Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - Part one - I
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on the window-panes. The sky was almost clear now, and
hung transparent and greenish blue over the hill with the pine
avenue, with here and there a few reddish, threatening, slowly
moving clouds.
He stopped on the bridge and looked down into the Tiber.
How dull the water was! It flowed on rapidly, reflecting the
colours of the evening skies, sweeping twigs and gravel and bits
of wood on its way between the stone walls. A small
staircase on the side of the bridge led down to the water’s edge.
Helge thought how easy it would be to walk down the steps one
night, when one was tired of everything — had any ever done
so? he wondered.
He asked a policeman the way to St. Peter’s cathedral in
German; the man answered him first in French and then Italian,
and when Helge repeatedly shook his head, he spoke French
again, pointing up the river. Helge turned in that direction.
A huge, dark stone erection stood out against the sky, a low,
round tower with a jagged crest and the jet-black silhouette of
an angel on top. He recognized the lines of the San Angelo
fort, and went close up to it. It was still light enough for the
statues by the bridge to show up yellow in the twilight, the red
skies were still mirrored in the flowing waters of the Tiber, but
the street lamps had gained power, and threw out paths of light
across the river. Beyond the San Angelo bridge the electric
tramcars with illuminated windows rolled over the new iron
bridge, throwing white sparks from the connecting wires.
Helge took off his hat to a man:
“San Pietro, favorisca?”
The man pointed with his finger and said something Helge
did not understand. He turned into a dark and narrow street
which, with a sensation of joy, he almost thought he recognized,
for it was exactly like the Italian street of his imagination: shop
after shop full of curios. He gazed into the poorly lit windows.
Most of the things were rubbish — those dirty strips of coarse
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