Botticelli Blue Skies: An American in Florence

16. The Mystery of Marriage

Sunday morning: the secular world in Italy is closed, the gates in front of the shops are locked tight. If you are out of food, you are out of luck. Joe suggests we walk to the newsstand to buy the International Herald Tribune or Newsday—we have had no news of home since we left. If the United States were at war, we’d hardly know it. We walk the now-familiar walk: out the gate, right on Via Venosta to Via Filippo Turati, right again to Via Aretina, and then left past the gas station, the pastry shop, the tobacco shop, till we come in view of the Coop, which is the supermarket in competition with the Conad. At the newspaper shop, a steady stream of neighborhood people marches in and out. Each one buys two newspapers (to which the shopkeeper adds what looks like a comic book for the children in the family). Joe observes that newspaper delivery would be impossible in this city, with every apartment behind gates, walls, and locked doors. Italians, now as in the past, continue to make a literal fortress of each home. Our search turns up no English-language newspapers here. Joe thinks they’re likelier to be available in the city center, where tourists circulate in greater numbers. We decide to walk the couple of blocks down to the river. Sunday strollers are out: old couples walking slowly arm in arm, men with their 60 16 The Mystery of Marriage dogs, fathers with their children. Down toward the bridge, the riverbanks are dotted with the colored umbrellas of the weekend fishermen, their long bamboo rods hanging far out over the water. Several groups of older men are walking together, walking and arguing, debating, talking with the confidence of old friendship in which liberties may be taken. And then there are the ever-present grandparents with their grandchildren. (We have seen—from our own apartment window— how, early on workday mornings, one parent or another will deliver their children to the grandparents and leave them for the day.) “Look at all the devoted old couples,” I say to Joe. “How do you know they’re devoted?” he asks. “I don’t see a little sign on them saying ‘Devoted Couple’—do you?” “They don’t see one on us, either, “ I remind him, squeezing his arm. The sun is sparkling on the Arno; small families of ducks are sailing along in erratic formations, and there are a few towering white clouds in the sky. Joe suggests we go back to the apartment, have some lunch, and take the bus to Fiesole in the afternoon. The idea of such an outing seems fine. In fact, I am exceptionally happy at this moment, which is why, a moment later, I am amazed at how angry I become. As we walk along toward home, I see a pile of discarded newspapers and magazines in a bag on a doorstep. In a movement not so much a decision as a simple reflex, I bend down and begin to pull out a couple of magazines and a handful of newspapers. (I am aware of some neighborhood people standing on the curb nearby, talking.) But my thought, if I even have a thought, is this: I need some newspapers for putting on the sink when I trim my hair. And I’d like to leaf through some Italian magazines—look at the ads, the pictures, the recipes—since I’m here to learn. But then Joe says, “Leave them there and let’s go.” “But I want them,” I protest. “Put them back.” “Why? I need these,” and suddenly I am sure I need them desperately. “Just listen to me,” he says very quietly, almost ominously. “No, I want them.” And I take my loot, now precious to me, even Botticelli Blue Skies 61 if the old Italians on the sidewalk are watching me with disapproval on their faces. And, in truth, they are; their expressions are quite ugly. Joe and I walk along fast, without speaking, separately, each of us in a cocoon of hostility. What has just happened, so fast, so fatally? Finally, I ask him. “What is it?” He says, “That wasn’t a good idea.” “But what was so bad about it? All I did was take something someone was throwing away!” “When I tell you to do something,” Joe says, “do...