Chapter Twenty-Eight

 

Rome was magnificent, especially at that time of year but I worried for Darius. There was so much beauty that he was unable to see and therefore I tried to take him to as many of the musical festivities as I could and explain the grandeur and the colours so that he could understand and appreciate, to some degree, what was going on around him. Fortunately, as Darius had been a sighted person for the most of his life, he was the more able to accept and understand my explanations than if he had never known what colours were, had he been born blind. He was always grateful and I think he enjoyed the ‘sights’ from my descriptions and I got more pleasure from watching him sway to the wonderful music that we heard, than from many of the other sights that were truly breathtaking. I just loved him so much that he reflected all the beauties and glories of Rome for me, which I would never truly have noticed had he not been with me. The warmth of his hand in mine in the cool evening air was my paradise.

Cardinal Gillespie insisted that we should call him Garry and he and Darius got on very well together. They were both musicians... Garry played the church organ and would have gone on talking about music from dawn till dusk, if allowed to …and I sometimes took the opportunity to take in some of the sights on my own, when the two men in my life were absorbed... and I knew I could tell Darius all about it when I returned. It also gave him a chance to rest, as he seemed to get tired quickly when we went walking. I was his ‘eye’ and he tried to assure me that he ‘saw’ as much as I did, by the means of the music he heard. He loved the heavenly Gregorian chant of the various orders of monks in the city and he played the organ at the Church of St. Peter in Vinculis, (with permission of the Rector and in agreement with our Cardinal friend.) and he considered that to be a wonderful privilege. We also got an audience with His Holiness Pope John the twenty-third, which was an experience neither of us would forget. He was a jovial man, rather rotund and older than I had imagined a Pope to be, especially a new one... and he hadn’t been ‘made-up’ for long... He celebrated Midnight Mass on the Eve of Christmas, which we were able to attend, courtesy of the Cardinal again. I rather think we were very privileged indeed, considering that neither Darius nor I was of the Catholic faith.

I was sorry that Darius could not see the paintings of Michaelangelo in the Sistine Chapel, because there, I was lost for words. People were complaining of stiff necks when they stood up as the ceiling was best viewed lying flat on your back. The coliseum rather frightened me and left me in awe as I imagined the gladiators of old, sparring with their partners where I understood they fought to the death. I saw no blood in the dust, but it wasn’t hard to imagine. The Circus Maximus was much the same and my thoughts went out to the Christians as they stood their ground against the lions that savaged them as the spectators roared their delight and the Emperor’s orchestra played on regardless.

It was a frightening place to be in, full of poignant history and the smell of death seemed to linger there. I shuddered as I walked away from the shadows of such horror and felt a little better as I entered the Temple of Vesta, where the virgins ‘hung out’ according to the Very Reverend Cardinal Gillespie. The holy staircase was one of the most memorable sights, I think... with its great picture at the top of the crucified Christ with His mother and St. John standing by the cross. I stood looking at that picture for a long time. It seemed to convey a message that I could not easily grasp and yet when I left the place and strolled around the Trevi Fountain, it all seemed to come to me. There was a peace and a tranquillity that I had never known before and the strangest thing of all... the strangest feeling of all, away out there in the heart of the Roman Empire, was the sad and haunting sound of a voice calling to me... ‘You’re free now Dahling... as free as the air…’

 

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My honeymoon was the happiest time of my life. Each day was a new day and each night, a new night of love. I remember praying for Jeremy and Aunt Martha at the tomb of St. Peter, the first pope and peculiarly enough, I remembered Monty there too. Not with regret of course. No, never that... but not with bitterness either. I thought of him with pity and wondered if he could see me then and would he have envied what I had... and what he had never been able to give me. Darius was not a wealthy man as Monty was, but love is not bought with the coin, except with the coin of the heart.

 

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We would spend our evenings visiting the various bistros and tavernas, often taking in a variety show given by the locals. It was interesting to see how they dressed on these occasions of entertainment and even their style of dancing was characteristic of the people they were. I thought the Italian people to be very passionate about their customs and their country, but I also found them to be very kind and simple in their ways, which attracted me greatly. Needless to say, Darius loved the music of the bars and of the street musicians. It delighted me to see him clap his way through the evening with such joy and happiness in his face. I wished then we could have made that honeymoon last for ever, just to see that face; that joy... that exuberance that seemed almost to border into ecstasy as I denied the sight of pain that I could see occasionally in his tender eyes. Could life offer such happiness without a price? I asked myself …