NASONI
Anna Magnani in “Rome Open City” by Roberto Rossellini (1945).
BLITZ 15
Rome’s Villa Doria Pamphili is one of the most cinematic places in the world. Still, few people know of the sleepy oasis nestled west of the Tiber in the residential Gianicolense neighborhood. Just a few minutes drive from the Trastevere and spanning 450 acres, Rome’s largest park barely sees any tourists, unlike its busy cousin Villa Borghese.
On a recent visit, I met up there with my friend F for an easy run.
I drove my Vespa along the walls of Via Vitella, the air heavy with the resinous scent of the pine trees. Crows crowed. F stood waiting at the gate.
“Pamphili remains Rome’s best-kept secret. Villa Borghese has become a carnival,” F said, “uglier than Oktoberfest and more tragic than Disneyland, no offense. Tourists ride around on bulky tricycles as if they were bumper cars.”
We jogged over the rolling hills, a thick layer of pine needles softening our cadence. We headed toward the cricket field, surrounded by an almost 400 meters sand track. Signori greeted and complained to the Holy Madonna about the soaring temperatures. We all agreed it was way too hot for June.
I was looking forward to a nasone, a big nose. More than 2,500 drinking fountains have speckled the Eternal City since the 19th century, refreshing thirsty residents. The cast-iron tube protruding from the fountain’s stone body looks like the aquiline noses Romans are famous for. As a local, F carries his with exceptional pride.
As we jogged past the castle Casino del Bel Respiro, we discussed the best Roman noses in Italian cinema. F raved about Adam Driver in the film House of Gucci.
“His nose is almost credible! If he wasn’t so tall, he would pass as an Italian.” Never! I protested.
Driver didn’t qualify for too many reasons. First, he was an American from Indiana, and his centerpiece lacked the dramatic Cinecittà edge. His nasone was too broad and plump, much like Charlton Heston’s in Ben-Hur. Second, the man he played, Maurizio Gucci wasn’t even from here; he was a Florentine.
I pleaded for Anna Magnani’s sniffer. The actress was unparalleled in portraying the ups and downs, the nooks and crannies of the Italian psyche. Magnani's nasone was like the Italian yin and yang, manifesting the axis between good and evil, male, female, beautiful, and ugly. The slight bump in her slender bridge gave her voice a pleasing timbre as if she was nursing a perpetual cold. “She was a marvel, so much energy, pain, and laughter,” F added thoughtfully.
I mentioned one of the most heartbreaking scenes in Italian film history, in Roberto Rossellini's Rome, Open City. Set during WWII, it shows Magnani chasing the car of the German occupiers, who have arrested her husband. “Francesco! Francesco!” she screams several times as she breaks away from the soldiers trying to contain the Italians until a shot by the fascisti knocks her down. Just thinking about the scene brings tears to my eyes.
In silence, F and I trotted down the stairs to the enchanted pleasure garden, which appeared more neglected than I remembered. A few mossy fountains are scattered between giant palm trees, and a headless Venus de Milo stood in a dried-up marble pool. I wondered if Villa Pamphili had always been so rundown. F shrugged. “Covid, corruption, migrant crisis, Italy is broke.”
A young Ridgeback dog played with its master at a nearby nasone. The owner laughed, hands cupped into tulips. “A prima donna! Always wants to drink first.”
At a safe and dry distance, a carefully coiffed blonde stood waiting, the corners of her mouth pinched in disapproval. Did she anticipate we’d jump the shortest queue at the water fountain? F and I exchanged glances. The woman’s body language screamed German. With a grand courteous gesture, F signaled the blonde to go first. The lady fished a wet wipe out of her pouch and went to great lengths wiping the faucet, pouting her painted lips to the low-hanging spout.
Contorting herself, she tried to catch the stream, arranging her hands this way and that to little effect, mostly wetting her clothes. Upside down, she finally swallowed a mouthful and instantly choked. F giggled. Wheezing, the woman rose and blew her nose with another dry tissue from the iconic blue-and-white packaging of the German Tempo brand. I knew she was German, I hissed.
“Cane alla fontana: molto unhygienico!” the lady declared with a thick fatherland accent, blouse dripping. It was all the dog’s fault. “Si si, signora, molto!” F replied with a Mona Lisa smile. The woman stepped away, keeping her eyes peeled on F.
Leaning forward just slightly, he closed the lower opening of the fountain with his thumb, and the cool water shot elegantly through the upper hole directly into his mouth. F didn’t even take off his Persol shades. Stunned, the woman turned.
F watched her hurry off. “You Germans are a strange people.”
June 2022
