Siracusa by Delia Ephron Page B

irritation. I wondered what he’d done.
    “Call Michael,” I told Snow. “So he waits for us.”
    She knelt to refasten the straps on her pink jellies.
    In retrospect it’s impossible for me to see anything Snow did as innocent, even the passive way her hand lay in mine, kneeling when I urged
Hurry
. Was she experimenting with control? What was the game here? The gain here? Did I not understand that children simply have their own way of engaging? The world interests them differently. A moment to speed up might seem the exact time to slow down. An uncomfortable shoe maymatter more than a person. I still ponder and dissect events endlessly. I barely sleep now and drift to them, falling into a stupor of reflection. Like narcolepsy, memories overtake me suddenly and randomly.
    The fountain. For this I need to summon my energy.
    To experience the Trevi Fountain in all its glory, watch
La Dolce Vita
. Perhaps I feel this way because the film is special to me, personal above all others. Perhaps because, in
La Dolce Vita
, the Trevi Fountain is romantic. No, romance is something anyone might experience who got lucky one night. Rather, an enchantment: a turbulent crazy fantasy of a fountain in a deserted piazza, exquisite naked marble men frolicking with winged horses, the god of the sea, Oceanus, presiding over the festivities, naked too except for a swirling cloak, his body muscled perfection. The waterfalls obliterating all sound, and Anita Ekberg drifting through.
    In reality, same fountain yet not. The lights were so bright, night was banished. Tourists milled about posing for pictures and tossing in coins. Shouting, loud laughter, teenagers screeching. Everyone clomping in big fat sneakers.
    We couldn’t see the fountain in its entirety from the stone bench where Michael had parked himself. We joined him, Snow between us. I asked her if she wanted to throw in a coin—it meant she would return to Rome, I explained—but got that mini head shake, no. Did she want to get closer? She shook her head to that too.
    For me, visiting the fountain was a pilgrimage. My dad andthe Trevi Fountain were all wrapped up with falling in love with Michael.
    “When I was your age,” I told Snow, “my dad took me to see a famous Italian movie called
La Dolce Vita
. It was his favorite film.” Snow smoothed the creases in her skirt, giving no indication of interest. It didn’t matter. I was really telling Michael. I was reminding him. Our first weekend together, the only time we left bed was to go to the Film Forum to see this movie. My dad had died the year before. Taking Michael to
La Dolce Vita
was my way of introducing him to my dad.
    “A famous scene takes place here. An American movie star, Anita Ekberg, has come to Rome. She was—oh God, she was as remarkable in the flesh as those gods are in marble. Tall and impossibly beautiful with long sleek blond hair like yours, and miraculous bosoms.” When I talked about Anita Ekberg, all I wanted to do was use overinflated words like
miraculous
and
bosoms
. “There was something about the giganticness of her breasts. . . .”
    Here’s the thing about Snow’s wallpaperishness. I didn’t always consider the appropriateness, the effect of my words. She gave so little back, but I pulled Michael’s attention with that comment. His head swiveled my way, and, since he was drunk—he doesn’t jolt easily when drunk—I felt a rush of pride in my ability to engage him. Having won the prize of his attention, I talked faster to keep it.
    “Marcello, a meltingly handsome Italian, is following Anita through the deserted streets of Rome, and when he arrives atthe piazza, she is in the fountain. Imagine this goddess, her mountainous breasts threatening to fall out of her black strapless dress, wafting toward the falls. ‘Marcello, come here,’ she calls.” This had become a refrain in our relationship. When I took a shower, I would shout,
Marcello, come here
, and Michael would join me.
    I