[Life in Italy]

Something Turgenev wrote came back to me recently: "To be young and to want knowledge, this is bearable; but to have grown old and to fail in strength, that is indeed heavy."

It reminded me of an incident that happened many years ago, a time when excitement was zinging through Rome like an electric shock; cars were hurtling pell mell along the avenues, their riders, mostly boys and men, hanging precariously out, yelling, waving banners, blowing horns, screaming, shouting--green-white-and-red flags flapped in every window. It was because, for the first time in decades, Italy had reached the World Cup soccer championship finals. The team was playing half-way across the planet in Mexico, and every Italian had seemingly gone ga-ga. "

Viva, viva, viva Italia!" They'd been screaming it for days. Italy's brave young guns were going to win...that very night! Against Brazil! Viva Italia!!

Sitting in the sunny quiet of Piazza Navona, shielded from the frantic madness in the streets, we regulars of Cafe Domiziano were drinking our morning espresso, reading our newspapers, talking softly with each other across the tiny tables. The main subject was--what else?--the championship.

The muted din of horns and shouting in the distance barely reached our ears--no cars were allowed in the square, thank heavens. What a truly civilized place Piazza Navona was: a man could have a coffee there, talk with amici, smoke a cigarette in peace, stare at the Bernini fountain in the middle of the long oval island, flirt with a girl, watch the ever-changing spectacle ...or ignore it.

A sudden hush fell over the tables causing me to look up. Everyone was staring across the piazza, where a shrunken old man, held up on either side by two women, was slowly tottering toward us. We turned to each other, murmuring from table to table: Who is that? It looks like...oh, Dio, could it be? Is it Pietro? In denial, we shook our heads no, of course it wasn't, how could it be? Pietro's hair was thick, lusty, grey; this old guy's hair was a sickly yellow, pulled back and tied with a narrow black ribbon, lying limp against his neck. Pietro had a great bull chest; this old man was thin, puny-looking; one arm hung uselessly, one leg dragged. His face was ravaged, worn, eyes sunken...head drooping in resignation.

God, no, that isn't Pietro, il buttofuoco, the fire-eater, the strongman of Piazza Navona. We laughed uneasily, asking each other, per carità, what can we be thinking; why, it doesn't even look like him. Our Pietro pulses with life, vitality; he bursts through chains, swallows swords...eats fire!

The old man paused at the table where one of my friends ventured, "Pietro?" When the man answered, we gave a collective gasp. It was him!

The women anxiously clutched the arms of their charge as he spoke haltingly to another of the regulars. He touched his heart briefly, felt along the useless arm, explaining. We understood. The old lion had had a stroke...that was why we hadn't seen him for so long.

It just didn't seem possible. Our Pietro. How many times had I watched him put on his show in the piazza? All those years, starting in the spring, continuing until the last lingering tourist had left. The same show several times a day--I never tired of it...the same patter, the same jokes, the same routine. Like kids we had watched him toss his wild grey mane back and shoot flames from his mouth high into the air...we thrilled as he made two feet of sword disappear down his gullet. He would stand shirtless in the middle of the gathered crowd, urging and taunting young men he'd picked from the audience to pull the ropes and chains across his bare chest tighter, tighter, razzing them--Is that the best you can do?--as they tugged and jerked at the cords...calling them weaklings while freeing himself effortlessly. Nothing could pierce the power of the Strongman of Piazza Navona--he was invincible.

Had been.

One by one, we put our newspapers and coffees down to walk over and shake his trembling hand, to mumble a few words and hurry back to our tables.

I watched sadly as the two women tugged at Pietro, urging him to come away. He went along with them meekly, slowly tottering across the sunny oval. When he reached the other side, he turned to look back at us for a long moment. He raised his good arm in a gesture of farewell, then turned back and passed out of the piazza.

No one said a word. We knew we'd seen him for the last time.

As if pre-arranged, singly and in twos and threes, we paid our bills and quit the cafe to go off in different directions. Piazza Navona would never be the same--a small part of it was finished for good. The lion had fallen and--Turgenev was right-- "that is indeed heavy." Outside, the cars screamed up and down the streets, horns howling, aficionados of "the game" hanging out the windows: "Viva, viva, viva Italia!!"