When people in Italy see a gentleman behind a table full of books and papers, they exclaim gravely and pityingly, “È un signore che lavora col cervello!”
“You’re always reading …” Ida said one late afternoon. “Do you like reading so much?”
“Less by the day. What about you?”
“I’ve never liked reading. I don’t have the patience, reading bores me. Books all say the same things …”
“Do you like Rome, Ida?”
“No, Rome is all churches. There are one or two in my town, Asti, naturally, but there they organize first-rate afternoon dances and the wine is frizzante and really good …”
Ida was aware of everything that happened in the boarding house, of when people came and went: she was an alert nosy parker and could keep you up-to-date on all fronts.
“Today,” she said one afternoon, “the Viennese lady received a wonderful bouquet of flowers!
“Which Viennese lady?”
“The one living opposite your room in number eleven. She’s young and beautiful, but very delicate …”
“Is she ill?”
“She’s not left her room for a month. She has a nurse. She spends her days reading on the sofa.”
“So who is this lady? Is she married? Is she single?”
Ida shrugged her shoulders and then replied: “She comes from Vienna. She receives a large bouquet of flowers every day and lots of presents. Yesterday she was brought a wonderful gold ring.”
“Doesn’t she have visitors?”
“Not one. Her nurse never leaves her. She sees the doctor. Sometimes the Monsignore who lives on the fourth floor pays her a visit … perhaps he’s her confessor.”
“So why does she live here? She could probably afford to live in a grand hotel.”
Ida didn’t reply.
After that conversation I began to feel vaguely curious about the lady who lived in number eleven. When I walked down the passage, I’d glance at her door. It was almost always shut and I never heard a noise inside. Once it happened to be open and I took a brief look. A few days later, at dusk, the door was open wider still and I saw the lady in question.
At the back I saw a large window that let in the dull light from the cul-de-sac overlooked by that part of the building. The lady was lying down, as if in a fainting fit — her forehead lolling backwards on an ottoman, surrounded by cushions, eyes shut and arms dangling down, as if they were tired. Diluted by the gray glow from outside, the blue electric light fell on her face, blurring her features. I thought she looked like a woman in her thirties, tall, svelte, and in her prime. Her ethereal, transparent gold hair seemed particularly magnificent.
My café in Rome has always been the Caffé Greco, Via Condotti. It is a quiet, peaceful café, with customers — especially at certain times of day — accustomed to making the least noise possible. In that sense it seems more like a northern European café, and if rain streamed down the windows more often, the illusion would be perfect. But Rome in fresh watercolors isn’t the norm. Piranesi is more in abundance.
I sat at the back of the café, in the rectangular room under the skylight. In the early afternoon a ghostly, rather tense, sour light penetrated the thick glass panes in the ceiling: the dawn light of late-risers, a rather sad, empty dawn, without a hint of pink. The scant customers using the café at that time tended to be foreign clerics. Once they’d sat down on a red velvet bench, they’d light up a heavy clerical pipe or cigar in a holder opposite an espresso and glass of cold water.
My companion in that café was usually the Count de Logotete. Don Antoni Logotete — for that’s what he called himself — was a slightly built old man, who was beginning to wrinkle, with an almost imperceptible hint of a hunchback. He dressed superbly and always looked fresh out of the box. He had a few wisps of white hair, blue eyes, thin lips and nose, an insect’s hands, large transparent ears, and a nasal voice that quivered like a kid-goat’s.
He had lived in Madrid for many years and was married to a distinguished Madrid lady, a very silent person who seemed to prefer a life of solitude and memories to mingling with the madding crowd. The lady’s temperament was much appreciated by her husband who repaid her silence and the freedom she gave him with trite, tender clichés.
Logotete spoke Spanish with an elegant, ceremonial diction and the grammatical perfection of a paper-bound academic. His phrasing was sometimes so perfect there was no way one could understand him. It was a language devoid of character or the charm of exceptions and irregularity; it was enameled and embalmed. At any rate he seemed to cherish good memories of our country and, as he said, his final expectation in life was to die in the country house his wife owned among the pine groves in the province of Cuenca. Though gossip had it that the house and its pine groves were a pure fantasy of his own making, since the countess, in terms of property, had barely ever had anything grander than a Madrid boarding house to her name.
He was a genuine Palaiologos, a pure Greek from Byzantium, related to Maurice Paléologue, the famous French ambassador, who held that position in Saint Petersburg at the tragic time when war declared in 1914. His father had been the Greek minister in Paris and knew Lord Byron and Capodistria. He had received an outstanding education in France and Germany and was a man who belonged to an extinct species: a one hundred percent European. He possessed the most intricately elegant Latin that has ever been constructed in this ignorant era, a Latin the Monsignori in Rome found too perfect in a layman and thus suspected him of being a follower of Voltaire. His polyglot knowledge of living languages was almost criminal, and, apart from European languages, his family languages were Turk and Modern Greek — though he could never speak them to his wife. He had received a legal training, and his French and German universities had accepted his famous theses on the Pandects when he was a student. He belonged to the historical school and venerated Savigny and Fustel de Coulanges as his masters. Though an adept of a particular school, however, the count never tried to resolve his problems by following the principles he theoretically considered to be definitive and set in marble. He was an empiricist in practice and was fond of saying that principles are only of use when one is ill or has lots of money.
When he came into his substantial inheritance, he purchased a stable of racehorses he took to Ostend. That led him to enjoy a markedly mundane life of leisure that was notoriously at odds with the traditionally conservative principles he advocated as an academic. The truth is his mind swung between contradictions that he found impossible to resolve for many years until the German invasion in 1914 swept away like a deluge racetracks, stables, horses, bookmakers, and top hats. He then began a vagabond life trying out fresh options. In Spain he met the person who became his countess. In Argentina he devoted himself to cattle-breeding. He was Greece’s commercial attaché — with little in the way of commerce — in Portugal, until he fetched up in Rome as an old man with little in the way of cash, which is where I made his acquaintance.
From the very first I was under the impression that Logotete’s material problems in the Eternal City had been stressful and various. Nothing is grimmer in this kind of city than pressing problems of that nature. He lived in a room — with the right to a kitchen — in a dingy, down-at-heel palace on Via Borgogna, a labyrinth of a place owned by Prince Colonna. He lived by giving private lessons. One day advertisements appeared in shop windows on Corso in which the count offered the citizens of Rome and foreign communities lessons in Sanskrit, Turkish, Greek, and Latin. It was depressing to see a man who had professed such affection for purebred horses and beautiful women transmuted into a teacher of dead languages. The roast-chicken hue of the venerable stone of ancient Rome made the spectacle even more woeful, because ancient stones provide an incentive to get on with life. Be that as it may, his teaching, though not a failure, didn’t allow him very much leeway. Enough to visit twice a day one or other of those Italian bars that are so metallic and shiny, with shelves full of green, yellow, pink, or orangey aperitifs, eat two chicken croquettes, and drink a small glass of cherry-colored wine. These croquettes were always the target of fierce criticism in Italy, their chicken content being held to be dubious, and, in any case, most deficient.