A cool winter breeze swept across my ears and the back of my neck. The blunt, square buildings rising from the Piazza di Trevi framed the crisp blue sky above.
People were everywhere—European and American, children and grandparents, couples and tour groups. They peppered the tiered white marble seating radiating outwards from the glittering aqua pool of the piazza’s centerpiece. Some climbed the wide center set of stairs; others descended. Still more wandered the grey cobblestone lane at the water’s edge. Street vendors armed with bubble guns or flashing pins or bouquets of roses moved carelessly between the continually replenishing assembly of prospective customers.
Dwarfing everything and everyone, bursting forth from the northern wall of the humbly sized square, swelled the Trevi Fountain itself. Neptune stood centered between three pairs of multi-sized marble pillars. He was framed by a mammoth façade, also marble, which rose above the roofline of the building to which it was affixed. At Neptune’s feet ran a broadening cascade of fountains, the third emptying an arched sheet of white water into the colossal main pool below. To both his left and right a pair of Tritons wrestled with two winged horses, the scene’s extreme fervor trapped in the frozen stone. Fanning from the three central figures, across the entirety of the fountain’s northern half, spread an amoeba of jagged unfinished marble. Countless runs of water careened off the figures’coarse faces. The perpetual sound of crashing water blended with the steady hum of human voices to fill the piazza with that vibrant buzz only Rome seemed able to craft so effortlessly.
I was on the far side of the fountain, leaning against the uppermost metal railing, gazing down onto the lively sight below. Directly ahead, a family was staging a photograph on the polished marble trim surrounding the shallow bath. The father directed the wife and two young girls to lean together, further, then to hold still.
To their right I noticed a couple. They were young, probably seventeen or eighteen. He was tall, dressed in a plain white T-shirt, a beige visor, loose tan shorts, and sandals. She had her dirty blond hair pulled back, her short-sleeved, red-and-black-striped top cut low in front; her hands dug into the pockets of her white cargo shorts. The pair appeared unaffected by the frigid winter air. They smiled and brushed against one another with a sunny casualness.
There is a phenomenon that happens to me, a visual mind trick. I call it Back to the Future vision. It was in the second film of that trilogy where Marty returned to the site of the plot-pivotal dance from the first film, and, from across the parking lot, he spotted his younger self playing out the actions from the original episode. He watched, captivated, as his past self repeated the exact motions from the previous trip directly before him. That is the best way I can describe the vividness of what happens to me.
I knew that Charlotte, with whom I had made my first trip to Italy back when we were together, could not have been there at the water’s edge below me. But the more timeless, permanent, and unchanged the setting, the more vividly the scenes manifested themselves. And I could see the two of us with stunning clarity, playing out the final afternoon of our Italian vacation together beneath the blazing midsummer sun of four years ago.
An aged, peculiar-looking man approached us at the fountain’s edge, one slow step at a time. His tattered brown suit hung loosely on his boney frame; a worn fedora hat shaded his face, his wooden cane clacked along the cobblestone. I could remember his toothless smile, his leathery, sun-beaten skin. I watched our faces smile politely as he began to speak to us in broken English.
The legend of the Trevi, he had told us, was one of the city and one of love—d’amore—he had reiterated with a fluttering fall of his free hand. Tossing a single coin over one’s shoulder and into the fountain’s churning waters ensured a speedy return a Roma. But the tossing of two coins would not only guarantee a speedy return to the Eternal City, but also the promise of falling in love upon that return.
The man lifted his cap and modestly bowed in conclusion. Charlotte and I laughed and began sifting through our pockets. He then slowly moved away from us and into the denser crowds toward the center of the fountain.
I continued to watch us from my perch. In our palms, we fingered the largest lire coins we could find and counted down from three. Our backs facing the shallow rippling water, we flung our hands to the sky and our bronze coins took to the air. Charlotte spun to watch them fall and spotted the three small splashes where there should have been only two. She hit me in the shoulder and my guilty face matched my playfully hollow excuse.
I blinked, and we were gone. The family next to where I had seen us huddled around their father’s digital camera to view the photos he had taken moments before. My eyes lifted to the rugged marble beyond them. Rough streams of water tumbled down their crude faces, staining the white to brown where they spilled.
My eyes lifted higher, to the more furious of the two winged horses. The triton fought with its bit, struggling at the animal’s weight as it bucked the two of them backwards.
My vision moved higher still and met Neptune. A commanding hand cast downwards in the direction of the thrashing creatures at his feet, his dominant figure orchestrated the scene. I fixed on his resilient marble eyes.
You owe me.
--excerpt from www.midnightinrome.com
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