#6 Folle voles

Matt(hew) Richardson
#6 Folle voles

By 6:45 I was out the door, I didn’t know where the stairs would lead me but I wanted lots of time to find out. Much like a resident never visits the major sites of his own town, I tended to breeze through Trastevere, passing most places by on the way to elsewhere. Every morning On the way to school I saw the stairs leading up the Janiculum hill, but I was too rushed to investigate, and every evening I glanced at it again, too tired to climb it at night. This morning, I went straight to them.
The stairs turn immediately, so a viewer from the street can’t see where they lead. The trees nearby fold over the trail, shadowing it. The wide steps are worn and old, mossy and damp. How old are they? It takes several turns before one gets the top, which is, a street, a road, with particularly quick Italian traffic, as there are no sidewalks to invite pedestrians. Across the two lanes, however, the old steps continue, and I took them (after a dash across the busy asphalt).
A few more twists, a bit more trekking, the gradual awareness of sweat on my back. My bag was heavy going up so many stairs. The trees are still thick, and their leaves make seeing far ahead impossible, that’s why I didn’t see San Pietro in Montorino until I appeared in front of me. The large church beside an unused road away from houses and other buildings, providing the back to a piazza that overlooks the city. I reach into my bag to get my camera, but it isn’t there, I must have left it at the apartment.
It was closed, but I wandered around it. I love finding churches, especially alone. The side facing the street was boring, just a wall and a dirty street. I walked to its end and turned around, ready to walk further, when I saw the cannon ball. There is a cannonball pressed into the wall of this church. I looked at it, curious. Why is there a cannon ball in this church wall? The church isn’t in my guidebook - I needed a historical plaque.
I found one. This church was the last base of operations for the forces of Garibaldi, the militant supporter of the Roman Republic in the 1840s. The French invaded, and when the Romans took up the church and sanctuary as fortifications, the French artillery attacked the church and collapsed its walls. That cannon ball filled the air of the space I was in. It passed through that spot. The ball was found during restoration. I sit beneath it and write in my journal.
I walk down the Janiculum, down the stairs. They must be old, forgotten and bisected by the modern street. There are engravings along the path, stations of the cross. They are behind iron barred doors, but the locks are broken and the doors hang open. No one fixes them anymore.
I go to Maria’s, because the pastries are good and they might still be fresh. They are not. I try the cappuccino, but it is also sub par. Rave reviews of other students do not fit the bill here. Because my bag is so deep I have to root about for my wallet, but finally finding it, the surly woman takes my change.
I walk across the piazza to Santa Maria in Trastevere and enter through the main door. The sun is still low and it throws my shadow straight ahead to the alter. I am alone, except for the priest lysol-ing the side chapels, and even he leaves after a moment. Sitting on the pew, I try and think of nothing, just be still. When I’m calm, I sit and fold my hands. I still can’t pray, but the quiet and stillness is enough, I feel better about the day. The fountain outside is a good place to write in the journal as well, even though it’s covered in pigeon feathers.
The walk to the Rome center is an uneventful 20 minutes. The moment I get to the first floor and reach to open the door is eventful, because that’s the second I realized that my keys are missing. 50 Euro deposit keys. The keys to my apartment. It’s 9:00, class meets at 10:00. Shit.

My bag is rough on my shoulders as it swings hard. I’m moving fast, but all the lights are red. It’s red to get to the ponte sisto, it’s red to cross the street to Trastevere, it’s red all the way. How can so many drunks be in the streets this early, and why are they desperate to be in front of me?
I circumnavigate San Pietro, but the keys are not under the cannonball, they are not under the plaque, they are not before the door or in the piazza. I can see the tower of San Andrea de Valle. The Campo is so far away. It’s 9:30.
The surly waitress is still behind the counter at Maria’s, of course, now with new condescension at my sweat. Scusi, have you seen any keys here? Head shakes, confused. Keys? Here? Forgotten? Head shakes, confused. A man has keys in his hand at the bar, I point and make a distance between my fingers so she can imagine the size. No! She turns away, uninterested. This place has lost my business.
I go to Santa Maria. There are some visitors now, all of whom look strangely at me as I bow down between the pews and look under the knee rests. The light from the doorway is blinding, I’m forced to feel around where I was sitting. No luck. But the fountain!
I go to the fountain, but it’s bear. Damn. Maybe I left them at the apartment? That could be. I rush off in that direction, and as I leave the piazza I have to dodge more winos, three of whom look particularly unshaven and musty block me and I have to sidestep. They don’t even see me, they’re too busy looking at a key ring.
A key ring.
A…key ring.
The one holding it notices how intently I am observing his hand. He stops in mid-gesture, his arm frozen in the air holding the ring and his other hand pointing to it to make some point. One friend to whom he is speaking also stops, mid-gesture, to follow his friend’s gaze (Luther was right, Romans do make a lot of hand gestures while speaking).
Singore?
Si.
Di tu?
Si.
I put out my hand. He pauses.
Un Euro?
I’m stunned, did he just say that? He looks at my confusion.
Un Euro. He says. One Euro.
He even speaks English. I don’t think about it, I snap my arm forward and ship the long key from his dangling hand. He jumps back, startled; he must be used to getting hit. All three look at me, but they look scared. I can feel my face hardening as I look at them, I know I’m angry, but it doesn’t last. It’s hard to be angry at homeless men who are scared of you.
I walk away. I am 10 minutes early to class.