After the Circus

~ ~ ~

I remained in the office, reading and waiting for her call. She had said early afternoon. I’d set the phone beside me on the couch. When the clock hit three, I felt a vague disquiet that gradually worsened. I was afraid she’d never call. I tried to keep reading, in vain. Finally the telephone rang.

She still hadn’t recovered the rest of her belongings in Saint-Leu-la-Forêt. We agreed to meet at six o’clock at the Tournon.

I had time to stop in at Dell’Aversano’s to find out how much he intended to pay me for the fake Monticelli, little Chinese armoire, and chess pieces I’d left with him.

I crossed over the Pont-Neuf and followed the quays. Dell’Aversano had an antiques shop on Rue François-Miron, behind the Hôtel de Ville. I had met him two months earlier while selecting some used books from the shelves near the shop entrance.

He was a dark-haired man of about forty, with a Roman face and light-colored eyes. He spoke French with a slight accent. He had told me he imported antiques between France and Italy, but I didn’t ask too many questions about that.

He was expecting me. He took me for coffee on the quay near the church of Saint-Gervais. He handed me an envelope, saying he’d buy the whole lot from me for seven thousand five hundred francs. I thanked him. I could live for a long time on that amount. Besides, I would soon have to leave the apartment and fend for myself.

As if he were reading my thoughts, Dell’Aversano asked what I planned to do with my life.

“You know, my offer still stands …”

He smiled at me. The last time I’d visited, he had said he could find me a job in Rome, with a bookseller he knew who needed a French assistant.

“Have you given it any thought? Could you see yourself living in Rome?”

I said yes. After all, I had no reason to remain in Paris. I was sure Rome would suit me fine. It would be a new life over there. I had to buy a map of the city, study it every day, learn the names of all the streets and squares.

“Do you know Rome well?” I asked him.

“Yes. I was born there.”

I could drop in on him from time to time with my map and ask him about the various neighborhoods. That way, when I arrived in the city, I wouldn’t feel disoriented.

Would she agree to come with me? I’d talk to her about it that evening. This might solve her problems as well.

“Did you live in Rome?”

“Of course,” he said. “For twenty-five years.”

“On what street?”

“I was born in the San Lorenzo district, and my last address was on Via Euclide.”

I wanted to jot down the names of the district and the street, but I would try to remember them and look them up on the map.

“You can leave next month,” he said. “My friend will find you a place to live. I don’t think the work is very strenuous. You’ll be dealing with French books.”

He took a long drag on his cigarette, then, with a graceful gesture, as if in slow motion, he brought the coffee cup to his lips.

He told me that in Rome, when he was younger, he and his friends used to sit in a café and compete to see who could take the longest to drink an orangeade. It often lasted all afternoon.