After that shocking breakup, Elsa had heard that Drew was seeing an American art student from Texas. A leggy blonde with a mane of long wavy hair who’d come to Rome to finish her Ph.D. on the Italian Renaissance painter Artemisia Gentileschi. Just the sort of thing Drew from Kenosha would suck up to, Elsa thought. She had been trying her best to reestablish some kind of superiority in order to overcome the humiliation, and after receiving this bit of information she rode a train all the way to Naples just to look at Artemisia’s most famous painting—Judith Slaying Holofernes, in the Capodimonte museum, a magnificent palazzo built for King Carlo di Borbone in the mid-eighteenth century to house his vast art collection. Never, she felt, had a painting been so brutally graphic: Judith and her woman servant are holding the struggling Assyrian warrior down on the bed with a forceful gesture as though slaughtering a pig for the kitchen. Elsa knew the painting well, from her art history classes—it was an iconic work, embraced by several feminist critics—but up until that day she had only seen it reproduced in books. Art historians agreed that this work was Artemisia’s most powerful because in choosing this subject she had channeled her hatred for Agostino Tassi—a much less talented painter who worked in her father’s studio—a man who’d raped her, dishonored her. Elsa stared at the painting for a long time, fixing her gaze on every detail, taking in the way the blood spurts from Holofernes’s throat onto the mattress, noticing the way Judith (whom historians had established was Artemisia’s self-portrait) has rolled up her sleeves to the elbows and keeps her body slightly askew from the bed, so as not to soil her beautiful blue dress. Elsa was in awe of the artist’s cruelty, her determination. This was revenge at its best. Elsa moved away from the painting having filled herself with a righteous fury. Walking through the rooms of what she felt was her gallery, giving friendly nods to her museum guards sitting idly in the corners of the empty rooms, gave her a renewed sense of authority, as if she had succeeded in reestablishing her ownership not only of Artemisia Gentileschi, but of the entire Italian Baroque and Renaissance period. Elsa rode the two-hour train back to Rome with her face against the window feeling that, despite the fact that it had been her first visit to the Capodimonte museum, her brief time there had allowed her to regain stature in the face of those foreigners who came from nowhere, assuming they could simply absorb by osmosis her culture and history, and transform themselves into someone else by grabbing, using and then spitting out whatever came their way.
The letters started coming about a year after Drew left, completely out of the blue. Elsa was twenty years old; she’d left home by then and was sharing a flat with two friends from university. The first letter, mailed to her parents’ address—an event, since nobody bothered to write with a pen on paper, buy stamps and find a mailbox anymore—didn’t sound like Drew at all, it had absolutely no trace of his dark humor. Its tone was formal, old-fashioned, just like his neat handwriting: it was very specific and seemed concerned only as to whether she could forgive him for what he had done to her. Apparently Drew had gone back to Wisconsin after all; the letter claimed he’d now realized how “confused and unhappy” he’d been in Rome at the time of their breakup. What he’d inflicted on her was “unforgivable” and only now could he see what he had lost by breaking off their relationship so abruptly as if, he wrote, “you had been my enemy rather than a person I loved.”
Elsa was puzzled by the saintly tone, and showed the letter to one of her roommates, a girl whose skills at deciphering emotional nuances she trusted. The girl declared he must be in one of those American 12-step programs either for booze or drugs or both. This letter, she said, was simply what step 8 required: making amends to all the people you’ve harmed under the influence; Elsa surely happened to be just one in a long list of people to whom he owed apologies.
“I bet quite a few of these aerograms must be flying across the globe as we speak,” the girl said with a smirk.
This obvious truth came as a mild disappointment and Elsa regretted showing her the letter.
But then, a couple of days later, she decided to jump at the opportunity and secretly constructed a short but effervescent reply, chiseling her words, cutting and shaping it more and more so that her letter would sound casual, affectionate and humorous enough in case he might be interested in continuing their correspondence. Drew wrote back a week later with the same humorless tone of the first message, confessing he’d just recovered from a very dark period and was now helping out his father in the hardware shop back in Kenosha. He was thinking of taking up playing music again with a bunch of guys from the neighborhood. He thanked her for putting the letter in the post rather than e-mailing him back. He said that seeing her familiar handwriting again made their contact “so much more valuable.” It struck Elsa as odd, unlikely, the way these details seemed to be precious to him. As if he’d shed a protective layer and what was left underneath was too tender, too vulnerable to be attractive.
Sandro Donati ordered two cappuccinos and forced Elsa to try an almond croissant despite her protests. Nonsense, he said, you are not fat at all. Elsa couldn’t make herself look into his piercing blue eyes, he was so much more attractive than she remembered when they were discussing ideas for his website. He then complimented her for the work she’d done and on the vintage leather jacket she was wearing. He asked her whether she also lived in the neighborhood.
“I see you often coming and going on your bicycle. I live right around the corner, in Via Monserrato,” he said.
The fact that he was a neighbor as well as a client seemed to allow a significant shift in their relationship. Elsa found him easy to talk to—they compared notes about the new restaurant that had just opened in Via dei Giubbonari, discussed which one was their favorite vegetable seller at the market in Campo de’ Fiori. Elsa was flattered when he asked her for her phone number.
“If you like, one of these days we could go to a movie or get a bite at that new place,” he said, and rose to kiss her lightly on the cheek when she left.
Elsa rode her bike to the studio in a state of euphoria. Lately there had been little excitement in Elsa’s love life. An affair with a married man had gone awry a couple of years earlier and she’d been sleeping on and off with an old boyfriend she was no longer attracted to just to keep her body engaged in some sort of sexual activity. Even that had come to an end for lack of purpose.
In the following days she caught herself checking messages and missed calls. When she finally saw Sandro’s name on the display and he told her he’d been given two tickets for Barker’s concert, she couldn’t say no.
It wasn’t long before Elsa had lost interest in Drew’s correspondence. He’d told her that he’d started to play music again but his life in Kenosha, apart from a couple of gigs in small venues with his band and idle talk of a contract with an obscure music producer, seemed to have shrunk into a dull repetition—early morning jog, nine to six in the hardware shop, evening practice with the band in the garage. He did mention attending weekly Narcotics Anonymous meetings—so Elsa’s friend was spot-on there—and she suspected that getting off his addictions had probably made him a better person. But it had dulled the edge, killed the magic. All his romantic notions about art and literature, about living his life to its fullest, all that drug-induced passion that had possessed him and sometimes embarrassed her when she knew him in Rome, seemed to have faded and dispersed like fog, revealing his true substance. Reformed Drew was actually no longer worth yearning for, she told herself. And that’s how Elsa was healed of her broken heart and eventually stopped thinking about him altogether.
The posters were everywhere now. A black-and-white one was covering the scaffolding on the fa?ade of the Andrea della Valle church, which was undergoing yet another restoration. As Elsa kneeled down to lock her bicycle to a lamppost across the street, she felt Barker’s now universally recognized shape hovering above her. The shot caught him jumping midair in skinny jeans and cowboy boots, his sculpted biceps protruding from his T-shirt like some kind of superhero in flight. For a moment she wondered whether it was a good idea, to see him in the flesh again after so many years, even if only at a distance, while in the company of a man she barely knew and had a bit of a crush on.
Sandro had made a reservation at the restaurant around the corner so they could get a quick bite before the concert. Elsa found him sitting at a table, wearing a kind of English countryman’s cap and a fluorescent orange shirt peeking out beneath a bright blue jacket. Did he look glamorous? she asked herself. Fashionable, perhaps, but also on the verge of ridiculous. They both seemed less at ease than they’d been at the outdoor café only a few days earlier, and struggled to find a subject about which they might both be knowledgeable enough to sustain a conversation. This was exactly what was so nerve-racking about going on a first date these days: one had to proceed on this slippery, egg-shelled ground that could crack at any second. They began their slow trek picking through the main headline of the day—the primary election for the new Democratic Party candidate—but their opinions turned out to be antithetical, so they quickly backed up and ventured onto a different theme, as they didn’t want to—didn’t care, actually—have a debate. Their point was to agree, not to differ, to find common ground rather than contradict each other. Elsa ordered a hamburger and he made a comment in passing about being a vegetarian, so they explored that issue temporarily—Was he a vegan? No, actually a pescatarian. Was it because of some Buddhist credo? No, he simply didn’t eat anything that had a face. Ah yes, she could totally see his point, maybe she too should stop eating animals with faces. When that subject had been unraveled to its fullest, Elsa turned the conversation to summer holidaying. She said she enjoyed hiking the Dolomites in August, Sandro said he liked Ibiza in September, when the rave crowd had left. He said he always rented the same villa on the far side of the island—a very simple, very isolated farmhouse. It is so quiet, you’d never know you were in Ibiza. That’s what everyone always said about Ibiza, Elsa thought, they all made sure to stay in the remotest part of the island, so remote that you would never know it was Ibiza. She wondered why people bothered going to a place where they had to make such an effort to stay away from everything the place was famous for.
The idle chatter was beginning to tire her. The problem was she wasn’t feeling any vibe coming from him, there was absolutely zero chemistry now, which was maybe part of the reason it was so hard to find common ground. She wondered why on earth he’d bothered asking her for a date.
“Nice shirt,” Elsa said at one point. She must have hit the right spot at last because he suddenly jumped up from his chair and stood, beaming.
“It’s my favorite,” he said, with unexpected fervor. He struggled out of the shiny jacket and turned around, showing the fluorescent white velcro stripes on the back of his shirt.
“Guess what?” He laughed, delighted.
“Tell me.”
“I found it under a pile of junk at the Porta Portese flea market. This is the shirt men wear on road works. Five euros!”
“That’s amazing,” she said. “Amazing. I thought it was a Helmut Lang. Five euros? Pheeew! Who would have guessed.”
Barker’s first album came out in the mid-nineties, only a few years after he’d left Rome, and became a worldwide sensation overnight. He’d surprised Elsa once more: risen from the ashes of his detoxified, mediocre life, he’d bloomed into a star. Elsa just couldn’t believe how fast he’d made the leap from the hardware store in Kenosha to the cover of Rolling Stone.
Then she read in a magazine the title of his hit song, the one that had climbed to the top of the charts.
“Roman Romance.” And her heart skipped a beat.
So those letters had not been just a formality, a mandatory step to add her pardon to his list. The song had to be his tribute to her, long overdue. What a relief for Elsa to realize that with time and sobriety Drew—or Barker, whatever she was supposed to call him now—had been reminiscing about their love, that he had genuinely missed her. And to realize that she, well—that she had been in some way his muse.
Elsa ran to the music store in Via del Corso and bought the CD, but as soon as she got home and sat down to listen to the lyrics, she was mortified.
By then it was already too late, there was no way of stopping the rumor. Friends started ringing her up, people she only barely knew stopped her on the street, acting unusually friendly, her mother pestered her. All of them asking the same question. Is it you, the girl in the song? Is it you?
It was pointless to tell people that no, it wasn’t her but a blond Texan art student. People just wouldn’t hear, they loved the story too much. Knowing Elsa made them feel a step closer to Barker. By knowing her, they too could claim a piece of him. So the song kept following her. It became an albatross in C-sharp minor, another reminder of her humiliation.
She hadn’t been to a big rock concert since her twenties and never in such a grand auditorium. Crowds frightened her. People were streaming inside the stadium like ants, joyfully, expectantly. They walked with beatific smiles stamped on their faces, as if to confirm they were all there for the same exact reason, like a clan wearing the same tattoo. The place probably had more than twenty thousand seats and it was full to the brim. Sandro had been given VIP tickets, so they sat in a square section right across from the stage, cordoned off and slightly above the heads of those below. There were comfortable, nicely padded chairs, and complimentary mineral water with snacks. Elsa recognized a few faces in the VIP crowd, a couple of actresses and comedians, a young politician who had been recently involved in a scandal, fashion models with chopstick legs in impossible high heels next to orange-tanned football players. They were passing out Champagne in paper cups to one another, kissing and hugging and making their cordoned-off space their special private party, blatantly ignoring the supporting act. One of them—a beautiful dark-headed woman Elsa had seen in several films—came over and kissed Sandro Donati quickly on the mouth. I love your shirt, she said in a throaty, languorous voice, I am so going to steal it from you.
As the lights went down, a ripple went through the audience and then—there he was, center stage, under one sharp cone of light, in black pants and a crisp white shirt. His face filled the giant screen behind him: the tiny crow’s-feet, the two-day-old beard, the Mick Jagger lips, every intimate detail was so uncannily familiar to Elsa. She had actually touched those cheekbones, she knew the dots floating in those irises and the straight bridge of that nose. When the camera framed his hands picking the strings of the acoustic guitar, she recognized the shape of his fingers, his square nails and the flat shape of his thumb, which for some reason she had always found such an exquisite, manly feature. Those fingers had actually once explored every millimeter of her body, including cavities and hidden parts.
“Grazie di essere qui, Roma! Sono felice di essere con voi!”
His voice boomed in an almost perfect Italian accent as the band began to play the opening track. A roar, like a wave echoing and rippling, responded. They loved him. No, they were crazy about him. You could feel their adoration rise and fill the auditorium like a fog of sweat, love so thick you could cut it like cake. These were not casual fans, this was a crowd of diehards, faithful followers, the majority of whom seemed to be deep into their forties. They must have attended many of his concerts, because there was some kind of script they all knew and performed with uncanny discipline. They were doing funny stuff with their hands, raising them and flapping them loosely above their heads, so that the stadium seemed to flutter and vibrate as if filled by thousands of butterflies. They sang the lyrics of each song as soon as Barker gave them a cue, and stopped as soon as the chorus ended so that he could pick up from where they had left it. It was a dance, a well-rehearsed duet between him and a disciplined crowd of thousands responding as a single monstrous individual.
Soon even their cordoned-off VIP section was standing up, dancing like the rest of the audience, singing along with everyone, their arms up like a bunch of teenagers. Sandro looked at Elsa, in what seemed a hopeful way, as if expecting for her to say or do something that would confirm an expectation. He had taken off his jacket and cap, and was moving his hips to the beat. Two of those paper cups of Champagne had warmed him up and he was glowing. Elsa smiled encouragingly so he came closer and wrapped an arm around her waist, his femur thumping lightly against hers. Elsa accommodated his tentative steps, felt the warm dampness of his sweat through his shirt. By now everybody around them was touching and pressing against one another as Barker emitted an irresistible sexual energy, conducting their dance from the giant screen.
Sandro turned to her, his breath warm on her neck.
“Isn’t he just the best?”
Elsa nodded, feeling the increased pressure of his hand around her waist.
“I am glad you came.” Sandro blew softly in her ear. There was definitely a spark now, the chemistry of the night was beginning to take effect. It was a good feeling, though Elsa wondered whether it would have been wiser to come alone, in order to be free to focus on Barker’s physical manifestation in all his glory, and on the unforeseen effects this manifestation might have on her. Hers was a completely different reading of Barker’s performance from anyone’s crammed in that auditorium. The crowd of VIPs were getting sloppy and slightly out of hand. But her experience was private, and one she couldn’t possibly share with anybody.
The sax played a vibrant solo. Barker ran back and forth across the stage. The notes kept climbing higher and higher, driving the crowd to the limit. Until they became delirious.
Then the lights dimmed, the music seamlessly turned from rock mode to acoustic solo and the audience reacted with a giant intake of breath, a mix of wonder and delighted surprise. Flickering lights dotted the darkness. And then, as if on cue, everyone was holding up their cell phones as Barker began to sing “Roman Romance.” The flashes and the lit displays turned the dome of the auditorium into a starry sky. The audience followed the lyrics in a hushed chorus, waving their bluish screens in a gentle motion.
It was an apotheosis. Most of the audience knew, from gossip, star mags, blogs if not from Wikipedia, that Barker had lived in Rome when he was young. There he had fallen deeply in love with a mysterious girl, so that now “Roman Romance” belonged to the Romans by birthright. It had become their hymn to love, just as Marta the receptionist had said. And tonight tens of thousands of them were singing those lines with increasing pathos, till they became one fervent voice.
Elsa sensed a flutter around her, she could tell the VIP crowd was watching her, pointing, whispering. Sandro Donati studied her face but she pretended not to notice and fixed her gaze on the stage. Although she didn’t remember all the lyrics (after hearing it that first time she had carefully avoided paying attention to them) she felt she should try and sing along with everyone else. It was a gesture of atonement, like an atheist attempting to remember the lines of a prayer. The words reemerged, unstrung.
Girl, girl,
combing your hair
You will need me,
you will want me
more than you think.
Girl, girl,
in a beautiful coat,
you will be cold,
you will be dead
without me