Author and Artist
He Would Be King
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
Yesterday in a corner café on a small plaza in Florence, Italy, an accidental conversation took me home. A man with a slight limp, much my senior in years, crammed himself around the bistro table where I was having my morning cappuccino.
Without a smile or introduction, but knowing that I would know his meaning, he volunteered, “I lived through Hitler and his shitty little sidekick Mussolini. I know what’s coming.”
Ignoring my leave-me-alone body language, he kept on. “Your president is sick in the head, but no one stops him. He takes and takes, just like Hitler. First appeasement, then war. It’s coming. I know it.” His voice quavered.
Caught between protecting my privacy and perpetuating an image of the entitled American, I nodded my head in agreement. I reassured him that Trumpism would not last forever, but I hardly believed my words. I was, from habit, dredging up a civics book chapter on checks and balances. I teach high school civics.
A determined resistance settled into his face. I had seen the same look in black and white photos of gun-wielding WWII partisans at a nearby museum—the same look my students have when they shut down. I was talking to myself.
“I see on TV what he’s doing. Your neighbors with dark skins are being hunted. He has his own Gestapo.” I only stare, mute and embarrassed to be an American. My face flushes.
I sink into my chair. The heaviness of American citizenship smacks me with the force of a medieval mace. I swallow hard.
His face crimped in fear for himself or with pity for me—probably both, he stands to leave. I offer to pay for his coffee, but he refuses. The rejection is clear. He wants nothing to do with Americans. A feeling of helplessness shivers through me.
My coffee turns bitter.
The last time I was in Europe, my country was attacked. On September 11th, 2001, jet planes crashed into the iconic symbols of America’s global prowess. In a pensione squeezed into an alley in Rome, in the lobby, I hovered over the TV as the Twin Towers collapsed into funeral pyres.
Two decades later, I’m touring the Tuscan Hills around Florence. I’m soaking up Renaissance Italy.
This time my country is under attack from within. The president who would be king is trampling civil liberties, science, public health, the economy, international stability. Decency, compassion and honesty are out the window. It’s a lot to ignore while on holiday.
Next stop: the Basilica of Santa Croce. I have to see Machiavelli’s marbled tomb. He’d lie about it, but I bet Trump keeps a copy of The Prince on his nightstand. The book is so Trumpy.
Trump is exploiting the human instinct to fight the future. In medieval times, like Savonarola, Trump and his mob would have taken down the Medici; in modern America, it’s democracy and decency burning at the stake.
When I leave the church, dusk has darkened the streets of Florence. The narrow, shadowy passageways feel like a return to the Dark Ages.
Weary and weighted, I retreat towards my apartment. No more random chats with a local.
My mouth is dry. My stomach is cramping.
Eyes downcast, I quicken my pace.
