la with a musical fountain that is also arnclock was but an unattainable social mirage,rnand the whole scenario would repeatrnitself, I goading the nobility of PortornErcole with Franco’s ever-lengtheningrnarm and they sending me on an everwilderrngoose chase. Meanwhile, timernwas running out, and Franco seemed tornbe spending night after night on hisrnmany mobile phones without any apparentrnresult.rnThen one day in November, with thernsirocco long in place, terrace umbrellasrnall folded, and even the bar officiallyrnclosed except to make me a morningrncappuccino, at last Franco ordered merninto his Asti Spumante or whatever hisrnspiffv’ car is called. We were bound forrnRome, for the apartment—two terracesrnon two floors overlooking the Trevi fountainrnon one side and, no less crushinglyrnundeserved, the Baroque facade of thernChurch of San Vincenzo on the o t h e r ­wherernI began this correspondence lastrn}’ear. The owner was a ver)’ tanned middle-rnaged man, his hairy arms coveredrnwith interesting tattoos, who lived therernwith his wife, his hvo teenage sons, andrnhis mother-in-law. Wliile the elderly ladyrnand her daughter, relegated to thernkitchen background, were rolling thernpasta and cutting the smoked pig’s jowlrnfor an amatriciana that I will rememberrnfor as long as I live, the owner, the agent,rnand the little pea of a woebegone tenantrnwere working out the finances with a brokenrnball-point pen on a paper napkin.rnThis done, both parties licked theirrnthumbs and, laughing at the grimy imprints,rnaffixed them to the grand totalrnwith mock solcmnit)’.rnA contract? Aw, have another helping,rnmy friend. A security deposit? Pfph,rnwhat for, I know where you live! How tornpay? hi sterline, of course, from beautifulrnfoggy London with those marvelousrnbridges! Wlien can I move in? As soonrnas we’ve moved out! And, as readers ofrnthis correspondence know, that’s exactlyrnhow it all turned out. And need I addrnwhat a fabulous boon it was, being ablernto ask all those Port’Frcole grandees torndrinks on the terrace, waiting . . . waitingrn. . . waiting to be asked the six-billion-/irernc|uestion . . . and by the way how did yournfind this amazing place . . . oh, well, dornyou remember Franco . . . yes, well, butrnI told ‘ou he woidd find me somethingrnsuitable in Rome . . . yes, he found itrnstraight away . . . yes, a single telephonerncall. Curtain. A shocked audience. Arnhuge line at the coat-check.rnBut what every picaresque social comedyrnneeds is a sobering afterpiece. Therntattooed owner of the apartment in thernPiazza della Fontana di Trevi, as Irnlearned by chance on my last day there,rnis out on bail and awaiting trial for hisrnpart in the assassination of an associate ofrnthe Vatican banker Calvi, the man foundrnhanged under Blackfriars Bridge in Londonrnsome years ago. On me personallyrnthis piece of news had the salutary, andrnnot entirely familiar, effect of goadingrnme to make sure that all outstanding utilityrnbills had been paid, but as far as Francornis concerned, there is nothing morernsinister here than a funny coincidence.rnAnd as the sirocco begins to bear downrnon the exposed village on the Argentariornhillside, I can hardly wait to hear whatrnthis year’s frantic telephoning will bring.rnAndrei Navrozov is Chronicles’rnEuropean correspondent.rnLetter FromrnEnglandrnby Christie DaviesrnWinnie the PoohrnIs an AmericanrnWinnie the Pooh and his friends Piglet,rnRabbit, Tigger, Kairga, Roo, and Eeyorernlive happily in a comfortable bullet-proofrnhome in the New York Public Libraryrnand have done so for many years. Theyrnhave never expressed any desire to returnrnto the Hundred Acre Wood or Pooh-stickrnbridge or the North Pole, the scenes ofrntheir famous adveirtures. Like many otherrnfamous British emigrants, from PaulrnJones to Charlie Chaplin to AndrewrnCarnegie to Bob Hope, they have becomernpatriotic American citizens. Yet inrna sense they didn’t need to, for Pooh,rnPiglet, and Rabbit at least were alreadyrntruly American. Tigger was hidian, andrnKanga and Roo, Australians. Only Eeyorernis truly British —perhaps he alonernshould be sent back to England to quellrnthe Britishers’ agitation for the animals’rnreturn. He never quite fit in with the othersrnand always sought to stay in sad, wet,rnmorose places—like Britain itself Pooh,rnby contrast, is entirely at home in NewrnYork and now proudly uses his trulyrnAmerican name of Pooh all the time.rnHe has discarded the fluvial upper-classrnname of Sanders, under which he wasrnforced to live in snobbish old England.rnPooh and Piglet are American figuresrnbattling in the wilderness against naturalrncalamity. Piglet’s heroism in escapingrnfrom Owl’s house to get help after it hadrnbeen felled by a hurricane was trulyrnAmerican, as was Pooh’s rescue of Pigletrnfrom the floods by riding the rapids on arnfragile, floating honey-pot. Such challengesrnrarely exist in the bland British climaternof perpetual drizzle.rnBoth of these heroes display a ruggedrnindividualism that is especially Americanrneven in these politically correctrntimes. After Piglet had been forciblyrnscrubbed clean by the stereotypical hygiene-rnobsessed Australian Kanga, he immediatelyrnasserted his independence inrnan authentically American way byrnrolling in the dirt all the way home. Hernis clearly the ancestor of Charlie Brown’srnfriend Pigpen in that most Americanrnof comic strips. Peanuts. Pooh, too, isrnAmerican in his self-reliance and self-sufficiency.rnWhen that typically effusivernand emotional Englishman, ChristopherrnRobin, declared, “Oh bear, I dornlove you,” Pooh replied, “So do I.” Onlyrnan American could have said that, hidecd,rnwhen the Winnie the Pooh booksrnwere translated into German and Latin,rnit proved impossible to render the fullrnforce of this ver’American reply.rnPooh is American in his addiction tornstoutness exercises, performed in front ofrnthe ntirror, that have no effect at all onrnthe solid girfli which led to his becomingrnstuck in the entrance to Rabbit’s housernand suffering the ignominy of having hisrnankles used as a lapine (or, if you prefer,rncunniculine) towel rack and dr)’er. Hernfailed to see that no amount of squash-rnWh en in Rockford,rnEat atrnLee’s Chinese Restaurantrn3443 N. Main StreetrnlANUARY 1999/35rnrnrn