The tour bus moves at a snail’s pace towards the Coliseum and I am low enough, depressed enough, not to give a damn if we get there at all. Under happy, excited conditions my dear husband and I had been here eight years ago. Now my daughter sits beside me trying to make conversation, force my mouth to smile more often. She has hope. I don’t. Our bus is one of hundreds, all indistinguishable from each other except for the large white number on the windshield and rear of the bus. #101 is easy to remember but I note it on my hand. We move quickly, fall in behind #100.
Flags of all colors, shapes and sizes make a colorful sea. Our guide has an overly large red and white striped one that keeps us in line like prisoners in a chain gang. She has our tickets and we enter the Coliseum. I watch out for broken stones, cats which mean rats and catch a few strangled English words from our guide. My daughter insists we stay close to the guide, wants to learn more about the gladiators, feel the swords going in and see the blood coming out. Dini makes me cringe. My almost new tour book is handy. I give her facts. ‘This falling down historic relic was started in 72 A.D. , held 50,000 spectators, had 80 entrance ramps and could be totally emptied in 5 minutes. Dini, how can anybody know about the 5 minutes? Here take my book. A new section was found recently with tiles and plaster figures. It isn’t open to the public yet, so if you want to see it, come back with a husband.’
‘Avanti, avanti!’ Signora Catherina waves her flag and leads us right to our bus. The jabbering, excitement of what we had seen fills the gassy air. I am well aware I sit still, feel like a marble column with a huge crack going up from the ground to the cornice. The couple seated in front of us turns to tell us how awful it must have been to watch the gladiators die. For once I laugh. ‘The spectators loved the gore. That’s what they came to see.’ Dina grimaces at me. I shut up.
We head to the hills of Rome, make pit stops, look out to see the Golden Dome, hear more history. I make a mighty effort to show interest, to smile, to sometimes make a remark. Dina prods me to do more.
Maybe I doze off for a few minutes or else I got involved in my own memories. Visions of our club dances, parties, jokes bubble in my thoughts. I loved to tell and listen to jokes, loved to dance, do the cha cha, the twist. But I knew my limits, never, never joined in singing. My self imposed limits let me know I sound like a screech owl being clawed by an eagle and I refuse to pretend I am a canary.
Evening has fallen over Rome. Our bus almost chokes going up a narrow dirt road where 42 of us, the driver and guide will have dinner al fresco. Spotless white table cloths cover wooden tables. Candles protected from the wind in glass containers have are circled with violets and greens. It all looks so romantic. Dini and I are the only singles in our group and we both feel a void. A waiter in a white apron, covering his shirt to his ankles offers red or white wine. I shake my head to decline. Dini points to the red and shows him duo fingers. My glass is filled. Our dining companions, in fact, I guess the entire travel group, must be aware that I am a recent widow. How could they miss the melancholy in my eyes? ‘Dini, somebody drank my wine,’ I whisper. When I look again, it is full. Dinner is excellent. My plate is empty but my wine glass remains full. The cannoli is far better than what I get in the bakery at home.
I sip my first glass of wine as if it were nectar of the gods. The twinkling stars are my roof. A gnarled old man with a winking eye walks amongst us, playing an accordion that has seen better days. So have I. I don’t recognize his songs but sway with the fun and drink ½ of my wine. Yes, I do feel better, stand to stretch my legs and hasten to catch the music man. ‘Can you play ‘Hello, Dolly?’ I ask. He nods and begins. I grow wings and float behind him, go table to table, flailing my arms to come follow me. ‘Sing, sing’ everybody sing.’ The sheep follow me. ‘Well, hello, Dolly, hello Dolly’ reverberates through the hills. America is listening. Dini brings me back to the table as those behind me and the duds who didn’t get up all applaud. I bow and rush to the bushes to vomit. Catherina finds me helps me to the bus. Even in my dizziness, I hear applause. It’s a long ride back to our hotel, I am told, but don’t feel it at all. I sleep until we pull up and Dini shakes me.
We have an early morning start as we are headed to Florence. As soon as the bus starts I ask the guide if I may use her mike. Not being able to whistle, I stand there smiling and surprisingly enjoy full silence. All I want to do is apologize to all of you for being a sourpuss, singing like the drunken fool I was. You all seemed to have survived my singing. Catherina, have you taken the roll yet?’
Mrs, Brodsky, seat 12 on even days, 13 on odds, pipes up, ‘Why in the world are you apologizing? You were super. Every body had fun, even the accordion player. The driver and Catherina add their ‘yes’ to the chorus. There are a few possibilities. Maybe I was wrong and I’m not a screech owl. Maybe the wine was drugged somehow.
Or maybe, ear plugs were distributed. I don’t know but won’t be singing on the radio any time in the future.
No comments:
Post a Comment