where did she go

Where did she go

I knew of her, had seen her in adverts wearing short hair
being, sort of dubious sex, let them guess and smoking
a cigarette with the fragrance of the oriental express, yet
here she sat in a pavement café drinking Pernod, and as
Russian tanks rumbled through the stone cobble streets
she coolly beckoned to me to sit on the chair at her left.
I had a cold beer and lit an American cigarette, feeling tired
had carried a heavy suitcase across the town for a woman
claiming to be an actress, I had hoped she was a spy and
I needed information about troop movements and all
I got was stalk about her upcoming film “La Strada.”
On the opposite wall across the café, a movie began
a film about Rome and a gang of youth stealing bikes
 Vittorio Gassmann had a leading role that was delivered
with aplomb about the question of the value of morality
in a society that has lost its bearing and is crippled by war.
A sudden blackout it might be caused by the Russians
but the restaurant used to this stoppage, producing candles
and the flickering flame from hundreds of candles made
the night romantic; the Monte Carlo woman had vanished
like cigarette ads on the TV screen.