Italian countryside, May 16, 2011

I’m heading south, I think.  Honestly, I’m not sure that I boarded the right train.  I was on the verge of full-blown panic when I bought my ticket to Naples.  It’s only a few hour trip, though, so I suppose I’ll find out soon.

Everything happened so quickly in Rome.

Nico had asked me if I wanted to hang out with him and some friends last night at one of the clubs where he frequently holds court.  I’d been planning to just stay in and read.  But sitting around the house waiting for Nonie to decide she wanted me out for no reason other than she didn’t like the look of me is not as much fun as as it sounds.  I also figured that with my paranoia growing daily, a night out and a few cocktails might be a good idea.

Everything started out well enough.  First, Nico introduced me to the Negroni, and I’m still getting over the fact that someone found a way to use Campari in a drink that doesn’t make me think of paint thinner.  And as if that wasn’t enough, he then introduced me to a few of his lady friends.  Of course, they were all much too young to be wasting their evening talking to a middle-aged American, so I assume they were doing him some sort of favor.  At any rate, I promised myself I’d try not to bore them at least, and after several cocktails I’m sure I was the very definition of charming.

Thankfully, they were all too polite to tell me otherwise.

So, while Nico mingled here and there, chatting with friends and business contacts, I tried to entertain the pretty Italian girls just to prove to myself I still could.  It was more fun than I’d had in some time.

Until I saw him again.  Somewhere between my third and fourth drink, I spotted the man in the dark suit across the room.  He was sitting alone again, occasionally sipping a drink.  I didn’t catch him sneaking glances my way like I had at lunch a few days ago, but it was enough for me either way.  I bought the girls a round of drinks, paid my tab, and thanked Nico for the entertainment.  He pressed me to stay, to join him at another place in an hour or so, but I pretended I was tired and wanted to turn in.

In truth, my heart was pounding so hard that I struggled to speak normally.  Enough adrenalin coursed through me that I still haven’t managed any sleep. 

Are they going to follow me everywhere?

I very obviously went towards the men’s room and then doubled back through the crowded club as far from the man as I could.  The cool, fresh air outside was a welcome change, and soon my pulse returned to some approximation of normal.

I walked quickly back to the house through the ancient Roman streets, turning my head at every errant sound behind me, startling at every shadow.  I don’t think I was followed.

The house was quiet as a tomb when I got back.  Thankfully, the rest of the family, grandmother included, had already gone to bed.  I hope the stack of lira I left on my nightstand table will make up for me running off in the middle of the night without a word.

I suppose it doesn’t matter, though.  I’ll never see Nonie or Nico again.

At any rate,  I suppose I’m safe enough for now; I didn’t see the man again before I boarded the train.  Not surprisingly, that brings me little comfort.

I’m going to try to relax and get an hour or so of sleep.  Hopefully the rhythm of the train will help.  When I reach Naples, I’m going to have to come up with some kind of plan.  I can’t keep living like this.

Rome, May 11, 2011

I finally got across the Tiber today, to walk through a bit of the the Vatican and see St. Peter’s.  I should probably be ashamed that it’s taken me this long to do it, since it’s coming up on two weeks that I’ve been in Rome.  What finally spurred me to do it was the hope that a bit of traveling around the city might help me get something of a feel for it finally.  Unfortunately, I’m still mostly lost. 

Spending the last 10 days wandering the streets aimlessly near the place where I’ve rented a room hasn’t helped much either.  Between that and all the time I’ve been sitting at the coffee shop, I’ve accomplished next to nothing.

But then, I’m still not sure what to do with myself anyway.

Afterward the Vatican, I had lunch near the Piazza Navona.  The pizza was excellent, even as it wasn’t much like what you’d find in the States.  Still, I enjoyed the simplicity of it.  A man in a dark suit was sitting alone at a table across the room, though, eating nothing and very occasionally sipping a drink I couldn’t identify.  He had a newspaper, but every time I glanced up from my meal or my book, he seemed to be peering right at me.

Such a short time away from home and I’m already getting paranoid.

Regardless, seeing the man led me to thoughts that ruined lunch.  So I cut the meal short and made my way through the crowd back to the train station, checking frequently in case the man happened to be following.

How long before looking over my shoulder seems commonplace?

When I got back to the house where I’ve been staying, I hoped to find Nico awake, at home, and interested in having a drink.  But with his late nights spinning discs at a local club, he often has something to attend to in the afternoon related to his production business.  From what I understand, though, he’s had some reasonable success for a kid in his late twenties, so I can hardly hold it against him.

I entered into the house and found Nonie, the grandmother and matriarch of the family, preparing a dish with of some kind of whole fish.  A small, thin wiry woman, with years of well-earned lines worn into her olive skin, she’s not exactly what I expected to find in an Italian grandmother.  Aren’t they supposed to be big jovial people that are constantly offering you food?

It never ceases to amaze me how quickly American stereotypes fall apart.

Once again, she gave me that dark, appraising look she always does when I enter the house, as if she’s still not sure she wants me around the family.  I can’t really blame her, though.  If she only knew the truth…well, I’m just lucky she doesn’t.  My money is good, though, and has been on time so far, so she has no reason to distrust me, other than a grandmother’s intuition. So I keep getting that look and nothing else.

I offered to help her with the meal, and to my surprise, she agreed.  In very broken English, I was giving instructions on how to pit an olive with the flat of knife that was probably made before I was born.

Holding it, I can’t help but think about that night ten days ago, when I held Frank, my friend and agent of twenty years, as he bled to death on the new, spotless ivory carpet of his living room.