Roman Holiday – DAY 3 – Fleeting Wor(l)ds

Anita.

Her child in her arms, breathless but full of bravery, Anita was galloping like she was flying. She was running for her child’s sake, for her own immortality; she was running for the liberty of people who weren’t hers but that she called her own, weren’t they all citizens of the world fighting for the same unbreakable freedom after all… Flower in her gun but a loaded gun, she was running towards. Towards her fate, towards her husband.

Nothing happened like I had planned, I almost got lost…

The dolce vita finally fills me, I sink into it instead of trying to understand. And I soon end up on the top of Gianicolo Hill that offers me a stunning view of Roman domes. I play who is who… Trinita dei Monti Church’s white on the top of Piazza di Spagna’s stairs blinds me to here. Wouah, are Palatine Hill’s ruins so giant? Oh, I can’t see Piazza del Popolo’s obelisk, it yet seemed so gigantic yesterday from Borghese Gardens…

But Gianicolo Hill – which, by mysterious maths, would actually be the 8th Roman hill and is not part of the sevens that gave the city its nickname – is about so many symbols that I am dizzy. To whom will I drink? And I am quite easy on the Aperol now that I got used to its bitterness. For some, turning 30 meant getting hooked on coffee, for me it seems to be Spritz… Everyone is free to chose his poison!

But let’s go back to our symbolic puzzles… I feel dizzy and I swear it is not the Aperol. Let’s then start with the beginning, to the roots, to the origins.

Janiculum. Gianicolo. From Janus. Or Giano. The two faced Roman, one facing the past, the other facing future. God of beginnings and ends. God of choices and pass. God watching the heaven’s gates with the sweet help of hours. The God without who Jove wouldn’t enter or get out. But mostly, and this exception shows his peculiar value, the only God who doesn’t have a Greek equivalent. He is the Roman privilege. Therefore, he naturally begins the end of the year in January Gennaio – on the Roman Calendar of the Pompilian Era.

Janus happens to be so relevant as I start to finish. Or as I finish to start, who would know. This new cycle-chapter-tome-episode-journey of my mortal life… Thus, tonight I am not cheering Bacchus, I humbly honor Janus? And helped by Ovide’s poesy, I secretly praise him:
Double-faced God,
You who starts the year so it can quietly run;
You who, without turning your head, can see what no God might even try,
Be kind to stars whose power eases Ocean and peaces the Earth;
Be kind to my unknown and unspoken dreams,
and, with a sweet sign, enlighten the way to my new beginning.

But are you really the one I am cheering, Janus? Because a mortel is taking care of me in my back. Or is it the contrary? This Garibaldi that sounds like a Parisian metro station but who actually is way more than that for France. Full of uprising and universal ideals, too unhappy to think Republicans may struggle without him, he fight on French side to establish the 3rd Republic after the defeat against Prussia.

Then, would it be my sip to my revolutionary compatriot which makes me dizzy? Plus the one I just got for Janus?
O thou, the countryless man whose homeland love was so passionate in your heart
O thou, the fighter standing for any flag, as long as Freedom was written on it
May you blow some insolence and lucidity to our souls
May you inspire some bravery and love to our heart
So we might free our made up fears
So we might regain our amputated freedom

But I am hearing this feminine rime parading toward me. Claiming her victory above my speeches to the two men. And she easily wins both my heart and glass.

Anita, dear Anita… Then it is you to whom I am raising my glass as you get on your high horses. But where are you running to with your child in your arms? Leave me some time to compose my turbulent praise. But where are you running to, Anita?

Flower in her gun but a loaded gun, she was running towards. Towards her fate, towards her husband.
Prisoner for the second time in the Farroupilha War, Anita was fleeing away her executioner. Her wild temper and her keen spirit had once more saved her, but will it next time…? No need to think about that right now. Saving the life of her charming Menotti, her innocent kid, and reach her husband, here were her only goals.
Oh that husband of hers… This man so perfectly made for her with whom she attended any South-American revolutions they believed in. This passionate man to whom she had taught how to ride when he had taught her how to shoot. She had immediately fallen in love with this handsome exiled Italian, she had instantly understood insurrections they could lead together. And they were actually doing it now… They had met at her “home” but how much had she traveled since then, in order to spread the word!
Her memories followed her like a desire to live, like a profound pulsion to absolutely be. She actually was saving her life, but will she next time…? She didn’t know, she could only fear and foresee; the next time, she wouldn’t make it.
The next time, it would be so far from her homeland but so close to her husband’s. Because, even exiled and universal revolutionary, Giuseppe had never forgotten her blossoming Nation’s liberty songs.
The next time, elated of so many countries to free, the two rebel lovers would cross the Atlantic with their kid and attend the Roman Republic’s proclamation. But the next time, Gianicolo Hill, last Republican’s holder, would be conquered by the Pope’s troops. But the next time, hunger Franco-Austrian powers would crush Rome… Italian Republic and Unity would be so bitterly short.
The next time, the couple would have to flee again, taking shelter in another auto-proclaimed Republic. San Marco’s In Venezia. The next time, the up-rising city would of course be Austrian troops’ target and Anita, carrying life, would be her own Freedom’s profession of faith’s martyr. The next time, hunted by the enemy like a bad habit, even if she was ready to run with her husband, she would have to stop in a random farm because of her feverish and weak state, and would die there aged 27.
Thus it was, she didn’t know, she could only fear and foresee; the next time, she wouldn’t make it… But for now, she was galloping like a desire to live, like a profound pulsion to absolutely be.

Yes it is decided, this last sip is for you Anita. Run! Run towards this freedom for which you will die. I remember you. And so do the others, they are singing Bella Ciao, they are kissing you goodbye. Run! Run towards this death which will dance Libertà. And come to lie on the hill, you, THE rebel woman of your time. Come to lie on the mountain under the partisan’s flower.

To you, Anita… To you and Bella Ciao!