"You mean, you're free?"

"Well, not exactly. You really want to know?"

"Idiot! I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know."

"I have a Fulbright for this year. It's for Belgium, actually, but I couldn't get one for Italy. So I came here for the summer to begin my writing."

"When do you have to go to Belgium?"

"Sometime in the fall. I hear if you're lucky, you can write to them and insist you can't do your work elsewhere. I wish Verlaine and Rimbaud had spent some time in Italy together."

"Is that your subject?"

"Rimbaud's influence on Verlaine's work."

"Fascinating."

"I couldn't think of a French-Italian subject that hadn't been treated. All the French-Italian gimmicks had been grabbed up long ago."

"Then you're in graduate school. Somehow I thought so."

"You're so right. And you're here to paint. Who are you revolting against, Joanna?"

"Nobody... Well, perhaps, my uncle."

"Uncle?"

"I live with my uncle. My parents are dead. They died a long time ago." "I'm sorry

"My father died of cancer and my mother committed suicide. A long time ago. My mother's brother took me in."

"I am sorry...

"Don't be sorry. It was a long time ago. I've had a good life. I like my uncle." "Doesn't he miss you?"

"I suppose so. We each go our own way. He kind of looks after me. But we don't really communicate. He shields me from my other relatives. The ones that try to run things."

"So you've come over here to live, too?"

"I guess you could say that. I want to become a good painter. I need atmosphere. Just as you do. The Bronx isn't the answer."

"Here we are. Exiles from the Bronx. With the same culture and the same appreciation of the finer things. Scratch an exile from the Bronx and you find a Roman convert lurking under the skin. We get converted so easily to the Roman pulse, the Roman rhythm, the Roman way, Roman food, Roman sensuality, Roman wine . . .'

"If only the Vatican were Bergdorf Goodman's. We could pick and choose." "Old Rome is Hebraic. Even the cats look wise and solemn like old Jewish men in a synagogue."

"Oh, Roy, you're funny . . ."

"Here we are, Joanna. Young, cultured, over-sensitive Americans, eager to find ourselves. We last here as long as our money lasts. You're a painter, an artist, a person. I'm a graduate school rat, a refugee from research, Romestruck..." We laughed.

"Let's take a walk . . ."

We left our coffee cups half filled, tipped lavishly and strayed out into the Roman night. We ended up in the direction of the Coliseo and Foro. We walked among the antic Roman splendors lit up for the occasion by the ultra modern feat of dramatic lighting. We read inscriptions and whispered the magic letters SPQR dramatically. I could feel it clearly that it was only a matter