The weather is warm. Spring warm, inviting. The window in my sitting room is open, and as it is shortly before six o’clock, I can hear the bells at Santa Maria dei Servi. They seem to be at a great distance, but are in fact only two and a half streets away. When the windows are closed, the ringing can be mistaken for a malfunctioning motor. Recently – meaning more than a month ago – I happened to be walking near the church while the bells were singing in their full splendor, and they are rich and mellow and as inviting as this spring day. Astonishing bells. Masterpieces of the foundry. If I could, I would time a walk to be there for an evening concert. Some day, again.
This city absorbs waves of all kinds. The Orvietani will tell you that the great and ancient structures – the towers, the churches, the nobles’ palazzi – have survived innumerable earthquakes because the mesa upon which they sit is made of tufa, tufa that has the qualities of a sponge. They will say that all those tiny cavities, encapsulated in stone and filled with air, deflect and soften the shock waves, and render them relatively harmless. Add to that the hundreds of excavated chambers and passageways, cisterns and wells that the occupants of the city have created over the millennia, and the worst damage a quake is likely to inflict is a few cracks. I hope they’re right. They probably are.
The buildings are largely made of tufa, as well, the common method having been; dig your cellar, shape the stone, put up your house. Very efficient. All that tufa, combined with staggering streets of varying widths, plays with waves of sound in a manner similar to the way the caves disperse geologic ones.
In times recently past, I might suddenly hear a brass band, somewhere. I would follow the music, always turning towards it until I’d find myself back where I began, and having discovered nothing as to its physical location. I’d try again and follow people instead, pass through silent spots, and find the band a few meters away.
More than a dozen years ago I was here for Pentecost. To cap a day of festivities, a fireworks display was offered. I saw it advertised, but forgot, and was already in my room near Piazza del Duomo when I was reminded by the explosions. I quickly dressed and dashed across the square towards the noise of rockets and arial displays. I knew where they were supposed to be seen from, by name, but was not familiar enough with the town to know where that name referred to. So, I followed the booms.
This was a major pyrotechnical event. When I could hear the explosions, they were loud. Then I would turn a corner and – complete silence. It was only after I saw Giovanni and Vera ahead of me – having closed their shop to watch, and strolling hand in hand – that I had a clue as to which direction to go. Even as we drew close, there were acoustic blank spots.
During these times, it is only the bells that regularly break the silence. Oh, and the comune has had workers out with weed whackers trimming the growth between paving stones. If my windows are closed I can mistake the motors’ whine and sputter for bells. Once every few days, an engine attached to an unknown vehicle can be heard. Rarely, there are voices. Even the birds are quiet, as if they don’t want to disturb whatever is going on that has prompted such a human hush; they like the spell, they’re careful not to break it. The bells are the one steady, and unnatural, feature of the daily soundscape.
I picture silent sections of town in my mind. I can catch a glimpse of what they look like by going out for an essential purpose, or on the back streets late at night (and even then, to be legal, only within 200 meters of home), but mostly imagination must do. I would love to be out at sunrise, perhaps having donned a cloak of invisibility, and able to creep through the familiar streets in their stoney silence. Much the way we crept the morning after a significant snowfall, two or three years ago; carefully, stealthily, not daring to leave traces, hoping to catch a glimpse of a pristine, snow-covered, piazza.
Instead, I walk in elongated circles in my little courtyard, tuned to This American Life, or (perhaps more appropriate to the setting) The World, or Living on Earth. After a couple of hours, if I feel saturated by viral references, I’ll pull up Selected Shorts for relief. Only in extremis do I simply shut down the connection and walk the ovals without, movement accompanied only by the squeaky scraping of my slippers. And an occasional bell.
I don’t have a photo on file of Santa Maria dei Servi, but the one posted at least shows a bell tower.