Pioggia Sporca

Pioggia sporca means "dirty rain."  That was burned into our brains years ago, watching the movie Black Rain (1989, Ridley Scott, dir.) in Italian translation. 

Except when set in Los Angeles (where the hot Santa Ana winds serve are the area's unnerving meterological presence), detective novels are invariably troubled by rains, setting a dark and somber

tone for the narrative, inhibiting the clear vision of the problem-solving protagonist, and serving as a metaphor for our hero's inevitable moments of doubt and depression.  

Rain is omnipresent in Conor Fitzgerald's The Memory Key (2013), set in the bleak Rome of November.  Reasonable enough, except that Chapter 41 opens this way:

"The sun had come out.  The white chapel in the order of the piazzetta was almost blinding.  The

gleaming cobbles shone like obsidian, and the potted plants around Principe's building seemed to have been reinvigorated.  The rain had rinsed the scooters and cars bright and new." 

"Rinsed the scooter and cars bright and new"?  Maybe, just maybe, that happens in Rome in November.  But by our experience, Rome is dirty rain country.  A good rain and you've got to wash everthing you've left outside: the car, scooter, the bicycle, the plastic porch furniture, the laundry, the leaves of the potted plants, the dog, the wife and kids.  They'll be filthy.  In Rome, the pioggia is sporca.    Bill

This and the other pics for this piece were taken near Piazza dei Re di Roma, in late April.
   

The Art World: When a Copy is just as Good--and a lot Cheaper

As it relates to art, forgery has a long and complex history.  Not so long ago, a brilliant artist could make a virtually perfect copy of an existing work and be rewarded rather than jailed.  Andrea del
Sarto produced an astonishingly good reproduction of a Raphael painting and presented it to Pope Leo X, who was fooled--and delighted.  And Michelangelo was a prolific forger, having once made, buried, and "rediscovered" an ancient statue of Cupid. 

Today, forgery, in the sense of copying a work of art with intent to deceive the buyer or recipient into thinking it's an original, is illegal.  But just copying a work of art, with the understanding that the result is only a copy?  That's OK.  Indeed, in Rome one can make a business of it.  In the heart of city, not far from Piazza Barberini, up via Francesco Crispi from the icy Gagosian gallery, and next door to the city's contemporary art museum, there's a shop where you can get anything copied--anything, that is, except currency, or certain documents.

At Alessi, they'll make you a perfect copy of the grand masters, or so the sign says.  Or bring in a photo. 

Conor Fitzgerald's The Fatal Touch (2011), a police/detective novel set in Rome's Trastevere, offers an entertaining--and detailed--introduction to the complex art of copying.   Bill

Okay, but who's the grand master?

 [Since we published this post, readers have let us
know that the painting is The Singing Butler (1992), by Jack Vettriano, a Scottish artist.
It's enormously popular in the UK (and likely elsewhere) and has been the subject of numerous
parodies, including one by London artist Banksy, below]

 

The Dogs of Rome: a Conor Fitzgerald Novel

"He's got a garage," said Blume.  "Jesus, I'd give my right arm to have one of those."   The speaker is Alec Blume, an American by birth and now, in his 40s, Chief Commissioner of Rome's police department--a high-level detective.  Earnest, determined, smart, opinionated--"I hate Sordi.  Hate his movies, hate his voice.  All that Romanaccio shit"--somewhat arrogant and ethical to a fault, Blume is at the center of Conor Fitzgerald's entertaining new (2010) crime novel, The Dogs of Rome.  The title refers not to the tiny, yappy dogs that most Romans favor, but to larger beasts trained to be nasty for the dog fights that all too many Romans enjoy and which take place, in the novel, in an abandoned warehouse off the Via della Magliana.  (In August 2001, Rome's real police discovered 7 dogs, intended for fighting, in a nomad camp off the Via della Magliana.)  Blume detests dogs, but he ends up with one--a Cane Corso, described as a dog the Romans used in battle. 

A Cane Corso.  Man's best
friend--except when he's not.

Novels are always partly invented, and that may be the case with several of Fitzgerald's references.  I could find no evidence of a Rome restaurant with the name "Mattatoio Cinque" ("Slaughterhouse 5") nor does the internet confirm the existence of De Pedris, a shop that serves exquisite pastry.  But Fitzgerald--who lives in Rome--knows his geography, and readers hungering for Rome and its environs will find in these pages references to (and comments about) the familiar (EUR), obscure (Borgata Fideni--to the north) and those in between (Corviale).  One transforming scene takes place in the quartiere of Marconi, along Via Oderisi da Gubbio, Viale Marconi, and Piazza della Radio, the latter accurately noted as a great place to park a car for the Porta Portese Sunday market.  Another dramatic scene plays out in the area between Via La Spezia, where Blume resides, and the Basilica of San Giovanni.  Blume's parents are buried in the not-too-distant Verano cemetery.  


Tourists who want to think Rome is just one gelateria after another may find distasteful Fitzgerald's conclusion that what is "eternal" about the city is its organized crime and the corruption that ripples through politics and the police force.  "For a quarter of a century," one of his characters opines, "the police have not disturbed the criminal status quo in the districts of Magliana, Tufello, Ostia, Corviale, Laurentino 38, Tor Bella Monaca, Tor de' Schiavi, Pietralata, Casalbruciato, and Centocelli."  In a previous post, we described Centocelli as charming.  We would not--and did not--say that about Corviale, though we were fascinated by the mammoth 1970s housing project by that name.  We no longer stroll, as we did only a few years ago, in the projects of Magliana. 

This writer is no great fan of detective novels; he's probably read five in a lifetime.  But I was very much taken with Dogs of Rome.  Blume is a worthy protagonist, and Fitzgerald's story has pace and drama.  Most important, there's just enough about Rome and Romans.  Of one of his characters, Fitzgerald muses:  "He considered going carefully...but there was no point.  No policeman in Rome ever pulled anyone over for reckless driving.  They considered it demeaning."  Coming from a killer, but right on. Bill