Boswell (41 page)

“All right,” I confessed.
“I’m in it for the money. Margaret is nothing to me!”

I fell to the ground, but the lock—the lock was in my hand.

“What happened?” Margaret asked, rushing up.

“Just fell for you, Principessa,” I said.

“Oh, get up,” she said.

“The Rape of the Lock,” I said, showing Margaret the lock.

We went inside. “Oh,” Margaret said. “Oh! Oh! Let’s go up.”

With only the light of the moon to guide us we went through the dark passages and up the ancient, dangerous steps. At the second landing Margaret paused for breath. I kissed her.

“Come on,” I said. “I’ve just begun to climb.”

We went to the very top. Here the Emperors had sat. I looked out over the broken stones below; they resembled some harrowed cemetery in the moonlight.

“I could have been a gladiator,” I said. “If I’d lived in those days I could have been a gladiator.”

“Not a Christian?”

“The gladiator had a better chance than the Christian.”

“I could have been a Roman,” Margaret said.

“It’s funny,” I said, “I never thought of being a Roman.”

“Poor Boswell.”

“Well, maybe a freed slave,” I said.

I clapped my hands imperially. I turned my thumb down. I lifted it high. “Which is the real me, Principessa?” I asked.

“Oh, the thumb up,” she said.

“Up it is,” I said. “All the way.”

I put my hand in my pocket.

“What’s wrong?” Margaret asked after a moment. “Isn’t it working out? Isn’t this what you had in mind?”

“Oh, it is,” I said. “Exactly.”

“What shall we do now?” Margaret said.

“The Spanish Steps,” I said quickly.

“By moonlight,” she said.

“Moonlight it is,” I said.

I let her drive me in the car. “Come on,” I said once we were there, “let’s go up.”

“But it’s so high. Must we?”

“Of course,” I said, starting up. Margaret came along behind me. “Come on. Two, four at a time. Rome, Margaret,” I said, calling over my shoulder in the manner of one explaining an important principle on the run, “is a test of strength.”

May 6, 1960. Rome.

We were in the Piazza di Spagna yesterday afternoon by the Bernini the Elder fountain and it was two o’clock and the shops were all closed and there wasn’t much traffic in the street and a horse carriage went by. “Say,” I said to the Principessa, “that looks romantic. Is it expensive?”

“What’s expensive?” the Principessa of All the Italies said.

“Listen,” I said, “I think we ought to try it. You translate for me and say everything I tell you.”

“But we were going to lunch.”

“We will,” I said. “We will. I’ll just call the next one over.”

I raised my hand as an old man in a long brown smock was guiding his carriage past the fountain. “Horseman,” I called, “I say, horseman!”

“Sair?” he said, drawing up the reins.

“He must be made to think he’s dealing with Italians.” I whispered to Margaret. “Tell him that I mean to engage him, but that first certain arrangements must be made.”

“Oh, Boswell, he has a meter.”

“Never mind that. Tell him ’certain arrangements must be made.’ Can you say that in Italian—‘certain arrangements’?”

The Principessa said something to the horseman and he said something back.

“What’s he say?” I asked.

“He wants to know what you mean, ’certain arrangements’?”

“Tell him that when I say ’certain arrangements’ I am speaking in reference to the fact that he has nothing to pull that cab but a single horse, that this is an age of mechanization—of horsepower, that is true, but of horsepower in concert, as it were. Tell him that this is the horsepower age and that it would hardly be fair for him to expect people to pay a man with only one horse the same rate they would pay a man with thirty-five or forty horses. Tell him also that a motor-driven taxi can cover a given distance in a fraction of the time a single-horse- drawn carriage can cover it.”

“Oh, Boswell,” Margaret said.

“You are a Principessa,” I said. “I am a lousy commoner. I have to think about these things. Tell him.”

She told him. He looked from Margaret to me, staring at me curiously, but not without a certain admiration. He hesitated for a moment and then said something to Margaret.

“What’s he say?”

“He says that all that has been taken into account by the people who make the meters, but that you have to expect to pay a little something extra for the romance.”

“Tell him that I do expect to pay a little something extra for the romance, but that it must be held to a minimum, that one is always paying a little something extra for the romance, and that one expects service rendered too.”

She told him.

“What’s he say?”

“He says what do you mean?”

“Tell him I mean that I see he has a kilometer gauge in the cab. Tell him that I will undertake to engage him and the horse if he will accept payment for distance delivered plus one hundred lire for the romance.”

Margaret told him.

“What’s he say?” I asked.

“He says all right, where do you want to go?”

“Tell him around and around the fountain.”

“Around the fountain?” Margaret said. “Just around the fountain?”

“Around and around
the fountain. Tell him.”

She told him. “He says get in,” she said.

We got in and we drove around and around the fountain. After about three circumnavigations the people sitting on the Spanish Steps waiting for American Express and Keats’ house to open began to watch us with interest. Every once in a while one would point. The horseman muttered something, but I didn’t ask Margaret to translate. Soon there was a crowd, and in a little while people began to call things to us. The horseman growled and said something to Margaret.

“What’s he say?” I asked.

“He says this is crazy.”

“Tell him he wants romance I’ll give him romance and a deal’s a deal. Can you say that in Italian?”

Margaret said it in Italian.

Now there was a big crowd watching us; people were standing in the street. As they pushed forward the traffic had to slow down to avoid hitting them. Many of the drivers craned their necks out of their car windows to discover what the crowd was looking at. When they noticed our slow pace around and around the fountain they were as interested as the others. Some of them turned off their ignitions and waited to see what was going to happen.

“Wave,” I said to Margaret. Margaret waved.

“Tell
him,”
I said.

She did, but he wouldn’t wave. There were too many cars piled up and he had to use both hands in order to maneuver the horse around them. We had barely made another circuit around the fountain when the cars, now bumper to bumper, almost stopped our progress altogether. The horseman applied the whip ruthlessly and tried to force the big carriage through narrow and narrower spaces. He drove valiantly. He used the whip with an almost arch indifference. He swore at the stalled drivers. But none of it was of any use; we could not go another ninety degrees. We were stuck tight in a solid sea of metal.

From our greater height we stared impassively down on the shiny roofs.

“Well, then,” I said after sitting amiably, arms folded across my chest, for about ten minutes, “I think we’ll get out here. Tell him.”

Margaret told him. Tears came to his eyes.

“I notice on his kilometer gauge that we have gone less than one kilometer. Tell him.”

Margaret told him.

I paid the old man for distance delivered, plus one hundred lire for the romance, and Margaret and I stepped down from the carriage.

May 7, 1960. Rome.

“But I can get a pass to the studio,” Margaret said.

“I never bring my own bottle and I never use a pass, Principessa.”

“But it would be so easy. Fellini and Antonioni are friends of mine.”

“We must do it my way,” I said. “A man moves in more mysterious ways than a woman.”

“Well, I’ll be recognized anyway,” Margaret said. “There will be no trouble at the gate.”

“There
must
be trouble at the gate,” I said. “There’s always trouble at the gate. How could you respect me if there were no trouble at the gate? How could I show you what I do? But that’s a point about your being recognized. Perhaps you’d better not come.”

“But it’s
my
courtship,” Margaret said. “Yes, there’s that.”

Margaret wanted to use the Maserati but I told her that she would certainly be recognized if we did, and so we took the streetcar out to Cinecittà. We got off one stop before the movie studio.

“But it’s five streets further,” Margaret said. “Never mind,” I said. “We have to get off here.” We got down and I went into the men’s room in a gas station. I took off my shirt. “Here,” I said to Margaret, who was standing just outside the door, and I handed it to her. Then I took my jar of Vicks VapoRub and began to pat the stuff over my arms and chest and back and neck and face. I am not the kind of person who tans, but I am darkish, and the Vicks, thick as butter on my body, gave my skin the fine, high gloss I wanted. I felt like sixteen cartons of burning Kool cigarettes and smelled like something in a sickroom, but the visual effect was startling. The Vicks added a sweaty, faintly greasy definition to each muscle, so that I looked, even at rest, like someone hard at some powerful labor.

It was wonderful, I thought. I had used to think that something always turned up. It was true, of course, but inadequate, and as an only partially optimistic vision of the world it was a little vague. It was no philosophy to live by unless one enjoyed long waiting. I know now that although something will always turn up, one needn’t wait. Any position, any action, however absurd, produces consequences. The wilder the action the more desirable the consequences. Everything works; anything works. Chewing gum will plug a dike. One must remember that, as
all
aggressors are fond of saying about their enemies, the world is decadent. It won’t fight. So right away I have the advantage of surprise, the high ground of the insane gesture. A steady hand and a poker face are all one needs. Only be bold—brazen it out and the day is yours. Therefore have
chutzaph!

Listen, one man with a cap gun and the proper attitude can take the Bank of England. If there’s little comfort in this, all right. If you think, What can I do with the Bank of England, you’re right—but that’s another story. What can you do with victory itself? We winners know, yes? But rich or poor rich is better, and give or take take is nicer. Are you with me?

With the rest of the Vicks Margaret got the spots I had missed and we walked the five blocks up to the gate. She was a little nervous, I think, but outside the gates is familiar territory for me. It’s my home town, so to speak.

“Hi, Pop,” I said to the policeman behind the gate. “It’s a line I learned from the movies,” I told Margaret. I turned back to the policeman.
“Parle Inglese?”

The policeman shook his head.

“Sono
Boswell,” I said.
“Capito?”

The man said something which of course I didn’t understand. Margaret opened her mouth to translate and I interrupted her. “Don’t speak,” I said, “don’t say a word.” I put my hand on the gate to push it open and the policeman moved stubbornly in front of it. He asked me something.

“Sono
Boswell,” I said again.
“Capito?”

He looked at me a little uncertainly, trying to decide whether he had ever seen me before. He examined my shiny, shirtless torso as if, after all, it was not such a very unusual sight.
“Sono
Boswell.
Boswell,”
I said.
“Capito?”
I said very softly.

He was going to say something, but before he could open his mouth I spoke again.
“Sono
Boswell.
Capito? Capito?”

He shook his head, deciding he did not know me, but a little unsure of it.

I said it slowly, sounding a little exasperated this time.
“Sono
Boswell.
Capito?”

Now he was very unsteady. I gave him another one.
“Sono
Boswell.
So-no
Bos-well. Bozzz-well.
Ca-pi-to?”

He said something in a very rapid Italian. “Tch- tch-tch,” I said.
“Sono Americano. No parle Italiano.”

He repeated whatever he had said more slowly.

“Americano,”
I said when he was through, smiling widely, innocently. I shrugged a little stupidly and smiled even more broadly. Then I turned to Margaret and spoke very quickly in English. For his benefit I tried to make it sound as if I were saying, My my what are we to do now here it is already such and such o’clock and we’re late for our appointment and all of us will lose our jobs if we don’t get inside. I said, “Don’t look so nervous, Margaret. We’re almost through. I recognize the third degree of self-doubt on his face. I want you to say something in English now. Anything—it doesn’t make any difference. Make it should like a suggestion.”

Margaret hesitated.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Say something. Anything at all. It ought to sound as if you’re giving me an idea.”

“I might be able to live with you,” Margaret said.

“Ah,” I said, “ah.” I turned back to the policeman.

“Sono
Boswell,
capito?”
I said. I flexed my muscles. I held up my left arm and made the biceps jump around on it. I did some of Sandusky’s best stuff. I pointed to the high gloss on my body. All the while I repeated the simple formula.
“Sono
Boswell.
Capitol Capito?”

The policeman began to nod in faint recognition. The more I asked him if he understood, the surer he became. I smiled, nodding vigorously, repeating my name. Boswell, smile, vigorous nodding, muscle spasm. Boswell, smile, vigorous nodding, astonishing sudden appearance of hidden muscle like a submarine surfacing. Boswell, smile, vigorous nodding, delighted pointing to some intricate maneuver under the skin.

“Capito,”
he said at last.
“Capito. Samson!”

“Ca
pito
?” I said.

“Si, capito, capito,”
he said. “Bosswail.” He pulled the gate open wide and beckoned us inside. We walked past him beaming and smiling. He waved and I waved.