Empire of Light (15 page)

“No. At a hotel,” I say as I shovel more pasta down my neck.

“
Ma perchè?
Hostels are so much cheaper?”

“My mom wouldn’t let me,” I say absentmindedly.

“Your mamma!” he laughs.

Oh shit.

The guy then goes on to tell the other waiters, i.e., the entire restaurant, how I’m a mamma’s boy. I don’t understand what he says exactly, but when he ends his rant with “
Maammmmaaaa!
” and everybody laughs, I get the idea.

“So how much time are you with us here in Rome,” he asks while wiping away a tear with his apron.

“A week,” I mumble in the midst of swallowing more pasta. Maybe if I keep my mouth full I won’t say stupid shit. “Then it’s off to Naples.”

“Napoli!” he says while shaking his head, no. “
Questo posto è molto pericoloso
. Very dangerous! You should stay in Rome!”

“If you keep serving food like this, I just might,” I say, greedily stuffing my face with yet another mouthful.

“
Bene,”
the waiter walks away from the table with a swagger, satisfied that he’s hooked yet another return costumer. This joint will be my kitchen away from home in Rome.

I waddle back to my hotel and, being American, the first thing I do is switch on the TV.

Wow. Is that really
Sanford & Son
dubbed in Italian?

Effing priceless.

I sit on the corner of my bed in a giddy trance as I watch Watts ghetto comedy siphoned through
la lingua viva
. I’ve seen every episode hundreds of times over and I know almost every line. So despite the dubbing I’m still laughing like an idiot.

This particular episode happens to be an all time favorite. It’s this one where Fred’s son, Lamont, throws Fred, played by Redd Foxx, a welcome home party after his return from vacation. I’m at the part where Fred is passing out souvenirs. He gives Aunt Esther a clear sheet of Saran Wrap. She asks Fred what the hell she’s supposed to do with it, and Fred tells her to hold the transparent sheet up to her face.

“It’s your Halloween mask!” I shout at the TV.

I’m rolling on the bed.

Ten minutes later Aunt Esther & Grady are screaming at each other in Italian jive, and I can’t take this shit anymore. I have to change the channel before the front desk starts getting complaints about my howling.

I pick up the remote and advance up a single channel.

My jaw drops in awe at what I’m now seeing on the tube. I stand and walk to the TV, stunned. I bullshit you not, there on the TV is my favorite cinematographer, Vittorio Storaro, discussing the work of my favorite painter, Caravaggio.

This is a cosmic event.

The very two souls who inspired me to make this journey in the first place are on TV in my hotel room, during my first night in Rome.

Storaro motions energetically, passionately, at the paintings that sit on an easel behind him. Of course, I’m too much of a novice speaker to understand what he’s saying. Damn! I’d give up my left nut if I could punch up some subtitles right now.

Thousands of Italian speakers are watching this program as we speak, but I bet ya dollars to donuts that it’s not speaking to anyone like it is to me right now. This is a sign, and a damn good one at that.

However, the program is fleeting. After only a couple of minutes, it’s over, replaced by an over-the-top variety show full of flashing lights, cheesy songs and a giant gaudy audience. I hit the off button.

I sit in the dark for a little while, trying to take in the past forty-eight hours, and I’m suddenly hit with a slight anxiety attack. My safety net is so far away. After I reach out back home with a few emails, I toss off my clothes, crawl under the covers and try to will myself to sleep before I think about how damn lonely I am.

Just a little homesickness. I’m good. I begin to snicker to myself in the dark.

A Halloween mask.

That Fred Sanford was one funny son of a bitch.

***

I feel a gentle tap on the shoulder.

I don’t have to open my eyes to know it’s Mom, waking me up so I can get ready for school. My bed feels too damn good this morning. I keep my eyes closed, nuzzle the comforter tighter under my neck, and I offer her a nonsensical mumble, just enough vocalization to acknowledge her request. Yet she doesn’t go away. She taps my shoulder again, this time more vigorously.

“Okay, Mom! I’ll get up! Leave me alone!” I demand.

I immediately feel like a jerk for yelling at her. I hear her footsteps as she walks away without saying a word to me. The guilt begins to saturate my thoughts, and it spoils my doziness. I couldn’t fall back asleep now even if my life depended on it. Okay, in five seconds I’m going to get up, hit the showers and then go downstairs and make nice with Mom.

Five, four, three, two, one...

I open my eyes expecting to be half blinded by the sun creeping through the shades.

It’s pitch black dark.

The clock reads 4:30 a.m., and there is not another waking soul to be found. It takes me a few seconds to get my bearings and then slowly I remember that I’m not in high school, I don’t have classes today, and I’m not at home. I’m in Rome. In a hotel room. Alone.

My homesickness is really beginning to mess with me.

I’m now too spooked to go back to sleep.

Those taps on the shoulder…

The footsteps...

Maybe I got some responses to the emails I sent out earlier. I could use some comfort from home right now.

From:
Giacomo Palladino

Subject: Re: Where da white women at?

Come stai, bitch? Homesick?! You PUSSY! Listen, your timing is perfect. I’m shooting a video outside of Naples. You’ll grip for me. Yes, I’m putting you to work. Shut the hell up. You’ll meet my friends, and we’ll go out for drinks after. It’ll be great. Call me when you get into the city. Relax and have fun. IT’S VACATION!

From:
Robert Tisse

Subject: Re: I’m in Europe!

Hey Michael Corleone! How’s Italy? Everything’s good at home. Oh! Your brother got shot the hell up at a tollbooth. But other than that...

Glad you made it in okay! Look, go ahead and use that credit card as much as you can. I don’t want you running out of money while over there. I’m keeping a list. I’ll keep this short so you can get back to your Toga party. Mom says hi! We are PROUD of you!

Love You!

Pop

From:
Pan Berkholt

Subject: Re: Trouble at the Eiffel Tower & other tales

Bwwwaaahahahahahahhahaha! IN A LOUVRE TOILET?! YEAAH BOOYEEE!

THAT’S what I’m talking about. Go get after it.

Pan >:(

From:
Howard Edgerton

Subject: Re: WHAT’S UP WITH THIS CAMERA?!

Mr. Tisse,

Thank you for your very long email. I’m sure I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.

Sincerely,

Howard Edgerton, ASC

From:
Skylar

Subject:Re: Trouble at the Eiffel Tower & other tales

Dude... Why the HELL am I not there with you?!

I’m going to let everybody at The Bourgeois Pig know about your pilgrimage. Seeing that news footage of Storaro is just insane, dude. It’s your blessings from the light gods. Upon your return We’ll dine at the Pig in your honor and you will regale us with the adventures of your journey.

Go into the light, Bro.

Skylar

From:
Leia Silver

Subject:Re: Made it. Thanks.

Don’t be homesick! This is all good for you! I know it. Bring me back a snow globe from Rome!

All the best,

Leia

From:
Ernest Solomon

Subject: Re: Caravaggio & Storaro

Yo! So happy to hear your trip is going well. Regarding the Storaro/Caravaggio thing. Storaro is shooting a film about Caravaggio for RAI TV. It had to have been about that. Can’t wait to hear about your trip. Enjoy this, Jason.

• Ernest
  

From:
Howard Edgerton

Subject: Re: WHAT’S UP WITH THIS CAMERA?!

Me again. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve taken it upon myself to schedule you for a tour of the historic Cinecittà studios in Rome. My contact there is a delicious little Brit named, Trish Wood (vCard is attached). Please call her and set up a time. Don’t embarrass me, Tisse.

Sincerely,

Howard Edgerton, ASC

12 

Horse Hockey

Painting 3: The Crucifixion of Saint Peter

Painting 4: The Conversion of Saint Paul

READING THOSE MESSAGES WAS 
like fueling my soul with rocket propellant. My friends and family always seem to come through for me, even the assholes.

Case in point, Howard Edgerton.

He was the only one I had given a detailed account of everything that had gone down since the Museum incident in Cleveland. A normal Edge response would have sounded something like this...

“
Why you glue sniffing little bastard. The next time you feel like bothering somebody with your drug-induced delirium, tell it to the euro trash hussy you’re swapping needles with. Don’t waste my time.”

Instead Edge played stupid, which he ain’t. He’s in on this rabbit hole trip and there’s no doubt that Cinecittà studio will shed some light on all this.

By the time I’ve worked my way through the rest of the dozen or so emails, I’m energized and ready to attack life. I down the last of my croissant and cappuccino, bounce out the hotel and down into the Metro subway like Tigger the Tiger on a Red Bull bender. I slide my ticket into the electronic turnstile slot.

ZIP!

I push through the gate and dash to the track.

“
Ehi! Ehi!”

I turn and find this sweet old guy holding my ticket in the air.

“
Ha bisogno di tenere questo
!” he reprimands me.

“
Oh! Grazie. Grazie mille!”

The machine had spit my ticket out on the other side of the turnstile, and I’m supposed to keep it. It’s an
All Day
pass, so it stands to reason that I need to keep said ticket on my person for the entire day. I seem determined to throw good money away on this trip. I safely pocket my ticket, and by the time I reach the track, the train is already there waiting for me. I’m on my way to church.

I enter the
chiesa
of Santa Maria Del Popolo
and my heart begins to race.

One again, I jog past and ignore wonderful works of art, too afraid to even glance at their placards and risk being distracted from the primary score at the Cerasi Chapel. The chapel’s alter piece is of absolutely no interest to me whatsoever. It’s a piece by some guy named Annibale Carracci called
The Assumption of Mary
. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a gorgeous work, but you can’t get more anti-Caravaggio in tone if you tried.

This guy has the Virgin being lifted into the air by a half-dozen angels, three of them have their heads sticking out from under her dress, as if Mary has cherubim pouring out of her butt. Mary ascended to heaven by shooting angels out of her ass? What the hell kind of propellant is that? It doesn’t sound very practical. Even as a miracle it doesn’t sound practical.

On the right side of Carracci’s painting is Caravaggio’s
The Conversion of Saint Paul
.

Okay, this is one of my favorite biblical stories.

Saul (Paul’s original aka) was on the road to Damascus to open up a fat can of whoop-ass on a town full of Christians. The guy must have been some biblical era version of the Terminator because he didn’t seem to be rolling into town with any sort of crew. He was on a mission to absolutely annihilate an entire town, and all he has is a sword, a horse and belly full of hate.