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Last Blues Cesare Pavese. Even Italians look blank. Or disapproving. Why go there? Northern, industrial. I persuade myself with the prospect of shimmering Alps encircling a shadowy, elegant city of Baroque streets. I buy two maps, one laminated to withstand the rain I guess will be falling on the colonnaded street corners, and a real O. In the evenings before going, I spend hours looking at the neighbouring valleys and hills with a magnifying glass, scrutinising the city, giving names to streets and piazzas.
The clocks go back. My life becomes two thirds night and one third the steel half-light of November days. My brain concocts an atmosphere of its own for this unmet place, Roman military nerve centre, the eyrie of the Dukes of Savoy, the place where Italy itself was plotted and planned in the great coffee houses. As the plane eases into its long sweep down over the autumn slopes of the Alps, I start to feel I am cheating, that I have taken a shortcut instead of what should have been a test of my determination, that I should have walked and struggled to reach here.
Everybody once, not just Levi. Walked through these valleys, or rode horses. It is not meant to be this easy. But when I arrive I am absorbed into the evening rush hour crowds as if being welcomed. It is warm. The trees which line every street and square are copper and sepia as if it were still September. That first night I go to the opera, an English company doing Billy Budd. The Via Roma is lit across from column to column for Christmas; further along a Jenny Holzer poem is moving in ten-foot-high white letters up and over the Palazzo Madama in the Piazza Castello.
Time is short, just enough to get into my black dress, a half hour to eat pizza, and drink prosecco, in the cafe next to the Teatro Regio. All the fur-coated women dangle Hermes or Chanel handbags.
