uno
The scent palette of Rome changes distinctly as the calendar flicks to October.
Rich, damp earth. That’s what Rome – the toughened, weathered, impenetrable marble façade of thecittà eterna– smells like in October. Romans find comfort in this; it evokes a sense of timelessness, of returning to the land. As if the first breath, that initial inhale, has the ability to stop time. There’s something about it that’s renewing, grounding. It offers reassurance and stillness before the incessant November rain.
This was the scent that greeted Stella Chiaro as she alighted from the H at her usual stop. She breathed in deeply, closing her eyes as the evening air filled her lungs. Over her shoulder, the sun had almost finished its descent, caressing the evergreen foliage of the stone pines of Isola Tiberina with its deepening terracotta hues. Time, marked by the changing face and sensory delights ofMamma Roma, wasn’t just passing; now, it was frantically calling Stella’s name.
She took a moment to button up her cropped jacket against the thick, cool blanket the sun’s retreat had allowed to rest upon Rome, then she sighed. Suitcase in tow, she crossed Lungotevere degli Anguillara and made her way to the ledge overlooking the Tiber. With the majestic Ponte Garibaldi to her left and the sky awash with the golden stains of the dying Roman sunset, she smiled to herself.
Blowing a good evening kiss to the sky, she turned and looked down at her brown leather boots on the cobblestones of Trastevere. As if magnetically connected to the ground beneath her feet, Stella felt the pull of Rome tether her to the spot. Rome wanted her here; this she knew.
Opening the banking app on her phone, she was relieved to see a significantly healthier balance.
Thanks, Mum.You’ve got six months, Stella. Get your life together. This is it.
A tingling fidget of her fingers tried to mar her confidence, but Stella shook it off. She simplyhadto make it work this time, or the past ten months living in that little apartment in Trastevere would have all been in vain.
Really,what do I have to show for it all?
An inbox folder full of rejections.
A few extra kilos.
No. Stella wasn’t done trying yet.
The three-week trip back home to Melbourne to see her mum had been food for the soul, but now, and perhaps forever, Rome was the only place she wanted to call home.
Adjusting the length of her suitcase’s telescopic handle, she started down Via della Lungaretta.
In the chat she shared with her flatmate, Marcella, Stella wrote:I’m two minutes away. Do you have ‘company’?
You’ll see.
Stella laughed, then scrunched her nose.
Che schifo! she sent, darting between pedestrians.
She continued onto Via di San Calisto, swapping greetings with familiar faces. As the large double doors of her palazzo came into view, she began poking through the many pockets of her weary-looking satchel for her keys. Short a spare hand, she withdrew her wallet from the rear pocket and tucked it in the crook of her right arm to free up enough space to push other contents around. Still, however, no keys made themselves known.
Slipping her hand into the tightest pocket, Stella’s fingers fumbled onto something. She withdrew the inch-wide wodge which turned out to be a sheet of paper that had been folded over and over onto itself. A familiar buzz of nervous energy nipped at her hands and despite her slightly trembling fingers, she hastily opened and unfolded the little square. Two words, ornately formed in her artistic cursive, looked up at her from the tattered paper:Never again.
Her heart skipped a beat. She’d forgotten that she’d stashed the paper in that little compartment. For two years, she had thought it lost.
Closing her eyes, she allowed herself a moment to catch her breath. As the adrenaline began to subside, she threw her gaze to the darkening dusk sky. Taking stock of the moment – of how far she’d come and where she now found herself – a humble smile formed in the corner of her lips.
No. Never again.
Folding it back up, Stella returned it to its former position. Safe. Secure. Steadfast.
The moment was short-lived, however, as Stella looked down at her suitcase. She exhaled loudly, remembering that she had expertly packed her house keys in her toiletries bag for safekeeping.
She pressed the buzzer for Simeoni/Chiaro.
‘Hmm?’ came a disembodied voice from the intercom.
‘It’s me, Marcella. I’ve packed my keys and don’t particularly feel like rifling through the entire contents of my suitcase to retrieve them.’
Marcella’s unmistakable cackle broke the peace on the otherwise quiet street. ‘Don’t open it, Stella. Everyone will see yourmutandedella nonna!’
