Jesus and Mary Street

He lay, elongated, on the corner of vias Gesù e Maria and Corso, beneath a sign that read in capitals ‘STOP HERE’. The normally generous people of Rome walked around, or over, his prostrate form, making – no doubt – their interpretations as a single, unified body, a single eye. ‘Young man’ first, then ‘student’ (from his clothes, you see), then ‘fair-skinned’ (American?), and finally ‘drunk’.

As it turns out (and I’m sorry if you’ve heard this kind of thing before), this guy wasn’t really a student, an American, or even really drunk. His eyes were open, although hardly looking at anything, you would think. In any case, there were fewer people stepping around him now, as it was a Wednesday afternoon and it looked like rain.

One of those peculiarly Roman raindrops smacked him on the lips with such accuracy that he was sure, later, that it had been an intentional gesture of the gods of the city. The large, heavy, warm ball didn’t really revive him at that moment, however. It was a strong feminine arm that did that.

The rain in Rome falls rather rarely. When it does, it is a particular joy, washing buildings and streets, making marble and graffiti gleam. The cobbles become slippery; the pavements empty, especially in the area round piazza del Popolo, towards the northern gate, and those who are outside are putting up umbrellas and trying to get indoors as soon as possible.

As for that arm, it was maternal more than anything, and it peeled his head from the pavement, gently though, as if he were really sick. He realised that he was breathing far too quickly, that his body wasn’t ready for this movement, and that it was desperately fighting this upward trajectory. Maybe he was really sick.

“Come on, get up.” And then she added, not so much because it was a fact, but rather as an excuse for having touched him, “It’s raining.”

To his surprise, not only did he get up, but at that exact moment, the rain really started. She lead him down the little shiny street running east, past parked scooters and closed doors, towards a dark green doorway. “Jesus and Mary Street”, he mumbled to himself, and his mouth felt dry and sore. Although it hadn’t really registered at the time, he would later hypothesise that this spontaneous translation had occurred precisely because the strange woman had spoken to him, not in Italian, but in English.