Boarding my last flight, I feel a pang of nervous tension in my stomach. I spot the little old lady from my earlier flight a couple of rows behind me; her wrinkled face adorns eyes that are mere slits, and her white hair is so thin it barely covers her scalp. She winks at me as I pass her on my way to the restroom. On the way back to my seat, she gently grabs my hand and places in it a napkin-wrapped parcel. Her delicate hands are wrinkled like prunes and her touch is cold.
“For later, my dear.” She smiles at me and pats the small parcel with her hand.
“Thank you,” I reply, confused.
I sit back in my seat and carefully unwrap the small gift that sits in my palm to reveal two red velvet cupcakes with thick vanilla icing. They smell divine and I close my eyes for a second to savor the aroma. My mouth waters and I can taste their scent on my tongue. Unable to stop myself, I bite into one; the intense flavor overtakes my senses. I close my eyes as I slowly devour the cupcake. Nothing has tasted so good. I’m not sure if it is because I’m overly tired or if my hunger pangs are what have driven me to eat this cupcake from a complete stranger. I open my eyes and turn around to thank the old lady, but she is not in her seat. I look around the cabin, but I cannot see her anywhere. I glance at the cupcake left in my hand and can’t seem to stop myself from eating it, licking my fingers once every last crumb is gone. The constant hunger ache I have had for the past day has vanished and I finally feel as though my cravings have been quenched.
The next couple of hours pass agonizingly slowly. I’m overly tired and my eyes feel as though they’re hanging from their sockets. I can’t stop yawning and the passengers around me seem to be getting frustrated with my constant fidgeting. Excitement floods me when the pilot announces that we are descending toward Leonardo da Vinci International Airport. I am one of the first passengers to stand up in the aisle with my bags, ready to exit the plane.
Walking through the airport, I’m overwhelmed with its enormity and the chaos. People are rushing in all directions, all determined not to be late. It is easy to distinguish the Italians in their designer clothes, suits, and leather goods. I follow some of the other passengers from my flight to collect my luggage where a well-dressed man makes a path for me between the swarms of travelers to the carousel. I thank him for his kindness. Smiling at me, he nods his head and swiftly disappears in the opposite direction of where I have come from. I manage to haul my suitcase off the carousel, avoiding hitting bystanders, and walk in the direction of the exit.
“Katalina!” I hear shouted over the noise in the airport. I turn in the direction of my name and see my aunty Maria. She waves and a rush of relief gushes over me. I’ve never been so happy to see a familiar face. I grin at her and she closes the gap between us and grips me in a tight hug.
“Mia bella.” She kisses me on both cheeks.
“Aunt Maria.” I hug her back.
She is a tall, statuesque woman with the signature long, dark hair that seems to be a trait in our family. She holds herself with quaint, unconscious grace and is wearing designer clothes that look as though they are molded to her lean and tall frame. She looks exactly as I pictured her, unchanged since those old photos from back home.
“I cannot believe you are really here in flesh and blood.” She takes my hand in hers. “How was the flight?”
“Very long and exhausting. I’m just happy to finally be here.”
“You look just like your mother at eighteen. You have the same innocent gleam in your eyes.”
I divert my eyes to the ground. I’m uncomfortable receiving compliments, and my aunt seems to catch on as she puts her arm around my shoulders and tows me toward the exit.
Purring next to the curb is a sleek black Maserati. A man in a black suit stands next to the car; he opens the car door as we approach.
“Signorina.” He nods to me then to Aunt Maria.
“This is Gino. He will be our driver tonight,” she points out.
“Hello.”
“Buonasera,” he replies.
I climb into the back of the car and my aunt slides in next to me.
“Are you ready for the most exciting time of your life, my dear little one?” She beams at me as the car speeds off.
“Yes,” I manage to say. I’m overly tired, and simply thinking, let alone talking, is a feat at this stage.
After half an hour in the car and the endless questions about my mom and Nonna and the rest of the family that live in Australia, we finally reach the outskirts of the eternal city. My introduction to Rome is somewhat terrifying. Gino doesn’t seem to need to slow down on the ancient roads. We speed through narrow streets that I wouldn’t even think of driving down. The car glides around corners before I realize we are meant to turn and there doesn’t seem to be any road rules to abide by. By the time we reach our destination, I am wide awake from the adrenalin rush of rally driving into the heart of Rome.
The car stops out the front of a sixteenth-century building named Relais Maddalena, painted mustard yellow with a massively oversized green front door. The piazza in front of it is alive with music, the clinking of forks against plates and the constant hum of tourists and locals eating and enjoying the festivities. There is a street performer dressed as a mime that is walking comically after pedestrians just outside the piazza. I watch him mimic a young, unsuspecting tourist as she tries to skip away from him.
My aunt and I walk slowly with linked arms across the cobblestoned piazza toward the oversized green door. A cool breeze swirls through the tendrils of hair that have escaped my bun, bringing with it the aroma of coffee and vanilla. My nostrils flare at the smell. Taking in a deep breath, I look at my aunt whose eyes have dilated. She smiles wickedly at me and drags me toward the entry. Behind her expression I see a warning, something dangerous but not directed at me. An unsettling feeling tries to creep into the pit of my stomach, but I push it away faster than it can take effect. I look back behind me and expect Gino to be there pulling my luggage along after us, but he and his sleek black car have vanished.
“Gino is parking the car and then he will take your luggage upstairs for you. Come and meet your cousin Sofia.”
Aunt Maria pulls out a card from her tan leather bag and swipes it along a red light located on a touch pad to the right of the giant green doors. She twists one of the large metal handles and pushes the door open, allowing me to walk through first. Once inside, a dim light turns on automatically and illuminates the small entry and the ancient marble staircase, well-worn from footfalls through the centuries. The walls are painted a dull grey and are decorated with large Renaissance-style paintings with carved gold frames. To the left of the stairs is a narrow hall with a door at the end. I follow my aunt up the stairs to the second floor and then continue up another flight of stairs to the third floor. Maria stops at the only door on this level. It is painted blood red and stands out next to the dull grey walls that flank it. The red door swings open and a beautiful young woman squeals with delight as she throws her arms around me.
Sofia’s honey-colored skin glows in the light and her full ruby-red lips would have people questioning whether she has had collagen injections. Her long, brown, wavy hair sits at her waist and she too has the same dark eyes that grace the rest of the women in our family. I instantly develop a fondness toward her.
“I’m so happy you are finally here,” she says a little too loudly in my ear. “We are going to have so much fun.”
Taking my hand in hers, Sofia leads me into the apartment. We enter into the lounge, decorated with brown leather chesterfields worn with age and a wall with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. An oversized antique-looking world map fills the space next to the television. There are beautiful carved-wood framed mirrors on all walls, and the view out of the three windows is magical. A beautiful old church sits just on the other side of the piazza.
“I’m so happy to be here. Thank you so much for having me, Aunt Maria. I’m very grateful.” I grin.
“Please call me Maria, swe
etheart,” she responds. “It is our pleasure. This is your home for as long as you like.”
“Thank you.”
“Here, let me show you to your room.” Sofia indicates for me to follow her down the hall.
The room I’ll be staying in for the next couple of weeks is next to Sofia’s room, the only two rooms down this end of the apartment. The room has royal blue walls and crisp white sheets; the bed is enormous and sits center between two large windows. My luggage sits next to the wardrobe, and I wonder when Gino brought it up; I didn’t see him pass us on the stairs.
“This door leads to the bathroom.” Sofia opens it to show me. “Through that door is my room. I have made space in the bathroom for all your things so feel free to unpack when you want,” she adds.
“I’m off to sleep, girls,” Maria calls out from the other end of the apartment. “Sofia, don’t forget to show Katalina where everything is before you turn in for the night.”
“Non me ne dimentichero,” Sofia responds.
“I’ll show you the kitchen and dining and then I need to go to bed as it is nearly one in the morning,” she insists.
I trail closely behind as Sofia walks down the long hallway. We pass through the lounge, dimly lit by one lonely lamp in the corner, and enter the kitchen. Sleek and smooth marble bench tops sit on wooden cupboards and drawers. There is nothing cluttering the benches. The island bench adjacent to the sink and large window is the only surface that houses the one item on display in the kitchen. Sofia stalks to the fridge and opens it. The light filters out and clashes with the light from the window.
“Maria and I went food shopping today. We weren’t sure what you like to eat so we bought fruit and snacks and sourced American bread and that vile black paste you call Vegemite.” Her nose crinkles.
I can’t help but laugh out loud. “Thanks. Vegemite is my favorite. Have you tried it?”
“Eww, no thank you!” She screws up her face. “I’ll let you eat that, and I’ll stick to eating something else.”
I pick up the framed photo that sits by itself on the large bench in the kitchen. “Where was this photo taken?” I ask intrigued by the ancient-looking town in the photograph.
“That’s Craco in southern Italy. It’s deserted now but was once a thriving town many years ago.”
“How far is it from here?”
The sand-colored town sits lonely high up on a steep summit overlooking its surrounding valley like a lost soul.
“I’m not certain but I think about a five-hour drive,” Sofia answers. “I’m going to bed now. Will you be okay? Do you need anything?” she asks, stopping me from asking any further questions about the little town in the photograph.
“I think I might go to sleep as well.” I yawn.
“Sleep well. See you in the morning.”
“Goodnight,” I call after her.
I head back to my room through the darkened apartment. The noisy piazza from earlier is silent now; it too has packed up for the night. I look out my window at the beautiful church across the piazza. The light from its windows throws shadows onto the cobblestones, creating a unique patchwork pattern in different shades of sand and grey. A movement in one of the lit-up areas catches my eye and I look up at the church. A dark figure standing in one of the windows quickly disappears.
I switch the main light off and turn on the bedside lamp, crawling under the thick duvet. I settle into bed to read my book from Nicolette. The story is not my usual picking, but it does however capture my interest. It is about Dracula and vampiric lore.
I wake from terrible dark dreams of which I cannot remember any details. The sun is not up and dawn is nearing; it’s as though I can feel the sun rising from the ache in my bones. My stomach growls as I crawl out from under the heavy duvet. The insatiable hunger has returned and my need to eat has intensified. I head to the kitchen needing strong coffee and something to eat. Sofia sits at the island bench playing on her laptop, and Maria stands in the kitchen sipping hot coffee.
“Good morning,” I manage.
“How did you sleep?” asks Maria.
“Good, but I need coffee.” I nod.
“Do you like American-style coffee or Italian?”
“I like my coffee strong and milky—more American.”
“Sit and I will make you one.”
I sit on the stool next to Sofia and look out the window at the orange glow from the streetlights. I am so far from home, yet this foreign place feels like home already.
“Here you go, sweetheart.” Maria places the steaming coffee mug in front of me along with two cornetti.
“Grazie.” I may as well start speaking the little Italian I know.
Maria winks at me. “I have to go to work this morning and Sofia needs to attend her classes at university until early afternoon. I hope you will be okay on your own for the day?”
“I’ll be fine,” I lie. I have no sense of direction in my own tiny city of Brisbane. How am I going to find my way around Rome when I don’t speak the language?
“I have a tourist map for you and here are Sofia’s and my mobile numbers in case you need to call us if you get lost.” She places the map, a set of keys, a swipe card for the apartment, and the piece of paper with the phone numbers next to my coffee cup.
I eye the map with fear. “Thanks.”
“We are here and the Pantheon is down our street at the end.” Sofia points to the map.
“I won’t venture far today so I shouldn’t get too lost.” I smile weakly.
I drink my coffee as the sunlight slowly peeks up over the surrounding buildings, and the ache in my bones becomes less noticeable. I catch my aunt watching me.
“Do you want me to stay home with you today?” Maria worries.
“No, not at all. I’m looking forward to exploring the city on my own.” I sit up straight and look her in the eye, hoping my response is convincing.
“You can call me at any time today and I will leave work if you need me.” Her tone is close to anxious.
I nod and take another sip of my coffee. Her face registers only one emotion, as much as she tries to hide it: a delicate flickering of concern. Not wanting to know what Maria is so worried about, I gulp the rest of my coffee, burning my tongue in the process, and rinse my cup in the sink.
“I’m going to lie down for a bit. I think this jet lag is making me slightly off balance,” I announce as I grab the cornetti and head to my room.
“I will call you later in the morning,” Maria calls out.
I turn to face the kitchen. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine by myself,” I reassure her before scurrying off to my room.
Standing in Piazza della Maddalena with the warmth of the sun overhead, I take in the sights and sounds. There is a slight chill every time the breeze picks up that sends goosebumps up my exposed arms. It is late morning and the quaint piazza is buzzing with tourists and locals alike. A crowd has gathered around two street performers who have set up in the center of the intimate piazza, their hang drums playing upbeat melodies. I walk the few short steps to the café on the left and order a coffee and something to eat to fuel my energy for the morning. Sitting at one of the tables outside, I study the beautiful and intricate architecture of the Santa Maria Maddalena church and spot the window that housed the dark figure last night.
Tourist map in hand, I wander toward the Pantheon and pass the small shops and restaurants that line the street on both sides. The street is overflowing with life, as it has been for over a thousand years. For now, the Roman morning is full of eager tourists. The scent of bread baking and the aroma of strong Italian coffee are comforting in the chaos that surrounds me. The sun has disappeared behind the buildings and I shiver in the unexpected cool; my skinny jeans and sleeveless peasant-style top are not sufficient enough to keep me warm. I decide to find the street near the Spanish Steps, with all the good stores that Sofia mentioned this morning, and treat myself to a nice jacket. I enter a small shop that sells everything
Pinocchio—from mugs and T-shirts to puppets and pencils. The shop is crowded with tourists wanting to buy a loved one a cute Pinocchio present. I manage to squeeze my way to the back of the store where the wood-carved figurines sit on numerous shelves. I smile at all the Pinocchio dolls staring back at me with their long noses. I exit the store and move on toward the piazza. I slowly make my way down the street browsing in all the little stores.
As I enter Piazza della Rotonda, the sight that erupts in front of me is spectacular. The Pantheon dominates the square and is larger than I had imagined. I sense the electric atmosphere buzzing around me; I feel the tingle in my veins. My blood rushes and I wonder when I will be able to stop grinning at every new thing I see. The sun high up in the blue sky creates crystal shimmers in the dancing water of the fountain in the center of the piazza. The cobblestone-covered ground makes hollow sounds under the foot traffic of the hundreds of people that pass through here. The piazza is teeming with people: tourists stopping to admire the Pantheon and take pictures, lovers resting on the steps of the fountain holding hands, and locals rushing through on their way to their next destination. Admiring the fountain in the center of the small piazza with its impressive ancient Egyptian obelisk, I stride toward the entry of the Pantheon. The sense of encroachment as you walk up the few steps is undeniable. The enormity of the building has me feeling small and fragile standing amongst the tall columns.
Stepping through the opening past the bronze doors, I gasp at the beauty housed within the comparatively ordinary exterior. I stop just inside the entry and admire the angelic sight before me. I am brought back to reality when a tourist bumps into me. I realize I have been standing in the entryway and quickly move to the left and follow the crowd. I stop at the tomb of Raphael and marvel that I am in the same breathing space as this once amazingly talented artist.
Bequeathed Page 2
