✍️ The Writer Who Knew Too Much

A story about losing my nerve among the literary ghosts around the Spanish Steps

John Updike (The Marginalian)

I don’t rattle easily. I’ve covered wars, jumped out of airplanes. I’ve interviewed presidents, been blessed by a pope, attended parties with Hollywood celebrities. Then there was the afternoon when I spotted John Updike having lunch near the Spanish Steps.

He was seated at an outdoor table with a woman in her 50s. Short sandy hair, navy-blue blazer. She could have been his Italian publisher or agent. He wore a plaid coat and a pale tie. They were talking easily. Their plates were gone but the water glasses were still on the table, along with a small, neat stack of books.

I was on my way to the Anglo-American Bookstore, then still years away from closing down. As soon as I saw him, I changed my path to walk toward their table. Words were already forming on my lips: “Hey, John Updike!”

They both looked up before I could make a sound. And I suddenly froze, then turned, then disappeared around a corner.

“Hey, John Updike?” Really? No -- too trite. I needed to approach them like a peer, not a fan. I smoothed out the tuck of my shirt and patted down my hair.

“Are you by chance John Updike?” Better. Then: “My name is Eric. I’m a journalist here in Rome.” They’d say they were happy to meet me and maybe they’d invite me to join them for their after-lunch coffee. I’d laugh at one of Updike’s wry observations.