Summer 1961 • Vol. XXIII No. 3 Nonfiction |

A Wreath for Garibaldi

The beginning was perfectly casual, off-hand, pleasant. We were sitting on the terrazzo of a modern Roman apartment drinking coffee and thick, sweet, bile-colored strega. It was an afternoon in late March, the air was fresh and cool, the spring sunlight rinsed and brilliant. The English lady, a poet and translator, was in the hammock and the rest of us sat around in wicker chairs—an artist, an Italian princess, another translator, an expatriate gentleman from Mobile, Alabama, who writes poems about monkeys, a usual crowd. The talk was about politics. A pope had died, the new Pope had been elected amid rumors and fears—"Un Straniero Per Il Papa?" all the headlines read for a while—and errors: white smoke pouring out of the chimney of the Sistine Chapel on the very first ballot because somebody had forgotten the straw to darken the smoke. Fanfani's government had fallen. A coalition with more strength to the right (gossip had any number of known ex-Fascists among its members

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United States

By George Garrett

The beginning was perfectly casual, off-hand, pleasant. We were sitting on the terrazzo of a modern Roman apartment drinking coffee and thick, sweet, bile-colored strega. It was an afternoon in […]

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