I ARRIVED YESTERDAY. I always thought Italy was full of wops. In fact I had counted on being disappointed, the way I was when my mother first took me to Washington. But, Jesus, I walk by a pasteria where the windowed drawers have spaghetti in fifty shapes and sizes, pass a pretty girl, smile, she smiles back, watch a policeman in white direct traffic like an orchestra conductor, turn a corner and find the Colosseum lit by gold-blue light. I buy a large firm peach, and look. You’ve been here. Why didn’t you tell me I was wasting my life in America? I’m never going home, I’ll just sit down on the curb and die here. I flew Al Italia. I figured if I was going to a strange land without the language I might as well begin at the beginning, and as I walked up the ramp I knew something important in my life was happening. Ever since I was a child there was a secret rubber band from me to, something, my bed, my mother, something. The rubber band would not take too much stretching. I always wanted to get back to It, whatever It was. But the day before yesterday, when I boarded the plane, there was no rubber band. I think I may have left it in Dr. Newman’s office. The stewardess looked like Monica Vitti, blond, a broad open face like a white horse, and she smiled at me. She smiled at everyone, I guess, but that didn’t matter, the smiling had begun. What can I say, ever since I left I’ve been coming from all my body’s seven apertures. I got a seat next to a tight-lipped business type, who held his brief case to his belly all the way to Europe. Later I found out he was Swiss. But across the aisle was the goods, a tremendous wop, half child half grownup, thirty-nine although he looked twenty-five, hairy, baby-faced, immense. His name was Mario. Fasten Seatbelts, Monica Vitti came down the aisle offering hard candy from a basket. Prego, she said, prego, and I thought I knew my first Italian word. Prego: candy. Well, Mario grabbed her. At first I thought it was an uninhibited male gesture. No, he was scared. She took his hand, spoke soothing Italian phrases. He listened, nodded, finally accepted the candy and sucked away on it for dear life. Off the ground, Unfasten Seatbelts, and he eased some. But then we landed at Boston to fill up the passenger list, and he wanted to get off. The stewardess patted him on the cheek. I think she would have given him mother’s milk if he had asked and she had had. Can you see Miss Pan Am doing that? Well, as I watched them I was sort of sorry I wasn’t scared myself, but I’ve never been so unfrightened. There actually was danger, I guess, not much, but some, and it relieved me completely of the illusory danger I’d been suffering since the night of the heart. Anyway, I got into the act, told Mario that thousands of planes were flying over different parts of the earth at that very moment, and the chances of anything happening to one of them were insignificant. Well, my American logic and Monica’s sympathetic Italian kept him aboard. After we rose out of Boston I offered him my pint of Scotch. At first he was afraid he’d chuck it up, but swallow led to swallow, and before long he was rosy and loose, telling me the story of his life. During World War II he had deserted the Italian army and through artful country-hopping gotten to relatives in the States. This was his first trip home, and he was afraid there might still be some avenging Black Shirts around. Haven’t you seen any Italian movies, I said, the Italians have disowned the war, and the poor slob told me that after the war he had gone to an Italian movie but it made him so nervous he had to leave and hasn’t been to another one since. Also he thought that his father, whose letters he never answered, would be angry with him. I told him that any father should be overjoyed to see his son again after so much time, and if he wasn’t, fuck him. Fuck him, Mario repeated. He told me that I looked Italian, which, combined with Jose’s occasional claim that I look Spanish, Mrs. Frank’s that I look Jewish, and Mary’s that I’m pure Irish whatever my blood and appearance, sort of makes me the universal man. I adore being adopted like this, I guess because in my heart I don’t feel American and would like to be something. Objectively it was a compliment, too, Mario saying that I looked Italian, which I appreciate now after seeing the grace and dignity of Romans. At one point Mario leaned over the aisle to assure me that I wouldn’t have any trouble finding girls in Italy, and when I said I planned to meet someone there he touched my arm and said I’d be OK then. Was this what Italy would be like, I wondered, everybody understanding everything? And it is. The people look at each other in the street. It’s fantastic, it’s human. Two days here, and America seems like a long B-movie. Mario asked me if he could share the Scotch with his seatmate, a Parmesian chick, who after two years in the States was going back to Italy to get married. Of course he could. I didn’t need Scotch when, over the businessman’s brief case, I could see the moonlit clouds like cotton dipped in silver. It was the middle of the night but the stewardess had to draw the window curtains to let the passengers sleep. I tried to sleep, but I couldn’t, Mario was attempting the impossible with his seatmate. It must have come to something because finally he slumped back and dozed off. A little later, the Parmesian chick leaned forward to peek at me—I was the only one who might have seen them wrestling—but I kept my eyes half closed, which reassured her. Then still later, when she had dozed off and Mario was awake, he whispered to me that he thought she was not a happy girl. She didn’t really want to marry the boyfriend in Parma, she liked Americans. That was so sad to hear in that plane over the ocean at night. Why don’t you marry her, I said to Mario. He frowned, he was married already, had four kids. Why don’t you, he said to me. I will, I said. Good, he said, which seemed to settle something, and we both dozed off. Well, we stopped for twenty minutes at the Paris airport. I got out to stretch myself, stood on tippy-toe to see at least the Eiffel Tower. We were too far away, but at least never again will I have to say I’ve not been to Paris. Then on our way to Milan, Mario and the girl began tightening up. Also a number of the other passengers had lost their smiles. They couldn’t all be returning prodigals, and now that I’ve seen Rome I don’t understand. Is it that Italy is the one country in the world kinder to guests than natives? Well, Mario and I parted at Ciampino Airport in Rome. We promised to get together in the States, but we never will. In America he’s a big wop who runs a gas station and I’m a city boy with artistic intentions, and this was very sad. Here I think we could be buddies, but America casts a cold light and a colder eye. I’m down already. O I’m still here, the slits of light in the tall shutters closed against the late west sun, the large bed under the clay-covered spread, the high ceiling of carved moldings, the exquisite but sturdy desk, all tell me that I’m still here, but I’m sad because sooner or later I’ll have to go back. Ah well, sempre avanti. I arrived at this hotel and presented my passport to the porter. He looked it over. Yes, he had my reservation, he said in English, but would I wait a moment, Signor Martello the owner wants to see me, and after a word of French to another guest, a word of German to still another, alternating with comments in Italian to his assistant, he phoned Signor Martello to say that I, I had arrived. Signor Martello appeared immediately, took my hand in both of his, expressed deep gratification at my presence. I was tired from the trip, he understood, but would I do him the kindness of joining him for a drink? He apologized for his English, which was limited but elegant, apologized for his hotel, which was unlimited and elegant. I protested. No, no, he owned five hotels in Rome, and this was the least. He would show me his hotel on the Via Veneto. Christ, I thought, whom had he mistaken me for? He’d be furious when he found out I was only me. Then it came out. You are a literary man, he said as the drinks arrived. Ah, the passport. Under Occupation I had written Writer. The porter was apparently with orders to direct all Writers to Signor Martello. You write for the press, he asked. No, I’m a novelist. Ah, he shivered with pleasure. His son-in-law was also a novelist, I must join his family for dinner tonight, his son-in-law and I will have much to discuss. So we had another drink, and he told me that when I got to my room I should give whatever of my clothes had been wrinkled in transit to the maid and they would be ready for me after my nap. Ceremoniously he turned me over to the porter, who with frightening deference turned me over to the bellboy, who with even greater deference escorted me to this large silent room, whereupon I flopped in yonder bed without so much as visiting the marble bathroom. At dinner there was something of a language barrier. Signor Martello was the only one with English. Everything his wife, daughter, son-in-law said had to filter through him. But the food was great. What’s with Italian cooking in America? That’s not Italian food, it’s a base for condiments. The evening was mild. The attention of the waiters, and the knowledge that lovely Rome lay about me like a sweet cunt filled me with good will. It would have been perfect except for the son-in-law. This was the novelist, who turned out to be just a hack writer of magazine serials. It was divine justice. I had been described to him as a novelist, and when he learned that I had not actually published anything he wouldn’t talk to me. He’d talk, even say things for my benefit, but he wouldn’t address me directly. Signor Martello did his best to translate. At one point the son-in-law must have expressed some particularly dirty sentiment about America, because Signor Martello swallowed, burbled and failed to follow with the English. Seeing this, the son-in-law spoke directly to me in French. I knew it was French, but otherwise, Jesus! He repeated himself in German. Then in Spanish, as if speaking to a delinquent child. Finally back into French, Which I did understand, he said to the table at large Il parle un langage seulement? Boy, I could have smacked him with a wet spaghetti. How to explain about Americans, that they can study languages for years in school and still not be able to buy a pot in the market place. Well, I looked at him steady-on and emitted a long series of nonsense syllables filled with chs and zhs. Everyone was puzzled. I explained to Signor Martello that I had addressed his son-in-law in Russian. But I do not know Russian, the son-in-law said. Not know Russian, I said, next to English it is the most important language in the world. No reply. I considered doing the same in Chinese, but decided not to push my luck. Well, I was vindicated, even though I’m still afraid of being asked down to the desk to interpret for some monolingual Russian guest. I don’t know when I’m going to get to see Prudence. I chose Signor Martello’s hotel, you know, because that’s where Prudence’s letter came from, but by the time I got here she had left for Venice. The porter called her Venice hotel for me, but she had left Venice too, and there was no forwarding address because she planned to come back, although the hotel didn’t know exactly when. If you want to write, write here. If I’ve left, they’ll forward.