Fragment in a Vettura
Rome had no street lamps and at dusk the entire city faded to murk. Keats sat facing backward in the vettura, his head half out the window, and watched shadows of roofs pass over the violet sky. Everything below was the faintest sketch. Nothing showed on the streets but the dancing orange tips of cigars; lit windows sprang into being like ghosts, waved their drapes and were gone. Keats leaned farther out and a breeze struck his face, smelling of cooking fires.
“It’s so dark!” he called. “You don’t fear bandits?”
“Not with Nino,” the driver replied. The giant heard his name and smiled; he sat opposite Keats, head touching the ceiling and knees drawn close.
“And God protect us,” said the driver. “We have priests.”
“Priests?”
“They go to Firenze. We stop at the par
