I WAS LOST AGAIN, driving a convertible in the dark. De Niro and Pacino were in the backseat, clutching their newborns, and feeding them formula. We were in a vast underground aquarium that had been built by the Romans in the second century. Some areas of the site were still unknown to archaeology. These were dark and blotted out by an ominous swirling mist. We drove beneath the arch of an aqueduct, but I decided to turn around. “Do you even know where you’re going?” De Niro piped up. “Well, we’re not going in there,” I said, gesturing. “If you go in there, you only fall more deeply asleep.”
We took another road and soon arrived at a brightly lit exhibit called “The History of Cheese,” which was on loan from the Smithsonian. Some pieces were contributed by the Amalienborg in Copenhagen too. Pacino was impressed by the Caseus Fumosus Velabrensis or Smoked Velabran Cheese. “Bobby, get over here. Try it, just try it.” Pacino slipped his baby a taste.
I left the veteran actors at the cheese exhibit and went to a book launch after that, and there was a lot of cake for the guests. Jane was there eating the cake and selling books and she didn’t want to leave. Antti, a spectacled Finnish reader who likes to talk geopolitics, also showed up and was having the cake and whispering to me about Bourdain and Nord Stream. “Splendid work,” he kept muttering aloud and pacing. He was carrying a fresh issue of The Economist. Jane couldn’t be pulled away from all of the after hours cake and mingling and networking.
On the steps on the way out, we did hug, and it felt refreshing, as if all was healed, but then she told me she had rented a garage in the city and was going to start raising some sheep there. She already had a few lambs. Bolt scooters soared by, and in the distance I heard the metallic clang of an urban fender bender. The lambs were pressing themselves against the walls. They were frightened. “Look, this is no place for sheep,” I kept trying to convince her. “The city is no place for sheep!” She wouldn’t listen to me, so I left.
My convertible was parked in a garage that had served as a site of crucifixion for early Christians. I paid the attendant a few euros for his troubles, coaxed De Niro, Pacino, and the brood from the cheese exhibit and we were off, but not empty handed. Pacino kept feeding me blocks of ancient cheese over my shoulder. “Try this, man. A precursor to Pecorino Romano. Hoo-ah! I just love this shit.”