Jayne Mansfield, yes, it did happen to her
the chapel is empty . I contemplate the longing posture, the gesture of ecstasy and the tremulous meat spread out foreshortened under the horse, until a Chinese guide charges me to make way for her group. Engulfed by the eastern tide, the dismounted saint moves away. An echo of his reddish armor vibrates in the sunset that falls on the Piazza del Popolo.
He had thought that at that time the church would be clear, that solitude could favor the mystical impulse. But not.
The conversion of Saint Paul (Caravaggio)
"This is the end. China has discovered Caravaggio ”, I say to myself, and with childlike resignation I take the Baboon Way towards Piazza di Spagna . As I walk I return to the expression of the saint. His face reflects a pleasure beyond orgasm. I think of the hugs that Caravaggio he must have shared with his models until he achieved the concave composition of the recumbent body, and he smiled.
Piazza del Popolo
When passing in front of Hotel de Russie I consider having a coffee on the terrace, but I abandon the idea. The excess of luxury makes me feel out of place. With my parents used to come to the Hotel d'Inghilterra . The earth-colored walls were chipped. The atmosphere was classic, decadent. I think they have renovated it.
I stop at the Caffe Canova . Here yes. The dust that covers tadolini plasters , the sculptor's disciple, calms me down. I order a macchiato at the bar and wonder why I want a revelation. At this point it may not be necessary, or even convenient, to fall off a horse. It is enough for me to be seduced. Is not difficult. A little authenticity is enough. You just have to listen to the objects, see, know how to look. Virtue is in the process.
Hotel de Russie
Little boy , a Tuscan restaurant in via Borgognona, It is one of those places with its own voice. The wood paneling of the fifties, the white jackets of the waiters and their bistecca, mark a counterpoint against the banality of via Condotti. I've arranged to have dinner there with Constanza. He's late, as usual. Flustered, I ask for a bottle of white wine.
Debra Paget in Rome: it did happen to her
After a few minutes I hear her voice at the entrance. Her Italian is imaginative. She kisses me, she sits and looks suspiciously at the white wine. Ask for a chianti. I talk to him about São Paulo, but he pays no attention. “I have bought a shipment of gloves in Say Cori . It's another world,” she states. She shows me a bag full of leather in bright colors. P We had some artichokes as an antipasto; she some papardelle al ragù di cinghiale , I one steak.
Piazza di Spagna
Her agitation subsides and she tells me about a party she still hasn't recovered from. “The best thing is that I don't even know who gave it. A Russian, perhaps,” she says.
“I had rented the room of the Triumph of Divine Providence in the barberin palace Yo; an enormous space, of two heights, with the fresco by Pietro da Cortona in the vault An orchestra was playing a Vivaldi opera. The soprano and countertenor were suspended from the ceiling in clouds that looked like hot air balloons. We all wore silk robes. It was the code. Be supposed to we personified divinities of Olympus although I skipped that. I mess with the names. At one point in the party they made us go up to a stage and, to my astonishment, a brave bull entered through one of the doors. A group of dancers followed him. They danced to the rhythm of a baroque aria around the bull, who did not flinch. A rain that seemed natural came from somewhere . The dancers dropped their wet robes.” She stops and looks around. "The rest I'll tell you later with a negroni. By the way, what are you doing here?"
As I try to imagine an answer, I smile and remember a phrase from Hans Christian Andersen: “ Rome is like a book of fables; On every page there is a miracle. I think I have looked for revelation on the wrong page.
Rex Harrison and Rachel Roberts
Hall of the Triumph of Divine Providence