But you don’t know. You breathe beside me, ill at ease. You hide your uneasiness by dictating rules. You tell me what you want to do and what you don’t want to do. You repeat that you are not a femme. You say you want to be paid well. Your laugh is strained. You smile. Then you act like a tough guy. You tell me to watch out because you’re a tough guy. And you’re not a femme. It’s just for the money.
I say nothing. I listen to your breathing. I try to take possession of it. You have to understand: I don’t want to hurt you. It’s just that yours is a breath that I am lacking.
Empty.
The gaping mouths of the Colosseum are arresting desolation. I’ve always thought that it was the blood that made them noble. The death of others, especially if it is bloody, illuminates objects. The life that once was has left a spectral breath, captured in a thousand films. The gladiator, grown old, gropes in the dark, trying to stand up to the parameters of the battle. He has been there for a thousand years, waiting for an enemy, and all he sees, instead, is a swarm of lunatics equipped with cameras. He poses, flexes his muscles, yawns. In the beginning, he tried to tell people that none of it was true and that death in the arena was miserable and illegitimate, that a gladiator was brought there filthy and emaciated, that the savage beasts had no trouble devouring him, and that at times the gladiator almost failed to defend himself. His only desire was to die quickly, as soon as possible, and become a ghost. In the beginning, the gladiator-ghost wanted to unmask the lie, but later, like everyone else, he surrendered.
Now he roams around, gaunt, appearing in the dark cavities and passing through them silently. A cat tries to steal his mantle, but it’s a just playfulness. Cats can recognize ghosts. It is we men who have a hard time doing so.
You busy yourself with your sweater, beside me. You take it off, pumping up your muscles. Your tang invades the car and I accelerate. I smile. I am never completely captivated. I am never entirely able to let myself go. I nonetheless observe myself succumbing to desire.
You take off a shoe as well.
The dirty feet of Rome walk on roads a thousand years old. Dirty feet run on improvised little soccer fields, wear shoes that are too tight, clamber on loose heels, get injured, heal, are liberated. In the end, they are sheathed again. Dirty feet inside clean shoes, with a heel.
History flows along in confused rivulets. It’s an illusion that it is linear. We like to think so, to imagine a beginning and an end, because that way we can understand. History instead dupes us. It is a ball of yarn unraveled by a cat. I am the cat and I rush toward Via di San Gregorio with my prey in my teeth. I don’t bite down though: I don’t want to wound it. Only to allow myself, in the end, to become the victim. It is a subtle desire to imagine one’s own death and transform it into legend.
No one knows what’s in store for him. We try to imagine. But life is a master of fantasies. I am a disciple. As clever as I am, I will never be able to really understand.
At one time, chariots raced in the Circus Maximus. The echo of the shouting and applause remains in the air and is not erased. If you gather the dust, you feel how light it is and it slips through your fingers like the years that have gone by. But nothing has been erased. It is an illusion that the past disappears. Its strength lies in being transformed. Today’s gladiators confront one another in a different way, but the taste of dust and blood remains, in the mouth, as the only reliable trace of the battle.
In this city, the body of a kidnapped politician may be found.
In this city, young revolutionaries and young policemen have died and will die.
In this city, we have seen and will see different weapons taken up with the usual rage inside.
The taste of blood is not erased.
There is no past. It is all, in fact, in a perpetual present.
You don’t know.
That’s what I like: Your mind does not know, your body cannot know.
The taste of blood is not erased.
Viale Aventino is another artery on which I speed along, a subtle virus in the body of the city. Houses of fictitious nobility conceal the Lungotevere from me, to my right. I miss the water. I want to go fishing for memories in the river. If I could rob corpses of their memories, I would.
But there is no time, there is no time.
The water flows along, immutable. Rubbish has accumulated, making the flow heavy and sluggish, deceptively harmless. There are treasures at the bottom of the Tiber, which has cushioned blows and concealed sins. The river does not disguise itself. From the bridges, we see ourselves in the filthy water for what we are: aggregates of mongrel desires that we are ashamed to confess.
You, however, are not ashamed. There is a straightforward, simple artlessness in the awkward gestures with which you open the window and lean your elbow out. You watch me out of the corner of your eye, proud to be in control of the situation. You interpret my silence as acquiescence, and in fact it is. I am ready, my boy, to do anything to have you: You are certain of this. The defiance you show is a performance that I am gladly willing to humor. Under your skin, your tense muscles prevent fluid movements. You are a young puppet, resisting the strings that control him. But the strings are strong and the puppeteer shrewd and determined.
Is it me?
The puppeteer has no emotions. He is lucid and stern. He is not seeking memories but money. He has no desire for flesh. He does not love you and is not attracted by you. He is not prepared to caress you. He does not think of you as the body of this city. He does not drive around at night scouring Rome in a luxury car. He has no money to spend on you to make you happy. He does not want to make you happy. He does not want to feel your skin beneath his fingers. He is not speeding along Viale Aventino (or is he? Is there a car following us? Maybe.). The puppeteer is a stern, organized individual. He could never fall in love, even for a minute. He is the ideal executioner, because he believes in punishment as education. It’s his mission.
The puppeteer is the black heart of this city.
It’s not me.
I’m not pulling your strings.
Rather, it seems, you are pulling mine.
The body grows. The city expands beyond its confines. Toward its confines is where I’m bringing you.
Via Ostiense: It is an evening of great roads that lead where I want to go. The street dwellers slacken. We are few, we nocturnal travelers, closed within this private world of metal and glass, silent with our thoughts.
The houses become different, Rome removes her false dignity and exposes bits of skin. Smooth, dark, wounded, filthy, soft, young skin. The skin of a body chasing after a ball. The skin of a mouth screaming. The skin of a hand that grasps, caresses, strikes, pinches, scratches.
Skin.
The skin of Rome begins to be exposed.
That is what I want, madam: to expose you in order to reach your heart.
But you are hungry, and heart, yours or mine, matters little to you. You are hungry and restless. You look around, look behind you (is there a car following us? Maybe.).
I’m not concerned. Young boys are anxious and nervous. I’m not concerned. I never am.