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Authors: Madison Smartt Bell
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without any sense of genuine danger, in perfect faith that Kevin’s luck would save him.
But unfortunately, Kevin had only enough luck to cover himself on that particular day.
Kevin was and remains a very lucky guy, and I have always wondered how fully he was aware of his luck and how much he could control it, if at all. I was wondering about that again when the stewards pulled up all the blinds and startled the drowsy passengers with the sudden light of Italian morning. So I forgot about Kevin and his quirks. Now, with the Rome airport floating up under the wings, if I was going to worry about anyone’s luck it would be my own. And for the moment I felt lucky enough, equal to whatever wrinkles and twists might be waiting for me down below, in Rome, and Come sei bella, Roma, as the old song runs, amore mio.
PART II
“COME SEI BELLA” AND SO FORTH
6
E VER SINCE AIRLINE PILOTS started to be younger than I am, since they have begun to resemble careless teenage drivers, I have been slightly nervous of flying in airplanes. But what really makes me nervous is the guards in the Rome airport, who really are teenagers, who have nifty berets and sashes and spit-shined boots, and who carry teensy submachine guns, usually at the ready. I stand in the long line for the passport check, my hands already beginning to tremble a bit (though this time I’m innocent), and I think, if one of these guys trips, it’s all over.
So I was really very uncomfortable when two of them came and pulled me out of the line. They were polite, but definite, and don’t forget the machine guns. They spoke to me in Italian, which I was too flustered to understand.
“Mi dispiace,” I said, which means “I displease myself,” more or less. “Non parlo l’italiano bene.”
The guards stopped trying to talk to me. By gesture they indicated that I should walk ahead of them through the checkpoint. Once through, one of them came up beside me and guided me to a small examination room, windowless and empty except for a long metal table and two chairs, one on either side of it. At the invitation of a guard I sat down in one of these, placing my books on the table before me. One of the guards then left the room and the other stood to attention against the wall behind my back. I sat straight, eyes front. Oddly, I felt calmer now.
And I thought I was too old to fit the profile anymore. Well, I suppose it was flattering, in its own weird way.
After five or ten long minutes what I took to be a customs inspector entered the room, shut the door, and sat down in the chair opposite. He was young too, middle-sized, black glossy hair, dark civilian suit, horn rims.
“Good day,” he said. His English was precise, mechanical, more correct than my own. “You will please show me your passport.”
I complied. He examined the passport without expression, left it open on the table, and looked up at me.
“For what purpose have you come to Rome, Mr. Bateman?”
“I am employed by the QED film company as an editor,” I said, helplessly imitating the anglicized formality of the inspector’s speech. “I have come to edit a film which was made in New York.” In support of this contention I produced a letter on QED stationery which Kevin had given me. The inspector skimmed it and nodded.
“How long will you remain in Rome?”
“One month, perhaps longer,” I said. “I cannot say for certain until I have seen the film.”
“I see,” the inspector said. “You will please show me your money. “
I handed over my traveler’s checks and he thumbed through them. While he was doing this a guard came in and put my shoulder bag on one end of the table.
“You carry a great deal of money for such a short stay,” the inspector remarked.
“One never knows when an emergency may occur,” I said. “Besides, Rome has become very expensive, I am told.”
“It is true. Rome is expensive. Where will you be staying in Rome?”
“I must speak to the director of
But unfortunately, Kevin had only enough luck to cover himself on that particular day.
Kevin was and remains a very lucky guy, and I have always wondered how fully he was aware of his luck and how much he could control it, if at all. I was wondering about that again when the stewards pulled up all the blinds and startled the drowsy passengers with the sudden light of Italian morning. So I forgot about Kevin and his quirks. Now, with the Rome airport floating up under the wings, if I was going to worry about anyone’s luck it would be my own. And for the moment I felt lucky enough, equal to whatever wrinkles and twists might be waiting for me down below, in Rome, and Come sei bella, Roma, as the old song runs, amore mio.
PART II
“COME SEI BELLA” AND SO FORTH
6
E VER SINCE AIRLINE PILOTS started to be younger than I am, since they have begun to resemble careless teenage drivers, I have been slightly nervous of flying in airplanes. But what really makes me nervous is the guards in the Rome airport, who really are teenagers, who have nifty berets and sashes and spit-shined boots, and who carry teensy submachine guns, usually at the ready. I stand in the long line for the passport check, my hands already beginning to tremble a bit (though this time I’m innocent), and I think, if one of these guys trips, it’s all over.
So I was really very uncomfortable when two of them came and pulled me out of the line. They were polite, but definite, and don’t forget the machine guns. They spoke to me in Italian, which I was too flustered to understand.
“Mi dispiace,” I said, which means “I displease myself,” more or less. “Non parlo l’italiano bene.”
The guards stopped trying to talk to me. By gesture they indicated that I should walk ahead of them through the checkpoint. Once through, one of them came up beside me and guided me to a small examination room, windowless and empty except for a long metal table and two chairs, one on either side of it. At the invitation of a guard I sat down in one of these, placing my books on the table before me. One of the guards then left the room and the other stood to attention against the wall behind my back. I sat straight, eyes front. Oddly, I felt calmer now.
And I thought I was too old to fit the profile anymore. Well, I suppose it was flattering, in its own weird way.
After five or ten long minutes what I took to be a customs inspector entered the room, shut the door, and sat down in the chair opposite. He was young too, middle-sized, black glossy hair, dark civilian suit, horn rims.
“Good day,” he said. His English was precise, mechanical, more correct than my own. “You will please show me your passport.”
I complied. He examined the passport without expression, left it open on the table, and looked up at me.
“For what purpose have you come to Rome, Mr. Bateman?”
“I am employed by the QED film company as an editor,” I said, helplessly imitating the anglicized formality of the inspector’s speech. “I have come to edit a film which was made in New York.” In support of this contention I produced a letter on QED stationery which Kevin had given me. The inspector skimmed it and nodded.
“How long will you remain in Rome?”
“One month, perhaps longer,” I said. “I cannot say for certain until I have seen the film.”
“I see,” the inspector said. “You will please show me your money. “
I handed over my traveler’s checks and he thumbed through them. While he was doing this a guard came in and put my shoulder bag on one end of the table.
“You carry a great deal of money for such a short stay,” the inspector remarked.
“One never knows when an emergency may occur,” I said. “Besides, Rome has become very expensive, I am told.”
“It is true. Rome is expensive. Where will you be staying in Rome?”
“I must speak to the director of
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