Carrère, a French writer in Rome

The summer of 2026 was the summer when, beneath the blue parasols at L’Ultima Spiaggia in Capalbio, everyone was reading the same book. Much more than that, however, the summer of 2026 was the summer when almost everyone – at L’Ultima Spiaggia and its city-centre equivalents – everyone, or almost everyone – except, unfortunately, the author of this account – had at least one piece of gossip, or a news item, a rumour, a sighting – let’s let’s call it an anecdote – about the well-known French writer who had, in the meantime, come to stay in the capital. The suspicion that the writer – internationally renowned, of course, with a baritone voice and an endless collection of black crew-neck jumpers, a man of a charm as profoundly Parisian as it was cosmopolitan, one of the most authoritative voices of his time – might be staying in Rome for a while began to creep, tentatively, into the literary community in early spring.

The French writer was taking part in the Libri Come literary festival, presenting a book that wasn’t even his own (a little gem reissued by the finest publishing house in the world – and our apologies to the others) when soon – not only amongst industry insiders, but also amongst enthusiasts and the Roman literary set, within that motley crowd that receives thean invitation to the Strega Prize every year despite never having worked for a publishing house (and even some – it pains me to say – of whom one might reasonably doubt have ever read a book at all), amongst the circle of journalists, politicians and even lawyers – rumours began to circulate that the French writer was not staying in a hotel, but at the home of a friend, himself a writer – albeit one of lesser renown. It was immediately rumoured that the house in question was located in the Parioli neighbourhood – and although the purists turned up their noses, and although the crowd, the community, would surely have imagined him in a flat in the city centre, so to speak, or perhaps in Trastevere, or Monti, or (if well advised) even better in the Celio, this rumour proved to be true. Some of the luckiest, it is said, were invited to dinner at this house. An intimate dinner, with just a few people: everyone else was left to dream of the empty bottles of wine on the table, the conversations in French – some of it, it is said, rather poor – or in English – the writer’s, it is said, rather poor – the cigarettes on the balcony and the clinking of glasses in the soft lighting.

Weeks went by; April passed, then May. Sightings of the French writer continued regularly even well into spring, with very few denials and plenty of confirmations, including public appearances, all in Italy. The golden Tiber swelled with pride; the cobblestones crackled as he passed. From Esquilino to Monti, to Trastevere, in the restaurants of Prati and at breakfast at Il Cigno, everyone – as summer drew nearer and the French writer continued to be spotted, amidst a growing wave of whispers, whilst the city’s streets filled with people on those languid, balmy evenings rustling with light clothing – everyone in the circle really began to believe that the internationally renowned French writer would indeed be staying in Rome for six months or perhaps longer, that life and Europe and even the world were restoring Rome to its rightful place, that this man who held Paris in the palm of his hand had truly chosen the capital. So long, and to hell with Milan. This was the start of the summer of 2026, the one in which the world-famous French writer seemed to have moved to Rome, the one marked by small gatherings round a bottle of wine, under a parasol or strolling along the shore, on some terrace in the historic centre on Thursday evenings, when everyone – or almost everyone – had some first-hand news about the renowned writer – except for the author of this piece, as he made clear.

It was said of him that he was a delightful person, a man of great charm, but also a grizzled, grey-haired and wrinkled old fox, even a bit grumpy, so happy to be in Italy – he, a person who still marvels at things, a man who has written about everything, done everything, seen everything, yet grateful for the welcome, polite; a man who, for all his arrogance, is clearly a man who has suffered – let us not forget that he is also bipolar, a man for whom life cannot be easy given his bipolar disorder, and yet still polite; a curious, sexy man, a true intellectual, an edgy man. Everything was said, and the opposite of everything was said. It was said that the French writer, despite having married quite recently, was seducing and being seduced by Roman ladies on a grand scale. For months, the women exchanged furtive glances, trying to guess which of them had been so fortunate. It was then rumoured that the French writer had separated from his young wife – but opinions were divided on this point; some, during the month of August, claimed to have seen him on holiday with her in Greece.

At my friend’s birthday party – whom we shall conventionally call Luna – the conversation revolved entirely around the party at Marisela Federici’s house to which the French writer had been dragged, perhaps of his own accord out of anthropological or literary interest, or perhaps under false pretences – and to this day we cannot rule out the possibility that the swashbuckler who slipped the French writer into the Countess’s breakfast party wanted to push his luck, thinking, ‘Let’s quench the novelist’s thirst with some prosciutto; he’ll use us for his next novel.’ In the huddle of rustling clothes that formed in front of the open bar at Luna’s house, it was said that the French writer had been seen wandering aimlessly across the lawn amongst the crowd, and amongst the brocades and serving platters inside the mansion, witnessing the Countess’s singing performance in a spiral of mounting embarrassment – and one must conclude that even the most steadfast intentions of anthropological exploration can certainly crumble under the weight of the ‘Cafonalino’.

It was said that the writer had been found in a state of confusion, slumped on the sofa, his legs crossed so that his ankle was visible – without socks, as noted by a witness to the scene, who pointedly suggested that perhaps even the charming French writer might, on certain occasions, wear thin socks. It was said, when only the closest friends remained at Luna’s party, as they drank their last glass whilst tucking into the leftovers from the savoury buffet, that the Countess’s reception had also marked the end of a long-standing friendship: that between the young woman who had found the novelist petrified with horror and had then brought him to safety, and the journalist who had travelled back into the city centre with them, guilty of having taken several snippets from the debriefing conversation held in the privacy of the car and included them in an article the following day.

A friend of mine – one of my most refined – also had his own anecdote, the exceptional candour of which I appreciated, as he is perhaps the only one amongst my acquaintances who does not indulge in boasting, but rather reveals the more awkward side – which, after all, is common to us all – in the presence of this literary icon. In short, my friend – whom we’ll conventionally call Nino – recounts that, having met the French novelist in Parioli’s most famous breakfast café, he was overcome, by the thrill of the moment, by two temptations, each more serious than the last. The first, understandable and innocent: to approach the charming writer timidly, interrupt his reading of the newspaper and, in shock at the coincidence, confess that he had only just finished reading the author’s latest, splendid novel a few hours earlier. My friend Nino was invited to sit down – with a broad and generous gesture from the novelist – and to comment on the book. In the throes of literary ecstasy, Nino did not miss the opportunity to display his erudition, launching into a comparison with none other than "Una Morte Dolcissima" by Simone de Beauvoir. It should be borne in mind that my friend Nino speaks perfect French, holds a prestigious position, possesses profound cultural knowledge and owns a house in the Marais district; and we cannot rule out the possibility that, at that moment, the charming writer might have thought he’d found a glimmer of charm amidst the general disarray of Viale Parioli.

Nino’s second temptation, however, was disastrous and unforgivable: by interrupting – this time irrevocably – the intimacy of the moment, albeit with grace and shyness, my friend suggested we take a selfie. The selfie was granted, but judging by the French writer’s expression (which I saw was full of disappointment, as the photo was sent to me as a birthday greeting), we can be almost certain that the fleeting moment of charm quickly turned into “here we go again” (in French). It was finally rumoured, in the summer of 2026, that after the holidays the French writer would return to settle in Rome, confirming the suspicions that had lingered throughout the final months of spring. Many people took credit for having found the writer his new home (finally in Trastevere) – and countless others knew, at the very least, the person to whom this credit was due.

One of the leading ladies of Rome’s First Republic – whom we shall conventionally call Paola, who is still active today and at the heart of the town’s most tedious and impoverished community – told me, whilst sitting under her beach parasol in the front row – a well-known meeting place in Capalbio – that a famous journalist, the editor of a national newspaper, had found the house in Trastevere. At the end of the conversation, she then said to me: ‘Let’s send him a photo; we’re friends now, he often comes to eat at my place.’ I agreed, though I never found out whether he’d received it or whether he’d thought, once again, ‘here’s another one’ (in French). And so in Rome, in the summer of 2026, the battle for invitations for the autumn/winter season was heating up; friendships were formed and dissolved to put together groups of people close to the famous writer; guest lists were circulating in clandestine chat groups; and social standing was being recalibrated based on the distance in kilometres from Piazza in Piscinula. My friend, whom we’ll call Manuela for the sake of it, lives right there, and she smiled slyly. And so Rome, in the summer of 2026, received the seal of approval from the great French writer, who, by his very presence, confirmed to us that the city is still doing well – indeed, better than ever – that we can certainly stop worrying, and that for some time to come, Rome will remain the city of the future. The big hotel chains are opening up, but above all, the French writer is renting a flat in Trastevere to stay for at least six months, if not longer. That’s fine by me, and to hell with Milan.

Postscript: It must be pointed out that the only other person, apart from the unfortunate author of these lines, who has no anecdotes to share about the Roman summer of the protagonist of this page – whose first name is Emmanuel and whose surname is Carrère – is the Editor-in-Chief of this prestigious publication, with whom I have had the pleasure of engaging in lengthy discussion, without, however, finding a plausible explanation for this omission.