Catholic progeny, wrinkled old men reading newspapers in cafés, slim youths on motorbikes, bronzed workmen, bubbly young virgins, stern priests, nuns with moustaches, homicidal motorists, the pilgrimage to the Vatican, the smell of roasting coffee and pungent cigarettes, blasts of laughter, torrents of abuse, appeals to heaven, shrugs of the shoulder, fury, joy, love and total indifference.
Wyman had not been to Rome for eight years, and he was delighted to be back. He was driven through the centre of town and up to his hotel at the top of the Via Veneto.
Romeâs hotels are graded deluxe, first, second and third class. Wyman chose to stay at the Hotel Flora, which is graded first class. Its slightly dated décor and excellent service appealed to his collegiate tastes, as did the view it enjoyed of the Villa Borghese, Romeâs most famous park.
He was led up to a sumptuous double room, where he unpacked his suitcase and washed off the dust of two airports. He shaved, dressed and smoked a cigarette. At 6.15 he went downstairs, gave in his key, and walked out into the Via Veneto. He saw the Porta Pinciana, two squat sixth-century towers that lead into the Villa Borghese. Opposite him lay Harryâs Bar, one of the favourite haunts of the American fraternity. When Wyman had been posted to Rome, Harryâs was an excellent source of CIA gossip.
He walked down to the corner of the Via Ludovisi, and smiled with recognition as he saw the Café de Paris over to his right. He made his way past rich tourists, flower vendors and newsstands, down to the intersection with the Via Bissolati. He passed the large, bright Palazzo Margherita, now the United States Embassy, and watched the embassy staff float in and out of the American Library across the road.
After this the Via Veneto quietened down, and Wyman walked a little more swiftly past older hotels, travel agencies and cheaper cafés where low-budget tourists haggled with high-budget whores. Eventually he came to the end of the Via Veneto and into the Piazza Bar-berini. Two centuries ago the Piazza had been a market-place. Now it contained a large hotel, a cinema and an underground station. The only clue to its history lay in the baroque Tritone fountain, which Bernini had chipped out in 1637.
Wyman turned down the Via Sistina and finally arrived at his destination, an unremarkable little street called the Via della Mercede. He stopped at Number 55, a tall grey building bearing a plaque which read âStampa Estera in Italiaâ, and went in.
The Stampa is Romeâs foreign press centre. It had been given by Mussolini as a gift to the worldâs journalists. Ostensibly, this was a civilized, benevolent gesture on the part of a great statesman who had once been a journalist himself. In fact, Mussoliniâs intention had been to put all his rotten eggs in one basket, and the Stampa had been liberally seasoned with phone-taps and other listening devices.
After the war, the Stampaâs importance as a press centre grew steadily, until its heyday in the 1960s, when it housed a bizarre collection of international scribes whose professionalism was matched only by their eccentricity.
In those days, Rome was the playground of the rich and famous, and no one was better qualified to report their antics to an incredulous world than the denizens of the Stampa. Hungry for copy, their editors drove these correspondents into the sort of workaholic frenzy that results in heavy drinking, failed marriages, fights, nervous breakdowns, and first-rate newspaper stories.
Presiding over all this mayhem was Frank Schofield, the grand old man of the Stampa. Schofield was a vast edifice of sardonic American lard, famed for his trenchant wit and ferocious drinking. He had corresponded from Rome since the 1930s, and had managed to survive over four decadesâ worth of social, political and journalistic lunacy. The turbulent 1960s had come and gone, but Schofield was still
Wyman had not been to Rome for eight years, and he was delighted to be back. He was driven through the centre of town and up to his hotel at the top of the Via Veneto.
Romeâs hotels are graded deluxe, first, second and third class. Wyman chose to stay at the Hotel Flora, which is graded first class. Its slightly dated décor and excellent service appealed to his collegiate tastes, as did the view it enjoyed of the Villa Borghese, Romeâs most famous park.
He was led up to a sumptuous double room, where he unpacked his suitcase and washed off the dust of two airports. He shaved, dressed and smoked a cigarette. At 6.15 he went downstairs, gave in his key, and walked out into the Via Veneto. He saw the Porta Pinciana, two squat sixth-century towers that lead into the Villa Borghese. Opposite him lay Harryâs Bar, one of the favourite haunts of the American fraternity. When Wyman had been posted to Rome, Harryâs was an excellent source of CIA gossip.
He walked down to the corner of the Via Ludovisi, and smiled with recognition as he saw the Café de Paris over to his right. He made his way past rich tourists, flower vendors and newsstands, down to the intersection with the Via Bissolati. He passed the large, bright Palazzo Margherita, now the United States Embassy, and watched the embassy staff float in and out of the American Library across the road.
After this the Via Veneto quietened down, and Wyman walked a little more swiftly past older hotels, travel agencies and cheaper cafés where low-budget tourists haggled with high-budget whores. Eventually he came to the end of the Via Veneto and into the Piazza Bar-berini. Two centuries ago the Piazza had been a market-place. Now it contained a large hotel, a cinema and an underground station. The only clue to its history lay in the baroque Tritone fountain, which Bernini had chipped out in 1637.
Wyman turned down the Via Sistina and finally arrived at his destination, an unremarkable little street called the Via della Mercede. He stopped at Number 55, a tall grey building bearing a plaque which read âStampa Estera in Italiaâ, and went in.
The Stampa is Romeâs foreign press centre. It had been given by Mussolini as a gift to the worldâs journalists. Ostensibly, this was a civilized, benevolent gesture on the part of a great statesman who had once been a journalist himself. In fact, Mussoliniâs intention had been to put all his rotten eggs in one basket, and the Stampa had been liberally seasoned with phone-taps and other listening devices.
After the war, the Stampaâs importance as a press centre grew steadily, until its heyday in the 1960s, when it housed a bizarre collection of international scribes whose professionalism was matched only by their eccentricity.
In those days, Rome was the playground of the rich and famous, and no one was better qualified to report their antics to an incredulous world than the denizens of the Stampa. Hungry for copy, their editors drove these correspondents into the sort of workaholic frenzy that results in heavy drinking, failed marriages, fights, nervous breakdowns, and first-rate newspaper stories.
Presiding over all this mayhem was Frank Schofield, the grand old man of the Stampa. Schofield was a vast edifice of sardonic American lard, famed for his trenchant wit and ferocious drinking. He had corresponded from Rome since the 1930s, and had managed to survive over four decadesâ worth of social, political and journalistic lunacy. The turbulent 1960s had come and gone, but Schofield was still
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