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Seduced in Bologna | page 1, 2, 3
The rest of the crew thought nothing of this and amused themselves in various ways, airily reassuring me that it was no problem to delay the broadcast. When Sandro finally did show up with the script, I moved into my room, which suddenly became available. At dinner that night, they politely dismissed my correction of their pronunciation of "MONroe," saying that Italians would have trouble understanding the name if the stress wasn't placed on the first syllable. Then they relieved me altogether of my "responsibilities," which I'd never really had, and told me to enjoy the city while they knocked out the taping of the "boring" piece the next day. I dutifully walked under the pleasant and curtained porticos lining the streets of the old center and observed the life of the town. Stopping to chat or to snack on pastries and espresso, I found the Bolognesi possessed of the same good-natured rationality as their architecture. Their restrained cheer contrasted delightfully with Rome's open sensuality; it was rather like comparing one of their delicate sparkling proseccos with the Coke bottles of hearty Rosso di Olevano that Roman children fill directly from wine shop barrels for their mothers. I lunched handsomely at our restaurant, where the radio station thoughtfully paid our bills, and lingered over my coffee while perusing the well-reasoned articles in La Repubblica. At the train station that evening, Sandro handed me my check and, last to board, Francesca smiled, leaned close and whispered one more "Bestia," at once accusing and affectionate. On the evening before I was expecting her to join me in Florence, I had a phone call from Sandro. He apologized that Francesca was suffering from a cold and that he felt she should not travel. "You can get together when you return to Rome," he offered. To this day, the sight of the Uffizi Gallery, which I could see out my window just across the Arno, brings back that conversation informing me that my brief affair was over. Back in Rome, I once more partied a good deal with the troupe. I learned that Francesca was in the habit of having frequent affairs lasting one or, rarely, two weeks, but never longer. I, evidently, hadn't quite made the grade. Not only didn't I love her; I'd actually gone off to Florence instead of attending upon her in Rome. I was a beast. One afternoon I happened to pass down a street in the working-class Testaccio district where a young painter of my acquaintance lived. Some mutual friends were gathered in front of his building. With an air of genuine concern laced with mild Roman satire, they explained that Claudio had barricaded himself in the bathroom and was threatening to swallow a bottle of tranquilizers because he was in love with Francesca. There was another group upstairs, including Francesca herself, who was trying to coax Claudio into coming out. Claudio would only respond with despairing protestations of his undying love for her. He'd lasted the full two weeks. Since those days, Francesca has appeared in a number of Italian movies, none of which I've seen. And don't worry, Claudio survived to tell his own tale.
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