These last days of August, the television tells us about the exodus of vacationers heading home. Millions upon millions of cars and ships crowd the toll booths and ports, carrying the fortunate back to their ordinary lives—tanned, colorful, ready to resume the daily passing of days.
My thoughts drift back over these summer days I've spent in Rome. Nearly empty streets. Shutters drawn relentlessly down. Markets abandoned. The church nearly empty. And the heat—such heat.
On television again: warnings not to let children or the elderly outside during the hottest hours.
So all the residents still in the city—the sick, the lonely—stay "at home." Windows sealed shut. Curtains drawn. Doors locked; fear of thieves doubles these days. Fans running at full throttle.
Are there many of these citizens trapped in the city? Many or few? Trapped because they are ill, because they are alone, because they lack the extra means that would allow a little vacation?
August in the city teaches you something important. I venture out early one morning to run a few essential errands by car. I pass Franco's house: 53 years old, with grave physical and psychological difficulties. An only child—his beloved sister died of cancer years ago—he lives shut inside, always, with his elderly parents. His father tells me the news when I rarely see him at the market. "Only I go out, to do the shopping. He and my wife stay there. They don't want to go out anymore."
I send silent, warm greetings to all three and move on. I need to pick up the mail for Ombre e Luci. I pass the San Camillo Hospital. Normally there's heavy traffic around there. I'm struck by how empty the streets are; I drive quickly and almost forget to glance toward those yellow pavilions, which seem to have fallen into the same silence that paralyzes the whole city.
I suddenly remember that Anna might still be there—admitted for the third time after a serious operation. She wrote to me about her troubles and her anxieties: finding someone to care for her disabled daughter during all those hospital days was no small thing. "And when the doctors told me 'Signora, you're fine now, you just need to stay calm,' how could I tell them that you can't be calm when you're living through situations like this! Easy for them to talk, don't you think?"
On my way back I pass Giulia's house—she's there in her neat apartment with her two beloved children. They couldn't do anything this summer: no money. "Do you know what it means to travel with them? Portable beds, wheelchairs, special mattresses... and then where, how, and anyway, what's the point of all that effort! We're better off here. My husband prefers to work. There's never enough money!"
Goodbye, dear Giulia—a mother tested by two difficult pregnancies, so young and full of life, yet with a hard and sorrowful life.
I get home, sweating, overheated. Two of my three errands came to nothing: closed for the holidays, of course! Foolish me to have tried.
I've barely changed into light summer clothes when the telephone rings.
"It's for you!" my husband says, unflappable, bent over his medieval manuscripts, kept cool by an enormous fan that delights him day and night. For him summer is wonderful: nobody disturbs you, finally some peace! I grumble and pick up the phone. "Maria', it's me, Teresa! Don't you recognize me? You forgot about me?"
I stammer a "no" with difficulty. In fact, I'd learned from a granddaughter of hers, whom I'd never met before, that the grandmother was dying in the hospital—blind now, with one leg amputated.
I pull myself together. "Tell me, how are you? How is your Anna?" "That's why I'm calling you. Anna's been at the center XXX for a year; I had to put her there! But now, in this condition, I wanted to ask if you could go see how she's doing. I can't get around anymore. Then you come visit me and tell me how she is!"
Anna suddenly comes back to me: locked in her own world. The first time I saw her, she was in her mother's bed, ceaselessly shaking a plastic spoon.
I reassure Teresa; I'll go to Anna and to her too, but—I can't help exclaiming—"Once it cools down a bit!"
After lunch I set about preparing a little room I use as a wardrobe. Tomorrow Daria will bring Stefano, three years old, very small for his age, with serious malformations. Months ago she asked me shyly if she could have a little vacation with her husband and their other child, five years old. Stefano's mother is only 26. She has no parents—both are dead—and no brothers or sisters. Stefano is a grave burden; he makes no progress, doesn't grow, doesn't eat. She and her husband and their little boy are at the extreme end of their psychological resources.
"Of course, I'll be happy to have him here with me for a week. My husband absolutely agrees. Don't worry. Thank you for asking!"
I'm genuinely delighted and put my whole heart into turning the room into a proper little bedroom. I manage to place a plush teddy bear on the small table next to the lamp and... Ring! The telephone!
"Mariangela, it's me!"—the voice is sad to the point of despair—"I'm ready, I'm waiting for you both!"; "But, you see, I'm calling about this: Stefano has a fever of 104... What do I do... I already cancelled the hotel... I lost half a million in deposit... And then they wonder why you're a pessimist... How can I leave him with you... I can't, and I wouldn't even enjoy an hour knowing he's like this... Sorry to bother you... Goodbye! Goodbye!"
A hot August in Rome. So much heat! But how many lessons I've learned. I'm passing them on to you because, who knows, it could happen to any of us to spend an August in the city!
- Mariangela Bertolini, 1994
===FINE===