People Go, Life Goes On - Missing Person 1

Rome, Eternal City.

“The more things change, the more they remain the same.” Jaded Romans love to toss off this nugget of wisdom.

Another, that I have been hearing ever since I settled in Rome, is that 15 or 20 years ago Rome was a much better place to live. ”World weary” Romans who subscribe to this idea may be under the illusion they have “done it all and seen it all.” 

My first landlady, at Trevi Fountain, the Red Countess, who left her spacious flat next to my tiny studio for long stretches of the year to indulge her passion for painting and the country life in Tuscany, always grumbled that Rome had once been better, as did several illustrious filmmakers I met over the years and never had the opportunity to work with.

To my eyes Rome remains eternally beautiful and things change even as they remain the same. When I settled in Rome decades ago I was younger and slimmer and had my whole life before me, along with the dreams I hoped to realize, so, from that perspective, things certainly were better then.

I have not “done it all or seen it all,” nor do I expect to. I have never framed my dreams and aspirations in those terms. Now, in my lovely neighborhood of Old Rome, the glorious scent of jasmine is fading as the first heat of June strikes, and my life’s adventure continues, moment to moment.

People go, life goes on, and one may barely notice their passing.

For years I used to bump into the Signora De Aristocratis around the neighborhood. She was a thin Roman of a certain age with salt and pepper hair pulled back off her lightly wrinkled face, wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, casually elegant in loose fitting slacks and shirt, usually with a cigarette in her hand. Signora De Aristocratis was one of those upper class woman used to commanding others with nothing less than the utmost courtesy, but she was not a woman to be commanded.

She always did her shopping alone but would banter about the state of the neighborhood and other light topics with the shopkeepers. If she was like me, she engaged in long and silly conversations with her feline babies.

Most of the time we crossed paths at the butcher’s, where she bought choice cuts for her circa 30 Norwegians.

La Signora was a chain smoker, and I often wondered what would happen to her precious cats if something happened to her. We never struck up more than a passing acquaintanceship, just a “buongiorno” and a superficial exchange of cat news as the butcher ground her beef to Norwegian cat-palate perfection.

I have precious cats, too, never as many as she had, but mine are all from the street, spayed and neutered.

La Signora was a snob about her cats, a snob about the veterinarians she used, a snob about who she would allow to take care of her cats. A “gattara” like precious Bambi, who works in cat colonies and on the streets saving strays, no matter how expert in handling felines and administering therapy, never crossed the threshold of La Signora’s lovely apartment with enchanting views over the Roman  rooftops. La Signora was afraid a “gattara” might bring in germs on her clothes or shoes that could infect them.

A month or two ago I asked the butcher about her. He informed me she had passed away two years earlier. And her cats? Taken care of by the heir. How? Where? The butcher couldn’t say.

The butcher lost a good customer, and the cats lost their mommy.

I, too, worry about what will happen to my cats if I precede them leaving this life and Rome. 

Now, when I walk to my favorite café in the piazza I look up at the top floor flat La Signora used to inhabit. The roof terrace is still entirely enclosed, sides and top, by the heavy wiring that protected her cats, but no one is there to enjoy the view.

I pray someone is caring for her cats the way she would have wanted.