Shit Happens - Tragedy Strikes
The Mayor of Rome’s buzzword for the city is “decorum.” The mayor wants Rome to be a “decorous” city and he has even created a special office to assure it.
In certain respects the mayor is a dreamer and his definition of “decorum” is, in the opinion of some, a narrow one, embracing only those aspects the mayor wishes to acknowledge.
Noise on the streets in the wee hours, for example, is one of those aspects the mayor does not acknowledge, an issue he and his Office of Urban Decorum choose to ignore, not partially but totally.
Some people, certainly a minority, who have just arrived in Rome for a vacation after spending a few days in, say, Switzerland, find Rome a filthy city. I have not spent much time in Switzerland but, except for the chocolate, I say you can keep your Switzerland.
Some of the “filth” a few Americans say they see in the city as they stand right beside me at one of historic Rome’s most enchanting corners I do not see at all. Perhaps I am blinded by the beauty. Perhaps “filth,” like “decorum,” is all in how you define it.
However…
On my way to work early this morning I am walking to the bar in the main piazza across from the church. I turn off my little street onto another little street and immediately avert my eyes.
I barely glance at the man just a foot or two away from me, within slapping distance, but my fleeting look tells me he is youngish and Caucasian. He is facing me crouching with his rear towards the high wall enclosing the garden of one of the main buildings on the piazza. His trousers are down in the back and he is taking a dump on the street in broad daylight.
I know when not to look, and this is one of those moments. Without breaking stride, I just keep walking. I am angry because he is soiling the street. But a man with his pants down is a vulnerable man and I know I cannot take him on.
All of Rome’s cafes and bars are “pubs” – public establishments. To have a license they must have a functioning restroom, and they cannot refuse use of the restroom to the general public, whether they are paying customers or not.
All this man had to do was go around the corner to the bar where I have my coffee and brioche for a little privacy, toilet paper, soap and water.
Still, some individuals, for whatever reason, prefer to perform their necessities in the open air. Perhaps this young man is a misfit who had problems with his family or at school and does not like to be confined by four walls. It is not for me to judge him or blame society.
After my coffee I put this episode, which is not sporadic in my neighborhood, out of my mind. Darling Fabio is waiting for me in the next piazza with the Mercedes.
Fabio is not the joker I am, but this morning he has an unusually somber look as he turns the key in the ignition and tells me quietly that tragedy has struck someone close to us. I ask him who, and he tells me Renato. Along with Fabio, Renato is one of my favorites. Fabio actually apologizes for being the one to tell me, but if he doesn’t I will hear it from someone else, so it falls to him to break the news.
Renato’s 12 year old son Pippo collapsed on Saturday of a heart attack and died instantly on the field during a soccer game, just like that, among his friends, in the midst of child’s play.
Renato, his wife Tina and their whole family are devastated. Renato is a hard working, good-hearted man devoted to his wife and children, and now he has lost a son, just like that.
As a mother, I’ve always felt that loving my daughter, transmitting that love, involved a metaphorical and literal pouring of love from me to her, from my mind and heart to hers. I always make an arching gesture with my arms to indicate I am pouring. Does she receive it? Does she understand it? I hope so. Does she see that arc of little red hearts pulsating from me to her? She doesn’t, but she was always strong in science and math. Maybe she will grow more sentimental with age.
So now you have Renato and Tina, who have poured their love into Pippo, their “golden boy,” for 12 years, watched him develop, encouraged him to study, worried about him, laughed with him, delighted in him, had hopes for a bright future, and now mourn for him. Gone, just like that. Now, in their grief, they, too, are vulnerable.
