The tourist districts echo with repeating arches—freestanding arches, arched doorways and passageways, ancient viaducts. Echoing domes, stone walls, stone streets. Dreaming shop windows—blue gloves, chocolates, soft leather shoes, silk scarves, mirrors edged in gold, small etchings, handmade paper, books of art, books of philosophy—like glassed-in still lifes, or galleries in the mind. And the markets: imported teas and coffee, cases of cheese, fat oval breads and palm-sized pastries; tabletop patchworks of tomatoes, Persian cucumbers, eggplants, melons, spinach, jars of olives, tubs of egg-sized mozzarella. Stone pines line the parks; citrus branches rise above the walls of gated houses; trompe l’oeil windows overlook narrow and broader streets leading to piazzas with fountains, outdoor cafés, local bars; and in the road, the Vespas, speeding Fiats, Smart cars, buses, daredevil taxis, and trucks pass within inches of each other and the curb.
Basilica di Santa Maria in Trastevere, Chiesa di Santa Maria sopra Minerva, Chiesa di San Luigi dei Francesi, Chiesa di Santa Maria dei Miracoli, Chiesa di Santa Maria del Popolo. In the story of the girl and the truck, the church is called only “the church,” the street “the street beyond the church.” One can walk here all day, chiesa to chiesa, recording details, meditating in empty pews as if in this church, the Murphys will appear. Outside, the morning’s misty rain clears off, leaving a sky the blue of robins’ eggs, later brimming gold and flaming pink, softening before fading out. But after hours, after the Chiesa di Santa Maria del Popolo, out on the piazza, fatigue: here, now, the impulse to lie down on the stone street, give over and gaze up at the narrow rim of city, the framed variegated sky.
It’s still that brimming gold moment, outdoor café tables filling. Perhaps they’re at a café then, the Murphys—white tablecloths, the shade of umbrellas. James, Nora, Theo, Katy, Molly: the Murphys as they were one day in Rome, and at adjoining tables the various incarnations of them since, taking chairs for a while before returning to the respective moments they’ve stepped out of, hollowed from their lives in and beyond Blue Rock. Several Noras sketching or quietly smoking along the edge of the piazza; a rotating handful of Theos, each reading a novel, sipping a latte; a repeating James in a navy-blue or soft gray suit paging through the Herald-Tribune. Katy spooning lemon ice, Katy soaking biscotti in milk. Approach and they look away; walk among them and they’ll continue what they are doing, gazing only at their cups and spoons, cigarettes and pages. A single Molly, intent on her chocolate gelato.