Little by little, he becomes familiar with the city. If he rises early enough, he can walk across the Ponte Garibaldi and attend Mass at the chapel of Santa Cecilia in Trastevere, where the body of the saint is entombed, incorrupt since the third century. Some mornings, he recalls the incorrupt body of a nun that he saw when he walked through the hills of Istria and slept unheeding beside her in the little chapel with the well. He remembers the mysterious sun that warmed him and gave him strength to continue. Who was that saint, preserved by heaven for an unknown purpose? And whose hand was it that had been raised in a priestly blessing? Now he will never know, because it is impossible to return to his homeland.
So far Josip has not encountered Mrs. Conway. Does she live in this great palace? He would like to thank her for her help in obtaining the job. The foreman tells him that he doesn’t know the names of all the Americans who work here. There are a lot of them, and maybe a few are supposed to remain secret. But he does know who Mr. Conway is—he comes to the embassy a few times a week, though he works in another building in a different part of the city—part of the United States Mission to Italy—mostly it concerns itself with money problems between the two countries. Or maybe other things—he doesn’t know for sure. All that is too far above his head.
Josip meets her at the end of his third week of employment. It is a Friday morning, with plenty of sunshine and a strong evergreen smell baking in the hedge beside the “elephant steps”, as they are called. He is sweeping this long staircase of wide steps that ascend from the garden to an upper promenade. The Italian princesses once led their pet elephant up and down on it. He is about halfway down when she appears at the bottom and glances up, her eyes assessing the scattering of leaves and brush. She climbs the stairs toward him, taking care not to soil her gold shoes in the debris. Her hair and her dress are gold as well. Her skin is also gold. There is gold at her earlobes and on her wrists. Speechless for a moment, he steps aside, clearing his throat, and is about to catch her attention. But she brushes past him, casting a brief smile and an appraising look, then moves on.
“Mrs. Conway”, he says in unsteady English.
She stops and turns around. “Yes?” she asks with upraised brows.
“Mrs. Conway, I wish to thank you for—”
Her puzzled look is replaced by sudden recognition. She extends a hand, which he does not see at first, but then notices and shakes once, manfully, and drops.
“Joe-seep?”
“Yes, Madame, it is I.”
This makes her titter and cover her mouth. “Well, I wouldn’t have recognized you. Not at all. You look as if you’ve dropped fifteen years since I last saw you. It’s been, what, almost a year? But here you are at last!”
“You are part in it Mrs. Conway cannot be replaced, for new hope it gives to me this position.”
Chuckling once more, perhaps because of his stilted English, she puts a hand on his arm, becomes willowy, and steps a little too close. “Oh, not at all. I did nothing really, just a word here or there.”
“I thank you for it.” He bows his head in deference.
“Well, I must be off. Please give my very best to dear Slavica. I don’t know when I’ll get up to Venice again, but if I ever do—” She turns to go, then pauses. “Oh, I forgot. Are you an Italian citizen now?”
“No, I am waiting because I do not see what I do. It may be they send me back.”
“To Yugoslavia? Oh, I surely hope not!”
“I hope it not, too.”
“Don’t worry”, she smiles reassuringly, patting his arm. “I’ll put in a word here and there. Now, I have to go because the women are planning a garden party.”
Off she goes up the elephant stairs, skipping and humming to herself—a strong and beautiful woman with a nice laugh. Well, it’s nice enough if she is not laughing at him. Good-bye, American lady. I do not think so badly of you now, but why are you the way you are? Why do I feel like a simple-minded child when you speak to me? Am I still so repulsive, have I become the hideous ornament at your garden party, am I in need of your condescending pity?
Yes, Josip nods to himself. Yes, I do very much need your pity, because your pity may inspire you to help me, and your help may keep me from being torn to pieces by wolves and sharks, or being pressed into wine under the most beautiful limestone in the world.
The Roman Forum is a fascinating place: a metropolis for the imagination to reconstruct. After Mass on Sundays, Josip usually spends a few hours wandering about the ruins, trying to see it as it once was. He also likes to go to the Gregorian University now and then, because it revives a lost sense of his university years. There are evenings when he sits alone in his room trying to reconstruct the cosmology, the fragments he had composed in Split, which his interrogators seized and doubtless destroyed. He cannot remember much of it, a few pieces only.
As Christmas approaches, he thinks of Ariadne more and more, recalling every detail of their only Christmas together, before the world ended. Their child would be how old now? Five or six? Does this little soul see him, look down from paradise and think about its father? Was Ariadne able to baptize the baby before its death?
He attends the great Mass on the evening of the twenty-fourth and feels his sorrows anew. The sins committed against his family have left a gap in the world and a void in his heart. Is it a void—or is it a stable waiting to be filled? How hard it is to keep from falling under the tyranny of dark emotions. The desire to kill has left him, hopefully forever, but the feelings of confused rage and helplessness that sometimes rise up to overwhelm him have not yet disappeared. As the Pope lifts the Body of Christ above the altar of the world, Josip bows, worshipping and pleading, asking Christ’s forgiveness for all the anger still inside him.
After Mass, he remains kneeling at the very back. When the crowds have thinned he goes forward to reverence the kiss-smoothed feet of the statue of St. Peter. Then it is possible to go out into the world again with peace in his heart, bearing no man ill will—repentant and poor and repulsive, yet grateful. In this manner, he passes the body of Fra Anto with respect and a prayer for his soul, without fear, returns to his room with the holy fire in his breast, and resumes his life of ordinary things.
Do I forgive? he asks himself as he sweeps the embassy driveway, between the arrivals and departures of limousines. Do I forgive everything? And how may I fulfill my promise? How can I do good to those who harm me? No one has harmed me here, and though the people I know are few in number, they are good and generous. The evil ones are all behind me in the past.
Now it is May. Flowers fill the market stalls everywhere, and the city has begun to bake in the heat of the growing sun. Josip has become a trusted employee. This remains something of a mystery. Who protects him; who upholds his status? Is he a unique category suspended between the worlds of the privileged and the absolutely dispossessed? How does he continue to float? Perhaps it is Mrs. Conway who has brought this about. If so, she is better than he thought, for it seems she has asked for nothing in return. He has seen her in passing a few times, waving from a distance with a lingering look before she enters the embassy. Has she put in a word here and there? Or has he merely been overlooked? Will the Italian government pry into his whereabouts, ask who is this man working at the American embassy without records or identification papers, and how does he pay his taxes? And why does he breathe Roman air as if it were his own? Are they like this, he wonders. Maybe not. Perhaps it is just his fears speaking to him. There are more Africans in the city now, people with scars on their faces and less visible scars within their eyes, so it may be that this country is kind to those who flee their nations without papers.
Occasionally, he must work at night inside the building, after the doors of offices are locked. An American guard will pace about the hallways while Josip and a few other servants vacuum and dust or wash the insides of windows. All wastebaskets are emptied by other staff—Americans only; then the papers are fed into shredding machines in the basement
and incinerated in a furnace. Yes, the world is full of secrets.
On some evenings, the embassy is not deserted. There are parties in the salons of the upper floor and larger events in the ballroom below, with stringed instruments playing among ancient, very valuable Roman sculptures. The cleaning staff cannot go down there whenever a ball is in progress, nor can they vacuum because of the noise. But there is plenty to do nevertheless, such as stripping the wax from the hallways of the office floors and then washing, drying, and rewaxing. Usually by dawn the revelers are gone, leaving only the workers and the guards. Then he is permitted to drive the big polishing machine that turns the hallway into glass, making a fine smell like candles. He loves this part, he supposes, because he commands for a very brief time a powerful machine. Well, it is fun! When the work shift ends, he goes out through the gates, salutes the guard, and walks across the river, arriving at the tomb of Santa Cecilia in time for morning Mass. The city is quietest then. Afterward, he will see swallows swooping over the river as they hunt insects at sunrise.
He is sweeping the elephant staircase again today. What a cleanup job it must have been when the elephants went up and down it daily. Now it is used only by officials and special guests. What makes a guest “special”? It is hard to say. Perhaps it is anyone who has business dealings with the Americans, and possibly they have personal relationships as well. Yes, of course, they would—they are human after all!
He has just finished this musing when two figures appear from around the hedge, about ten elephant-steps above him. They halt at the top, and, as he shields his eyes from the direct rays of the sun, he notes that they are women. Indeed, one of them is Mrs. Conway. They have their heads together and are tittering and whispering. He does not like the sound of it. Very adolescent. They link arms and step down the staircase like new-world princesses. As they approach, he notes that their faces are coyly, conspiratorially smiling—again like silly girls talking about boys. They are eyeing him with interest.
He straightens and assumes his formal posture, useful for maintaining distance.
Mrs. Conway comes to a stop, gives him a smile, and says, “This is Joe-seep, our foundling.” More titters.
“Joe-seep, this is my friend, Mrs. Sybil-Pfiefer.”
“How do you do, Madame”, he says with a nod of the head.
“Divine”, says the woman, catching Mrs. Conway’s eye.
She offers her hand in the exquisitely extended gesture of a genteel woman bestowing largesse. He shakes it and drops it as quickly as possible.
“Mrs. Sybil-Pfiefer is with the British embassy”, Mrs. Conway explains. “Rather, her husband is. In any event, I wanted her to meet you because she has just returned from a holiday in Yugoslavia.”
What to say? Oh, I am glad you escaped! No one killed you?
“Dubrovnik was splendid”, effuses Mrs. Sybil-Pfiefer. “So warm and friendly, and the colors—all turquoisy and reddish, especially the big creamy castle. And, if you can believe it, oranges simply dropping into our laps wherever we turned. The Yugoslav government gave us guides who were so good to us. Wonderful hotels and meals that I can’t describe—heavenly!”
“And the tallest men in the world”, adds Mrs. Conway with a little smile, provoking another titter from her friend.
“I am happy you see it, my country”, murmurs Josip. “It is beautiful, with many difficulty there now.”
The British woman flutters her hand. “Well, you’re so right on that point. It wasn’t all a bed of roses. In Dubrovnik, we visited an utterly fascinating aquarium with tanks full of fish and other marine creatures. But I must say I was appalled at the treatment one poor creature receives. It was a giant sea turtle paddling about in a tank like a hole in the floor. I mean, really, it had been there for decades and decades, and it looked terribly unhappy with its lot.”
“It was well fed, I suppose”, says Mrs. Conway.
“Oh, I expect so, otherwise it would have died. But really, how cruel to imprison a creature of the wilds like that in such a small tank! We lodged a formal complaint with the Yugoslav government. Hugh has connections, you know, because he’s liasing our cultural exchange program with the President’s office in Belgrade.”
“Good for you, Sarah”, says Mrs. Conway.
Josip resumes sweeping.
“Well, lovely to have met you”, sparkles Mrs. Sybil-Pfiefer. The women continue on their way, with backward glances and heads together, comparing notes.
Good-bye, turtle-lady, good-bye gold America-lady, please do not speak to me again about your moral outrage. Please take a holiday on a white island in the northern Adriatic.
Josip rebukes himself and finishes sweeping the steps in record time.
Summer. He likes to walk about the city in his free hours, observing life’s surprises. He sometimes stops and chats with people, gives coins to beggars, talking with them about their lives. He buys food for them and plants a few seeds in their minds too. It’s not much, but it’s what he knows how to do. He goes to a nearby library whenever he can and has begun to read in his field again, perusing texts of higher mathematics, though neither his Italian nor his English is really sufficient for it. Some of the symbolic language is recognizable but not enough to reconnect the severed portions of his memory. A little physics in German offers stimulation, and a Polish article on quantum mechanics—the Slavic roots of Polish and Croatian help the translation—but it proves to be more a source of mental strain than a step forward.
The Yugoslavian government has an embassy in the city, but he avoids it and its propaganda bookshop as if they were the gates of hell. Still, he sometimes longs to dash inside and ask if they have any technical publications in Croatian. This would be imprudent because the watchers among them would ask questions, would want to know who he is and why he is in Rome. They might even go so far as to follow him to his room or his workplace. Perhaps not, but it’s better not to risk it. He cannot speak lies even to protect himself, and evasions would only incite their curiosity. Thus, he continues to study English and Italian dictionaries each night and to hope for a breakthrough. Is anything being done about his status? He must ask for a meeting with Mr. or Mrs. Conway. They will know if progress is being made. Paperwork takes a lot of time in this country. They are using their influence with the Italian government, he is sure, but the Italian way is ponderous, Byzantine.
Once again, he happens to meet Mrs. Conway alone. He is gathering hedge prunings when she appears out of nowhere and sweeps past, sliding her hand across his shoulder as lightly as a feather, then down his spine. She pauses with a lingering glance, a certain tilt of her chin, and a voice from deep in her throat says, “I’m doing what I can.”
Though disturbed by the intimacy of her touch, alarmed even, he is more desperate to know if there is news.
“Mrs. Conway, excuse please, can you say if it is possible I get documents?”
“I haven’t forgotten”, she whispers. “I think about it a lot.” Then another pause. “I think about you a lot.”
Refusing to read any inference, he nods appreciatively.
“I thank you, Mrs. Conway”, he says with extra formality.
She smiles and skips away. Yes, a forty-year-old woman skipping. He does not like it. It is very immature behavior in an older woman. He knows she must be about forty because there are little wrinkles about the eyes, though a person could easily think she was ten years younger. Thirty or forty, she is nevertheless a great beauty. Disturbed, attracted, his heart beating hard, he is so appalled by himself that he abruptly gathers the prunings and heads toward the outdoor incinerator with an angry stride, chastising himself all the way. Enough of that! When the shift is over, he leaves work with some relief, attends an evening Mass at Santa Maria Maggiore, goes to confession, and walks home in peace. Before crawling under a sheet on his cot, he prays for the soul of Ariadne, missing her terribly. He lets the pain of it move him, weeps, and drifts into sleep.
Another day. He is washing the f
loor of a little portico in the embassy. Wine-spills have spotted the white limestone, and it’s his task to remove the stains. He is on his knees scrubbing with soap and water, but it’s proving to be ineffective. The stones remind him of Goli Otok, and in an instant he is back there, staring into the face of death. At that moment he hears the tippy-tappy of a woman in high heels approaching the portico from the corridor. She enters behind him, but he does not look up. Suddenly a hand strokes his shoulder. Pulled violently from the island of death, he jerks away and struggles to his feet.
“Oh, sorry, honey, I didn’t mean to startle you”, she says in a velvet tone, pursing her lips with sympathy, standing too close. He steps back.
“Mrs. Conway,” he murmurs without thinking, “you must respect your dignity.” His tone is polite, in a quiet voice that no one else can overhear.
“My dignity?” she laughs, sliding the hand, as light as a feather, down his arm.
“Please!” he erupts, and steps back again.
Her face tightens, the smile disappears, and her eyes melt from sweetness into cool sarcasm. “Sorry if I offended you. Just trying to be friends.”
He bows his head, frowning. “Of course”, he mumbles. “I misunderstood.”
“Yes, I guess you did.” With a cold look she turns on her heels and strides away.
Back to the limestone. Down on his knees. Human relationships! he thinks. So complicated! Scrubbing, scrubbing. The wine stains are coming out, but not the stains in the soul. Where did these stones come from really? Carrara is expensive; Goli is cheap. Yes, it is possible that these very stones came from the island. If so, men died in chains while cutting them and carrying them, shedding their blood on them. His lips tighten to a line, his eyes snap with rage and contempt. He spits on the flagstone. Shocked at himself, he swears that never, never, never would he spit on the blood of the victims, never would he defile their sacrifice! No, it is the regime he spits on, and the contemptible blindness of spoiled foreigners he spits on, for they cannot see what occurs beneath the plateau of their pleasures and complacency! And if they knew, they would try to forget because their fine floors are more important to them than human lives. Yes, even these generous Americans are like that. He spits on their divided hearts. With one hand they offer freedom to the world, and with the other hand they give half a continent away to evil men.