Acephalous

The Great Caravaggio Hunt

My love of Caravaggio should be no secret—I did have the entire history of painting to choose from and went with that—but apparently I've never shared the story of Scott's Great Caravaggio Hunt.  It starts like this:

Scott and his wife were staying with friends of hers outside of Rome. Scott's Italian was laughably poor, but because he had been in Italian-speaking parts for a while, it approached passable-for-a-tourist.  Still, when venturing about in Rome, he allowed his wife—who speaks it, among many other languages, fluently—to do all the talking.  On the day he and had wife had dedicated to seeing the Caravaggios, their last in Rome, his wife took ill.  

"Now I'll never get to see the Caravaggios!" he moaned.

"Pish-posh," she replied.  "Go on your own."

"On my own?"

"You have the map.  There's no reason for you to stay cooped up in this apartment with me on our last day in Rome," she replied.

She was correct.  He did have a map of Rome on which he'd marked all the Italian museums and churches that contained Caravaggios.  He wouldn't even have to use any Italian because everything he needed was on the map.  So he packed up his backpack and had their friend drive him to the train.

"Remember, the 4:30 p.m. train from Rome is that last one that stops here," their friend told him as he exited the car.  He waved and did the math: it was 9:00 a.m. now.  Forty minutes on the train gets him there at 9:40.  Half an hour to walk to the first museum; twenty from there to the second, and so on. 

"I should be fine," he told himself as he boarded the train.  "After all, I have the map."

He did not have the map.

The map was on his bed, where it had been placed to make certain it would be remembered.  

"No matter," he told himself.  "I was going to start with 'The Deposition of the Christ,' which is at the Vatican, and surely I can find the Vatican."

He could not find the Vatican. 

After nearly an hour of wandering around with his newly purchased map, he decided to brave mockery and ask someone where the Vatican was.

The very first person he asked—a tiny, gentle-looking older lady—pointed at his head. 

"No sono the Vatican," he replied.

She gestured him to the side and pointed again, so that despite her tiny stature, he would realize that she meant, not his head, but the giant building behind him, which was the Vatican.  Which he and his wife had already been through.  Which meant that the Caravaggio there must have been in one of the many corridors and wings then being renovated.

"Nerds!" he said to himself.  He knew the next place he wanted to visit was the Church Santa Luigi dei Francesci, as it not only housed his favorite painting, but he thought he remembered how to get there.  

He did not. 

When he did eventually arrive at where his map said it should have been, it was only after he had spent hours tracing a pattern across the city not unlike this:

Ha Ha Ha Not Funny.

(For those who prefer their funny straight, here's a post about me catching two students having sex in my office.  Enjoy!)

Had terrible insomnia last night.  About 4 a.m. the cats triple-teamed the litter box.  Cleaned it.  Ran out of litter.  Remembered I had more litter in the car.  Walked down three flights of stairs and approached my car.

WHOOP WHOOP!
Cars only talk to other cars, I think, and continue to walk toward my car.
WHOOP WHOOP!
I look at the cruiser.  A hand appears from the window and waves.  Exhausted and somewhat confused, I waved back.
WHOOP WHOOP!
Now the hand points to the ground immediately next to the cruiser.  I walk over.
What is your business here?
Cat litter, I reply.
A little late to be buying cat litter, isn't it?
I already bought it, I say, and point at the trunk my car.
So if I open up your trunk there, all I'm going to find is cat litter, then?
And a case of Dr. Pepper.  I wanted that too.
You live around here?
I point to my building.
There's been a report of a burglary and suspicious persons near here.  I'll need to see some ID.
I don't have any.

You normally come down at 4 a.m. to fetch litter without ID?
Normally I'm not awake.  I have insomnia.
I'm going to need you to put your hands behind your back and spread your legs.
I comply, and for the first time in my adult life have my face pressed on the hood of a police cruiser.
You're fine.  Before you pop the trunk for me, you're sure I'm not going to find any surprises?
I may have left a winter coat in there.
No dope, no open containers, just Pepsi, litter, and maybe a jacket?
I decide finding Dr. Pepper instead of Pepsi isn't the kind of surprise he means and bite my lip while he roots around.
What's in this then?
I crane my head backwards to look at the nondescript box in his hand and decide honesty is the best policy, so I tell him I have no idea what is in that then.
So you can't say that it's not dope?
I say I can certainly say that.
The litter and Pepsi checks out.
I'm not sure whether he says that to me or the squawker on his neck, so I say Mm-Hm.  He puts the litter, the Dr. Pepper and the mysterious box on the hood of my car and waves me to him.
You need to know what's in your boxes, you know?
I tell him I know.
How am I supposed to know this isn't stolen property if you don't know what's in it?
I nod my head and tell him I should know what's in my boxes and that I'm not sure why I don't know what's in that one.
So how can you be sure it's not dope?
I say I'm not the sort of person who has boxes of dope, but that if I were the sort of person who had boxes of dope, I would know the content and exact whereabouts of those boxes.

You seem to know a lot about boxes of dope.
I say that I only have experience with important boxes, and that if I were the sort of person who had boxes of dope, I would think those boxes were important.  He looks at me.  He looks at the box.  I say that whatever is in that box it is not important because if it were important I would have known it was in the trunk and have a mental inventory of its contents.
Why don't we open the box?
I watch him open the box and pull out another box.  This inner box is clearly labeled "Roadside Assistance" and has a picture of a flare, a can and a pump.

I can handle this.
I say me too.  Deescalation occurs.  The officer then demonstrates uncommon kindness and assists me with another matter.  I offer to buy him coffee.  He accepts.  Comity is achieved.
THE END