Chapter 1 : Part 7

Spring and Fall
by Nicholas Delbanco

(Page 7 of 7)

We have a special lunch and it has been ordered already so I see you later on. It is, she said, bureaucracy, these Italians are in love, enraptured with bureaucracy, and it is of course the case that everything of any value is in the museum in Naples, but you must imagine what it felt like for the people of the city to look up and watch Vesuvius erupt; it is not so much, she told the group, the popular conception that they were caught by lava as they died because of smoke; it is smoke inhalation, said Gabriela, it's, how do you call it, asphyxiation that makes Pompeii a special place, and nowhere to run to because of the sea which would be in any case boiling. They could not land the ships. But in every cloud there is, come se dice, how do you call it, a silver lining also. Because perfect preservation was enabled by the accident-people sitting, people baking bread, people chained to their workplace because they were slaves-and dogs and mosaics discovered intact beneath fifteen meters of ash. You will want to see a rich man's house and also the place of the baths; you will want to see a wine shop and what we call the Luparium or brothel and also, naturally, the marketplace; there is more than it is possible in one single visit to see.

Lawrence set out on his own. He studied temple columns and those excavation sites where the work continued: young people with shovels and pails. He wandered for an hour in the increasing sun, consulting his guidebook and looking at the trees and ruins and the ruts in stone where chariots had driven. He thought about Vesuvius, its fecund slopes and lethal ash and how the tethered slaves would have watched death approaching. In a side alley stood a tour guide with a group of tourists, and he stopped to listen. The guide was enjoying himself.

"Signs," he was explaining, "you have, how you say, Mc- Donald's, and everybody knows what they can order when they see the golden arch; there are pictures showing everybody what McDonald's serves. So you point to this one, say, a Big Mac, or that one, say, a salad and a coffee, and the people who are serving know what item you prefer." For effect, the tour guide paused. "You don't need to speak the Latin, spikka da langwich, parler la langue; you can be, for example, a sailor from a foreign place just off a ship. Well, this building, very popular, very important in Pompeii, is called the Luparium-because women when they were not busy would come out to the corner and howl in the street to make known they were available, though not of course for free. So it is called Luparium, the place of wolves-and they have pictures, you will see, explaining what to order. On the outside of their rooms is a kind of advertisement, gentlemen and ladies, for what goes on inside. The oldest profession, correct? One has such and such a specialty, one has another instead."

There were appreciative titters; people shifted their weight on their feet. The tour guide relished the attention, clearly, and fanned his cheek with his cap. "I will not embarrass you, ladies, by describing what the pictures show but if you look at them carefully carefully you of course can see who prefers to be on top and who is on whose knees. If you were, how do you call it, a bigwig, a very special customer, you go upstairs and spend the night but mostly this is, how do you call it, a quickie in and out. And so because this is so popular a place to visit we must take our turn like customers"-he smiled-"ten at a time. Therefore everybody will have space: enjoy, enjoy. And when you will have had your fill of looking at the pictures"-again he paused, theatrical-"next person has a chance."

Lawrence waited for his turn to enter; then he stepped inside. The Luparium, by contrast with the noontime heat, felt cold. Above the doorless door frames and the entrances to empty rooms he could indeed see pictures-ancient, faded, but intact-of prostitutes: some lying down, some standing, sitting, others on all fours or leaning openmouthed above priapic men.

He felt not so much excited as bereft. It made a sad display. For centuries, for thousands of years these same arrangements had been or were being enacted; nothing had changed or would change. Immobile, the plump painted figures nonetheless aped motion, and someone in the bedroom next to him said, "Hey, baby, look at that."

Lawrence stepped outside. His companion in the dark enclosure touched his sleeve. "Hello."

"Hello."

It was the woman he had noticed in the dining room, then failed to find. "You don't recognize me."

"Excuse me?"

"You don't know me, do you?" He looked at her. The Luparium had been enshadowed, and the light out here was bright. His eyes adjusted. "Good Christ."

"No, not exactly." She smiled her widemouthed smile at him. "Hel-lo!" "Hello yourself. You haven't changed." "Oh yes I have. How are you?"

Self-deprecating, dismissive, she made a motion with her hands. "How long has it been?"

"Forty years. Well, forty-two." "And counting." She put on her dark glasses. "I thought I saw you. Knew you. But you kept disappearing. . ." "It's not the perfect way to meet again."

"What . . ."

"Here, I mean." She tilted her head to the building behind. "But we're on the Diana together. I'm not sure I believe it . . ."

"Good Christ," he repeated.

"No."

"No?"

"Only Hermia," she said.

Copyright © 2006 by Nicholas Delbanco

About the Author

Nicholas Delbanco's writing has earned him widespread recognition and many literary honors, including the Guggenheim Fellowship and two National Endowment for the Arts Creative Writing Fellowships. He served as founding director of the Bennington Writing Workshops and, since 1985, has directed the MFA Writing Program at the University of Michigan, where he also administers the prestigious Hopwood Awards. Nicholas Delbanco makes his home in Ann Arbor, Michigan, with his wife and their two daughters.