HILL TOWNS / 111
“Yeah. But. It’s so goddamned beautiful it stops my heart just to stick my head out on the street every morning. Any patch of wall on any street looks like a painting; the layers go back to…God, the Renaissance. Medieval times. Every time they dig a hole in the street to build a new hotel or a McDonald’s, they hit columns or a ruin out of classical times. The worst hovel in Rome has flowers and filigree and all those wonderful browns and golds. ‘Pear-brown Rome,’ Keats called it. It’s Valhalla for an artist. Even artists who aren’t working.” “You’ll be working again soon,” I said, certain it was so. I felt as if I had known this man for half my life. “Maybe I will,” he said. “Maybe I will.” “I like it that you’re a Southerner,” I said. “It takes some of the curse off your being so famous. It makes you easy to talk to. Of course, being drunk makes it easy too. I’d be tongue-tied with terror if I weren’t drunk and you weren’t a Southerner.” He laughed and patted my shoulder. “Nothing but Southerners here tonight,” he said. “Why is that?” I said. “Why are all your friends Southerners? Where are all the Italian counts and race drivers and French couturiers and international artists? Where are the rich coke dealers?” “You disappointed? Well, for one thing, Southerners make great expatriates. The very best. Attractive, mannerly, interesting, at home wherever they end up. You know why that is, Cat?” I thought he must be pretty drunk too. His voice was thick, and his eyes were owlish. “Because Southerners instinctively sink deep roots wherever they go?” I said. “Not bad. But the real reason is that Southerners instinctively understand the delicate politics of deca