach; Chico commented on each of the famous monuments as they sped past them. He was standing at the front, next to the driver, holding the microphone, repeating his set of well-worn cliches and often-rehearsed anecdotes – like a stand-up comedian. Michael thought he sounded like a half-witted parrot. They sped past the huge white memorial to Victor Emmanuel the Second. Michael regarded it as being very ostentatious and decidedly pompous.
‘What exactly is this monument for?’, Michael asked Chico, who explained that it was built in honour of King Victor Emmanuel the Second, adding that he had died in 1878.
‘So if the king is dead now, is it really needed any more?’, Michael enquired. Chico ignored him and continued with his commentary.
The coach stopped near the Campidoglio steps; the party alighted and soon the boys climbed up to the piazza on the Capitoline Hill, along with the others. The boys started to explore and found their way around to the right of the Palazzo Senatorio, to a narrow terrace, from where they could see the ancient ruins of the Roman Forum. Michael was far from impressed at the way the ruins had been illuminated; they were flooded with red, yellow and blue lights. He thought this gaudy display had been installed for the benefit of the tourists but made the great ancient remains look cheap and tasteless. The piazza was full of tourists, milling around and taking photos of each other. Their flashlights lit up the scene every few seconds. The boys mingled with the crowds, taking in the feeling of being part of what they were all about, fascinated by the many nationalities and sensing their excitement at being in this famous place. They failed to notice the time and the fact that the rest of the party had gone back to the coach. They raced down the steps but at the bottom could see no sign of the others.
‘Where did you say the coach would be?’, Richard asked, but Michael had forgotten what Chico had said before they had got off. ‘Surely it will be where we left it’, he suggested. Richard was not convinced; he said, ‘I am sure I heard Chico say that the coach would be parked somewhere else.’ He sounded agitated. ‘I don’t want us to be lost in the middle of a strange city late at night.’ The two boys started running round the streets searching for the coach. Eventually, they returned to the bottom of the Campidoglio steps. Richard said, ‘Michael, you stay here in case the coach comes back for us and I’ll go and see if I can find it.’ Michael was about to suggest that he did not like this idea but before he could say anything Richard had disappeared into the crowds walking along the Via del Campidoglio. Not long after he had gone, Chico arrived with a search party. He was furious; his brown eyes were protruding menacingly from his face. The passengers with him had insisted that the boys had to be found before the coach would be allowed to leave. Eventually, they found Richard and the boys were ushered into their seats to loud boos and whistles from the angry passengers. It was only five minutes later that they arrived back at the Marco Polo. The boys could easily have walked there in a few minutes but they did not know this and they had no map to show them where they were.
Back in their room at the top of the hotel, the boys collapsed onto their beds. It was stiflingly hot. Michael opened the small window but no breeze came in through it, only the roar of the traffic and the noise of people shouting and laughing in the street below. The lift mechanism clanked continuously. They lay awake for a long time, talking about their experiences, looking out on the curious assortment of roofs lit by the light of the moon, which they could see from their window. The sky was strangely luminous, the humid vapour in the air reflecting back the varied assortment of lights from the city. They lay down on their beds and continued their conversation until Michael fell asleep.
Throughout his time in Rome, Michael’s sleep was coloured with vivid dreams about the Romans. He had seen many films on television and at the cinema that had featured life in Roman times. In bed, his mind conjured up images of bearded men in white togas, soldiers in shining armour and crested helmets and elegant banquets where people lay on couches eating exotic food. Gladiators fought to the death in arenas, cheered on by excited crowds. Young poets wrote of love and heroic exploits. Wise old men wrote philosophy on pages of parchment. Such dreams were not confined to times when he was asleep; during his walks and sitting in the coach, similar images would come to his mind as he tried to capture the life lived in those ancient days.