10. Fountain of the Tortoises
The tall buildings started to take on a blue tinge. It must be the twilight playing tricks, I thought. I looked at R. His face was buried in the two tour books and map--glowing Nintendo-blue.
"No problem," I said to myself. "Take a deep breath ...slowly exhale. Better, better." The stress dissolved and I felt ready to be R's coplayer in the game of "find the Jewish Ghetto."
I peeked over his shoulder, "It's nothing but a recipe book," I exclaimed. Start with a Piazza Venezia Take one Via del Teatro Marcello: Mix well and turn right at Via Montanara: Scoop up a Via dei Funari. Add water and turtles.
The tall buildings stood shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee making the streets too narrow for cars. Sometimes R and I could barely walk side by side. There were no signs of life; no dogs, trees, flower boxes or even a stray weed popping its head from a neglected crack. This world consisted of only closed-windowed, red brick buildings split by a meandering cobble stone path. We walked, hand in hand, glowing Nintendo-blue; ever alert for Nintendo-monsters lurking in the bricks. Via Montanara opened up into Piazza Campitelli. A tiny park--a hub--with a bench but no vegetation, where a dozen narrow streets branched out of like the spokes of a bicycle wheel.
As we sat on the bench, looking for turtle clues, we felt safe. We could breath easier now, without the eyes of the buildings glaring down on us, but still there were no signs of life; not even the perpetual dancing gum wrappers that whimsically parade down the streets of all the other major cities in the world.
Just as I posed the question to no one but the open space, "How can we decide which spoke is Via Funari?" there appeared minuscule street placards posted way up high on the sides of the brick structures. If we walked right below the placard and squinted, we could just barely read the black letters. To make things more complicated, whenever we looked away from the placards to consult our recipe tour book, the spokes would quickly exchange placards. Before we realized what happened, we began to argue with each other.
"No, this is Via Catalana not Cairoli."
"I just looked at it; it's Costaguti."
The switching placards fueled our frustrated anger. I lashed out, kicking R in the shins. He pulled my hair. I pushed him as hard as I could with both hands, causing him to trip and fall. The snap of his head made him recognize the symptoms of level two Nintendo game..
"We need a plan," he said crawling away from me. "I'll stand here in the middle of the hub; you walk clockwise around the circle reading the placards out loud. When you come to Via Funari, don't take your eyes off the sign until I step out of the circle and into the correct street."
The plan worked beautifully and we were soon on our way again to find the turtles. And there they were! Our chests puffed up with the sense of discovery. Four bronze turtles were being pushed over the rim of a marble bowl by four life-sized, bronze, naked youths. The soft trickle of the "Fountain of the Tortoises" cast an enchanted veil of peace over the Piazza Mattei. I fell captive to its spell. I wanted so desperately to join the liveliness and fantasy of the fountain boys that I couldn't move. As I stood there, liquid bronze began to ooze from between the cobblestones. My shoes, acting like wicks, allowed the golden material to seep slowly up; inching its way toward my legs.
Along with the bronzing, seeped the tranquil feeling of permanency. My home began to gradually permeate me from the very soles of my feet. I could hear Mom softly humming. Her back was turned as she rolled the crust for sour apple pie while dad clomped over the hard wood floors in his heavy work boots handing her a bouquet of wild Black-eyed-Susans. I could smell the sharp cinnamon Mom uses in pies, apple blossoms, new mown hay and Spring rain. I could taste the Michigan clay under my tongue, gritty and hearty. Dark meaty bing cherry juice flowed through my veins.
"Daddy I miss you. It's so good to be home. I'm tired of dragging my belongings from place to place like a refugee." Dad's hands felt rough on my cheek as he wiped away the tears.
"It's OK, Princess," he said. "You're safe at home now."
"Barbara, Barbara, say something," shouted R
"...And there's Patches, he recognizes me, look at him wagging his tail."
R wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling, grunting, groaning and shouting but I remained mute with my feet rooted to the cobblestones.
"Speak to me," he yelled louder.
"...Oh, look, there's Cluck, my pet chicken, following Patches as usual."
Just before the bronze began to spill onto my legs, encasing them in the magic of foreverness, R clasped his hands over my ears, blocking out the gentle sound of the falling waters and ushered me to Via Portico d'Ottavia, the noisy heart of the Jewish ghetto.
The people and activity helped me shake the unexpected attack of home-sickness. Grandpas brought their kitchen tables out into the street and sat, to savor their afternoon wine and to watch the neighborhood children play soccer with a flabby ball.
Dodging the children and ball, we ran across the street and over the oldest bridge in Rome to an island of the Tiber river and the Hospital of Fatebenefrataelli or the "Do Good Brothers" that began in 291 BC with the famed healing spring of Aesculapius's temple. I had expected to find a voluptuous goddess perched on a rock dispensing divine healings but found instead the nauseating smell of an active, modern clinic. We quickly left, using the glimmer of the bronze roof of the Synagogue as our guide.
Reaching the Synagogue, we huddled closer finding pugnacious guards armed with machine guns posted at every corner. The guards seeing us approach, flipped down the visors of their helmets and readjusted their bullet proof vests.
"Maybe we shouldn't visit the Synagogue," suggested R timidly.
Compassion for my hero, flooded over me giving me the courage to break away from our two person huddle, stride up to the biggest, gnarliest guard, flip his visor up, look him in the eye and say, "How dare you intimidate this poor man. He kept us from loosing our way in the Nintendo-World; saved me from the enchanted turtles; put up with centuries of Christian icons and now you want to keep him from his own heritage?"
The fearsome guard began to shake and cry, shrinking into a six year old boy.
"Please lady, don't hit me. I'm only doing my job. Eight years ago the Synagogue had a bomb threat and we've been standing here guarding it ever since. I'm sorry we scared you. Please go in. Just don't hit me."
I went back to R who had been hiding his eyes and pulled him quickly past the guards before they remembered that they were really ruthless warriors.
"How did you do that?" R asked, after we were safe inside.
I smiled smugly, "You have your proven game strategies; I have mine."
The Synagogue smelled clean and fresh, like an oasis. The symbolic palm tree waving gracefully from the overhead crest was the only idol in the vast building. Like the Christian Churches, all the pews faced forward to the alter-stage, but the setting, painted in pastel pinks and blues, gave the sensation of purity rather then gilded ostentation.
After covering R's head with a yarmulke the guide explained that the Roman Jews, for many years, were the bankers and physicians to the popes. But with the Counter-Reformation, they were confined to the Ghetto. During this time they were forced to attend Catholic Mass. Instead of listening, week after week, to the Priests' condemning homilies, the Jews would come to church with their ears stuffed with melted wax. And that's why you can still find Catholic churches with Jewish Hebrew writings etched in the plaster."