All Roads Lead to Rome

Julia stared at the croissant crumbs lying spent and lazy on her plate and tried to remember what it felt like to be in love with her husband. If only she could find her younger self. Her younger self would know.

“This is the vilest espresso in the history of God’s creation,” Martin said from across the table. He lowered the tiny cup and raised the left corner of his mouth in a sly smile. “You spaced out on me, Jules. What were you thinking about?”

Jules. God, she hated that. When had he started calling her that? “I was just remembering,” she said, “our first time here.”

His smile slipped. He tilted his head as though listening for termites at work in the legs of his chair.

“Let’s go out walking,” she said. “I want to see the city again.”

He nodded with the resigned reluctance of the duty-bound and finished off his espresso. “I can use the caffeine if nothing else.”

She was tired herself, jet-lagged. They had landed less than twenty-four hours ago, but it was Rome, again, after thirty years. They deposited their key at the front desk and stepped out into the sunshine. As they merged with the crowded pedestrian flow Martin’s arm drifted from his side. She thought he meant to take her hand and she opened her palm to the romantic gesture but his arm rose past into a stretch, a reach for nothing.

She slowed her stride a quarter of a step and watched the side of his face. Did he wonder why she wished to revisit the place they had met? Did the desire imply a need for renewal? Was there an implicit accusation of stagnation? Did he care?

Her eyes moved past him, over the street, the buildings, the people. How much was the same? Enough of everything; newer cars but the same traffic, a younger generation but the same gestures, the same streets, the same river, the same sky, the same lights.

The sun glinted off a taxi’s wheel rim. The glow fragmented, limbed outward, arced over shop windows, jumped off the silverware of an outdoor café, lit every line of every face. Julia squinted into the glare then forced her eyes wide and let the warmth spread over her cheeks, her forehead, her neck, her shoulders.

And there she was, her younger self, seated at one of the outdoor café tables with the man she had met only a week before. Julia recognized the moment at once. It was the day after Martin had left his hotel room for hers; it was the first practical conversation they had had concerning their future. She could just hear their voices.

“My father’s a lawyer in Boston,” young Martin said, “a senior partner in his firm. My parents would love it if I followed.”

“I have my teaching license for Illinois,” young Julia answered. “It wouldn’t be a problem to get certified in Massachusetts.”

Julia advanced on their table. “How can you say that? After one week how can you already be willing to change your entire life? I need you to tell me, to show me how to do it again.”

Julia’s younger self looked up and smiled serenely. “It just feels right, you know? Like it’s meant to be.”

“But I don’t know,” Julia answered, “and I can’t remember. Describe it, make me understand.”

Julia’s younger self furrowed her brows. “There are no words. It just is.”

“That’s not good enough. I need to feel what you feel.”

“Did you want to sit again already?” Martin asked from behind her.

Julia blinked. She was standing beside a vacant table. You won’t get away that easily, she thought. You owe me an explanation and I know where to find you.

“Not here,” she said. “The Spanish Steps.”

He gave her another tilted expression. “All right.”

When they reached the steps Julia immediately started to ascend. She spotted their younger selves seated about half way up. On their third day together they had come here for a mid-morning picnic of bread and cheese. She remembered being captivated by the water jumping in the fountain in the square below, the drops flashing as they rose and fell and churned from pools to points to pools. She remembered saying something foolish. She watched her younger self’s mouth shape the words.

“What if that fountain is an oracle?” The idea had just popped into her head and out of her mouth. “What if every drop is a potential future?”

Young Martin jumped to his feet and descended, between and around the tourists and locals. At the bottom he stopped and circled the fountain. He made a show of examining a drop here and a drop there then plunged his hands into the water. He pulled them out cupped together and re-ascended with his tongue stuck from the corner of his mouth in mock concentration.

Young Julia turned bright red as young Martin knelt on the step below her. Julia was close enough to hear them now.

“For you,” young Martin said. “The brightest there was.” He stood, raised his arms and upended his hands. Water splashed over the girl’s forehead, ran over her ears and cheeks and chin. Young Martin poured what remained onto his own head. The couple laughed together and glowed in the light of the shared baptismal gesture.

Julia climbed the remaining steps two at a time until she reached them. She touched her younger self’s damp forehead. “Yes, this glow is what I need. You have more than enough to last you for years but it is all gone now and I can’t manufacture any more. I need to draw it from the source.”

Julia’s younger self looked up at her as though she were foolish. “But it’s not yours. It’s for he and I and here and now.”

“You stupid girl. Look past the wrinkles and the extra weight. I am you. What’s yours should be mine.”

A hand closed on Julia’s forearm. “It’s too hot here, Jules,” Martin said. “There’s no shade.” She turned to pry Martin’s fingers free, then stopped.  No, she thought, we should be touching; he needs to feel this too. But when she turned back the young couple was gone.

“St. Peter’s,” she said, “it's cool there.” That’s where I’ll catch you, she thought, that’s where you’ll give me what I need.

They crossed the slow, brown Tiber and traced the river past the bulk of Castel Sant’Angelo until the rounded order of St. Peter’s square came into view. When they climbed the stairs of the Basilica she held her breath and bowed her head. It was the great polished cave of God; wood and marble, silver and gold, priests and tourists, statues and pews, columns and arches of perfected extravagance. And light. Not for here the gothic negligence of shadowed corners.

She quickened her steps. Martin followed, their footfalls muffled by the murmur of clicking cameras. The spot she needed was on the left-hand side, just past halfway down the building’s length. When she reached it she stopped, exhaled, closed and then opened her eyes.

Her younger self appeared from around a pillar, contentedly strolling alone.

She had only been twenty-five, college done but no decisions yet made. No better time for Europe; the history, the romance, the spools of variation behind every flag. The great cities had been numerous and bright but Rome had sat differently; confident and settled, less obscure, more revealing. It was the final city of her tour and St. Peter’s the final attraction.

Julia remembered how she had circled the pillars with lips parted, absorbed by the confluence of realized intentions. Questions had tumbled through her head. How many decisions over how many years were required to create such a place? How much energy? More than the result could hold?

She remembered feeling a need to step carefully, as though uncertain of her footing. She watched her younger self dig her mirror from her purse and touch her fingers to her face. Her reflection had obeyed but had there been a delay? How far could choice be stretched? What were the limits? In that moment alone she remembered swallowing and tasting none.

Then young Martin stepped up behind the unsuspecting girl. “Excuse me; may I take your picture?” Young Julia flinched and clenched her fingers. Her mirror slipped to the floor. The cheap plastic casing clattered against the timeless stone, echoed on and on.

Julia remembered wanting to run and leave it behind. But a man had stepped around her, stooped, pinched the source of her embarrassment between two fingers and stood. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” young Martin said as he held out the mirror. He held up his camera with his other hand. “Would you mind?”

“Why do you want my picture?” young Julia demanded.

Young Martin smiled in anticipation of his next line. “Because you’re the most beautiful thing in this building.”

Julia’s younger self laughed flirtatiously. “Well then, I won’t deny you the pleasure.” He took her picture and they continued on together, walking and talking as she blinked away the residue of his flash.

That was it? A flash in her eyes and he led her away? Julia walked up behind her younger self, put her hands on the girl’s shoulders and spun her around. “I need to know what’s inside you!  Tell me!  I need it again.”

Julia’s younger self tilted her head. “Are you certain about that?”

“Well, Jules?” Martin’s voice was smug behind her. “This is the spot isn’t it?  The spot you came all the way back here to see?”

Julia released her younger self and let her continue on her way. The girl had found what she had needed on that day. Julia turned to face her husband. He thinks he’s got me pegged, she thought, just another middle-aged wife desperate for that initial romance.

He was right. This was the spot, the spot prior to his entrance where every possibility had stood stacked all around her in great waiting piles, where they still stood stacked.

And just as before, this was the spot where she found what she needed.