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22 Piazza G. G. Belli for Claudia Emerson Not so much a piazza as a tram stop, bus stop, taxi stand where the Via Aurelia leaps the Frenchy boulevard (and the tracks) and lands on the not-so-hip side next to the cinema. And it’s not even quite where I’m saying, but left, beyond the Dante tower toward the bridge. “What the fuck am I doing on this side of the river?” You know he’s thinking that under his marble top hat, turns his lowered head ever so slightly toward the Bagno Turko (the sign says) a block away, toward the laughter and by God violins from the bar that bears his name, the clever old hypocrite. Those he sang in secret openly blaspheme. He does not smile. By day for shade he’s got his pines, a fountain at his feet, and ancient herms whispering in his ear. He’s listening, always, past them. Gentleman’s cane, frock coat, pocket watch, and that filth that collects in limestone ears and eyes—which circle of Hell or Purgatory or Paradise is this where the bells of San Crisogono dong the solemn no of the hour, ting ting the timeless half? And every now and then there’s that universal campanile wrangle, angelic fisticuffs high in the air over the other side of the shitty Tiber. ...

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