I stand alone in a crowd, listening to the fountain gurgle and plop. In my hand I hold a coin, a lira. In my mind I hold a wish that I had two friends beside me, or even one would be better than none. Three coins in the fountain, be damned. Why waste two? Why waste one? Trevi is for lovers. I had one but he is gone, gone forever. My Luigi got ptomaine poisoning in the Casbah where medical aid goes back to the Phoenicians.
My Luigi died but I talk to him every day and night. Now I stand amongst strangers arguing with myself. Should I toss my lira into the fountain or not? The choice is not mine. A lady, if I can call her that, pushes hard against me and my coin and I fall into the fountain. The water isn’t deep but my humiliation rips thru my gut. Laughter brings me back to reality. I walk slowly over to the flowing water, stand under it and pose for cameras. Rousing applause makes me realize what I must look like. A few hands beckon, want to help me out. ‘Gratzi, gratzi,’ I say. The policia arrive, motion to me to come to the edge of the fountain to be helped out. As I walk to the mustachioed, bulging eye one, I stoop, bend, gathering in the wet coins. I unbutton my sopping blouse and drop them in my bra.
The fattest policeman yanks me up, puts a blanket over my shoulders and handcuffs on my wrists. Knowing next to no Italian, I put a quizzical look on my face and ask, ‘Porquoi? Porquoi?’ He speaks English much better than I speak Italian (or French) and replies in three simple words, ‘You are a thief.’ The surprise I give him knocks his hat off, into the water. It floats in circles and he is boiling mad.
I open my blouse all the way, slide one arm at a time out of it and then the bra with the Trevi coins. His mouth opens wide as he leads me to his patrol car. ‘No swimming allowed in the fountain. You will have to pay a fine or go to jail. I suggest to him to let me count the coins I have collected. His kindness overwhelms me. I count. ‘Not enough, Lady,’ he says. I open my purse that is ruined into uselessness and give him the few wet bills from my wallet. Ah, I have reached his nasty soul. He silently puts them in his own pocket, unlocks my cuffs and the louse takes away my blanket.
I was unaware how huge my audience had grown. Paparazzi are taking my picture. A newspaper crew wants to interview me. The Italian sun is at high noon. It’s hot, really hot.
Most likely, though, I’m the coolest one in the crowd.
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