by Nan Lyons
“Grazie, no. Niente.” Then, feeling very much alone, “Sì, piacere, cappuccino.” She looked again at the fountains and imagined strollers in Renaissance costumes. Then she pictured World War II GI’s. Perhaps her own father. Had he once stared at the same fountains? Could he have imagined that someday his own child would be staring into them looking for his reflection?
Natasha had no place to go. She lingered in the Piazza Navona until she began getting second nods from the same men, and then she walked along the Corso Vittorio Emanuele in the direction of the Forum. In her mind she saw all the blank boxes on her month-at-a-glance calendar. She had worked so hard to keep those boxes clear, imagining how they would be filled with notations about dinners with Louis, kitchens they had discovered, places they wanted to go. She could not put her domani with Nutti on that same page.
It was still lunchtime and the streets were quiet except for the noise from the ristoranti and trattorie that bulged with loud conversation and the clang of silverware. Of all the cities in Europe, she liked Rome the best for walking. There were hills and steps and piazzas and alleys. The city was like a grand buffet after the first go-round. Some of the good stuff still remained for those who knew what the good stuff was.
As she approached the Via dei Fori Imperiali, she woke a sleeping old man to buy a cup of chocolate ice. Then she walked up the steps to the Campidoglio and looked down on the Forum, trying to fit her life into the historical perspective spread before her. She leaned on the balustrade, sipped at her ice, and began to cry.
Who were the tears for, she wondered. For Papa Louis? For her lover? For Natasha O’Brien perhaps. Perhaps. She stared at the graveyard of ancient Rome as though she were looking into her own future. Someday her child might stand in that spot wondering if Natasha had ever been there. Clearly not an original thought for Natasha’s child. Clearly not an original grief for Natasha. Originality belonged to the Bernini fountains, because they were permanent, uninvolved with the weeping and wondering of children. Oh, Louis. She crushed the empty paper cup in her hands and threw it at a broken column. How elitist, she thought, to vent her anger by littering in the Forum.
It was after five when she returned to the Grand, now determined to fill in the blank spaces in her calendar. She asked the desk clerk for her key.
“Giorno,” he muttered, stepping back. Two policemen appeared beside her. She felt their hands grip her arms.
“What is this?” she asked them. “Let go of me.” Their hands tightened as she tried to free herself.
“I am sorry, signorina,” the desk clerk whispered. “Polizia.”
“You’re hurting me,” she said, trying to free herself from them. There was suddenly a crowd around her.
“They wish you to go with them,” the clerk said.
“I don’t wish to go,” she shouted.
“Please, signorina,” he said as the police began pushing her through the lobby.
“Call the American Embassy,” she called to the clerk. “Stop it, what are you doing?” she screamed at the police.
“Per piacere,” one of them said as they forced her through the door and over to a police car. A third officer got out of the car, opened the door, and Natasha was pushed into the back seat between the two men who had taken her from the lobby. They slammed the doors and the driver started the car. He turned on the siren and they began racing through the streets.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked. “Dove? Dove? Dove?” she repeated. The car raced through the streets, at times seemingly ahead of its own bleating siren. She looked through the windows and saw faces turning to look at her. They drove into the Piazza Barberini, and onto the Via del Corso. “I am an American citizen,” she yelled. “You have the wrong person. I haven’t done anything. Where are you taking me?” She was breathing heavily, inhaling the underarm odors of her captors. “Where the fuck are you taking me?” she screamed.
“Per piacere,” the one on her right said.
There was no point in struggling; they were stronger. And there was no point in yelling; they couldn’t understand her. She sat between them thinking it didn’t matter where they were taking her; they would crash before arriving anywhere. The driver never slowed down, always making the motorists and pedestrians swerve, slam their brakes, run, and shout. They must be taking her to the police station, she thought. But where? And why?
She thought she recognized the section they were in, somewhere near the Piazza del Popolo. Somewhere near Nutti’s restaurant. The car came to a screeching halt in a very narrow street. The siren finally stopped. The worst was over, she thought. The police helped her out of the car, still holding her arms as they led her into what appeared to be the back door of a restaurant. It was Nutti’s restaurant. They pushed her past the cans of garbage and into the kitchen. They kept pushing her until she stepped on something. A fish. She looked at the floor and saw dead fish scattered about. Then out of the corner of her eye she saw something. Pink. Red. She looked again. The fish tank.
The water in the fish tank was red. Something hung over the side. An arm. A lobster was crawling on the arm. The rest of the body was submerged. Nutti’s once comical face was pressed against the glass. His mouth and eyes were open as though calling for help.
Natasha relaxed into the grip the police had on her arm. They led her through the service area, and into the restaurant. The room was lit for cleaning; it would never have been that bright during service hours. Tables were piled high with chairs. The police led Natasha to a table, took the chairs off, and she sat down. Her eyes focused on the table next to her. It was fully set with tablecloth, flowers, dishes, silverware, and crystal. Amid the sea of chair legs that surrounded him, a man sat eating. He nodded his head, rose for a moment, and then sat again.
“I hope you do not mind that I am eating,” he said with an Italian accent. “But I am enjoying my meal very much. It is not very often that I eat in such places. The tortellini is superb. Tell me,” he said, looking directly at her for the first time, “where have you been, Miss O’Brien?”
His eyes were ice blue. His face was smooth, olivey, and he looked as though he had no beard. He appeared to be in his late thirties. A very handsome man. He wore a dark-blue double-breasted suit, a light-blue shirt, and an orange tie with a very large knot.
“Who are you?” she asked softly.
“I am Capitano Gilli. I am of the police. I wish to know where you have been.”
“Who did it?”
“I did not,” he replied as he ate.
“You think I did?”
“Where have you been, Miss O’Brien?”
“Walking.”
“You were with someone?”
“I was alone.”
“Perhaps someone saw you. You stopped in a shop?”
“No.”
“Perhaps you asked for directions?”
“You think I did it?”
“I am asking where you have been.” He put down his fork and pushed his plate away. “Would you like some wine?” he asked as he refilled his glass.
She looked at him for a moment. Then she looked at the empty room, at the door to the kitchen through which she had just come.
“Why did you have me brought through there?”
“Tell me where you have been.”
“None of your business.” She stood up. “I want to go.”
“Sit down, Miss O’Brien.”
“I want to go. I want to get out of here.”
“Sit down,” he shouted. “You are being questioned by the police in the murder of Nutti Fenegretti. You are suspected of knocking him unconscious on the back of the head, of pushing him into the water and drowning him. You are suspected of taking a large knife, smashing his head open, and then splitting him down the back the way one does a lobster.”
Natasha sat down.
“Cameriere!” he shouted. The waiter ran into the room and cleared the table. “Due caffè, per piacere.” The waiter left quickly. Natasha sat
immobile, staring into space. She thought of looking down at the Forum, of having found some perspective.
The waiter brought two cups of coffee and put one on each table. Natasha looked at Gilli. “Thank you,” she said.
“Prego.” There was a pause, and then he began, “You understand I must ask you questions?”
“Yes.”
“Bene. Then, may I begin?”
Natasha looked at him. “Who found the body?”
“Palmestri, the waiter…” He stopped, realizing he was answering her questions.
“They don’t open until seven,” she said. “What was he doing here?”
“He says that he is innocent. That he came early only to steal some fish for his family. Miss O’Brien, I am supposed to be asking the questions.”
“Who else was in the restaurant?”
“The baker came at four o’clock to make the pasta in his kitchen,” he said, getting angrier with each word. “Fenegretti was in the other kitchen. The baker and Fenegretti have not spoken to each other in years. They hated one another. The waiters do not come until six o’clock. The assistant cooks do not come until five o’clock. Fenegretti comes promptly at half past two.”
“Well, what about the baker?”
“It is my opinion that the baker hated Fenegretti too much to kill him.”
“Hated him too much to kill him?”
“Exactly. You do not understand Italians. Finding someone you can really hate is as important as finding someone you really love. You must have them both in your life. You do not suddenly kill someone you have spent years hating. You have an investment in that person. You kill someone for a reason, or for no reason. You do not kill because of hate.”
“Then who did it?”
Gilli looked at Natasha. “Where have you been, Miss O’Brien?”
“I had lunch with Nutti. He left at around two-thirty. I walked twice around the Piazza Navona. I walked to the Forum. I stopped for some ice. I went to the Campidoglio. I ate my ice. I looked at the Forum. I left the Campidoglio. I took a taxi and went back to the Grand.”
“Mille grazie,” he said. “Then you are innocent.”
“Clearly.”
“Then I shall call Inspector Carmody and …”
“Carmody?”
“Yes. You remember Inspector Carmody?”
“How do you know him?”
“I have never had the pleasure of meeting him. But we are colleagues. I received from him a call. He told me about the incident in London, and that you were coming to Rome.”
“To warn you in case anyone was murdered in Rome? Or in case any banks were held up?”
“No. To ask me to have your activities …”—he stumbled for the gentlest word—“observed.”
“Observed? Then he suspects me of killing Louis?”
“It is his job.”
“To suspect me of killing Louis? That stupid bastard. That pastyfaced weasel called to warn you that I was coming to Rome? To follow me?”
“And then someone kills Fenegretti. An unfortunate coincidence.”
“That’s quite an epitaph.” She looked at Gilli. How could someone that handsome think she was a criminal? “I would like something to drink.”
“Cinzano, Sambucca, whiskey, Fiuggi?”
“Pellegrino. I never drink Fiuggi,” she said. “It has no bubbles.”
“I do not like bubbles.”
She said without smiling, “I know. They tickle your nose.”
He shrugged his shoulders, and called to the waiter for one Pellegrino and one Fiuggi. Natasha sat back. “I can’t go through it all again. I really don’t think I can.”
The waiter brought the two bottles of mineral water. He put the Pellegrino in front of Gilli, and the Fiuggi in front of Natasha. Gilli smiled. He watched as Natasha put the glass to her lips. She winced, and looked down at the bottle.
“Police brutality,” he said softly, exchanging the glasses.
“Why don’t you take him out of there?” she asked, pointing to the kitchen. She raised her head as she felt the tears stream down her cheek.
“I was only waiting for you.”
“For me?”
“For your reaction. My business is one of interpreting reactions.”
“Well then, how do you interpret this?” She threw her drink in his face.
He stood up, laughing, and took a napkin to dry himself. “I think that is a good sign.”
“Don’t laugh,” she said angrily. “Don’t you laugh. Your business is not to take advantage of me. How dare you. How dare you have me dragged out of my hotel? How dare you make me walk through that kitchen? You goddamn bastard, who the hell do you think you are? Do you know who I am? How dare you accuse me of killing Nutti? Nutti was …” She stopped for a moment. “He was … was, was, was. Why is everyone in my life becoming a was?”
“He was a friend?” Gilli asked as he sat down at her table.
“More,” she replied quietly.
“You were lovers?”
“Almost.” She smiled. “He was to make love to me six times tomorrow.”
“Six times?”
“Antipasto, zuppa, pasta, pesce, came, dolce.”
“While you eat he was to make love to you?”
“No. It was just a game. A silly game.”
“But I must tell you,” he said excitedly, “that is my diet. Each time I make love I think of cannelloni, lasagna, fettucini, manicotti. And I do not eat those things any more. I have lost twenty kilos while I make love. My stomach is now flat,” he said, patting his stomach. “I have thought it should be a book.”
“You should call it Just Another Fucking Diet.”
He began to laugh. “I am sorry. I have never heard an American lady use that word.”
“What word? Fuck?”
“Yes,” he said. “Fuck.”
She looked at him for a moment “Fuck,” she said simply. Then, slowly, and without emotion, “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
“You are right,” he said. “It is not so funny.”
They sat quietly for a moment.
“What will you do now?” she asked.
“I will take you back to your hotel.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“For what?”
“It’s very clear. I flew from New York to London to kill Louis on Tuesday. Then I flew from London to Rome to kill Nutti on Thursday. I am the only person who has been in both places.”
“Then I shall have to watch you very closely.”
“Can you take me out of here?”
“Where do you wish to go?”
“The hotel.”
“Of course. You wish to be alone.”
“No,” she said. “I do not wish to be alone.”
“You are emotionally upset.”
“Yes.”
“You are grieving.”
“Yes.”
“You are frightened.”
“Yes.”
“Bellissima,” he whispered.
The telephone rang. Natasha awoke and raised her head from the pillow. She leaned across Gilli’s chest and reached for the receiver on the night table.
“Hello?”
“Miss Natasha O’Brien, please. Paris is calling.”
Gilli stirred. “For me?” he asked sleepily.
“No,” she said. “Yes, operator, I am Natasha O’Brien.”
Gilli moved his hand under the sheet and began to caress her breast.
“Nat? Nat? It’s me, Millie.”
“Millie? Did you hear?” she asked.
Gilli began to pinch her nipples. She traced the outline of his lips with her finger.
“The chef at the American Embassy called me. I couldn’t believe it Are you all right?”
Gilli put his mouth to her nipples and rubbed them with his tongue. Natasha breathed in sharply.
“Yes. I think so.”
“You sound terrible, Nat.” Gilli’s hands were moving across her body. “You
must be going through hell,” Max said.
Natasha began to pinch Gilli’s nipples. “You wouldn’t believe what I’m going through now,” she said. Gilli’s hand pushed her legs apart “It’s incredible.”
“Listen, Nat, you’ve got to get out of there. How much can you take?”
Natasha held Gilli’s penis in her hand. “I don’t know. Not too much more.”
“Then for Chrissake get on the next plane, and meet me in Paris.”
Gilli was on top of her, entering with force. “Oh,” she said.
“I know,” Max replied. “It must be more than you can bear.”
“Oh, my God, yes. Yes.”
“Nat, it’s breaking my heart to hear you this way.” Gilli was rocking rapidly. Natasha put her arm around his neck and held tightly to him. “Nat, when can you get here?”
“I’ll come as fast as I can,” she said, rocking with Gilli.
“Is that a promise?” Max asked. “I want to be with you, Nat I know how alone you must be. It must be so hard for you.”
“Yes,” she breathed into the receiver.
“Nat, you sound really bad. How soon can you come?”
“I’m coming,” she whispered.
“When?” Max asked.
“Now, now, right now, as I’m talking to you. Oh, Millie, it’s unbelievable.”
“Nat, don’t let yourself go like that. Please. Pull yourself together. Please. It’ll be all right. I promise you.”
Gilli withdrew but remained on top of her.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“The Plaza. How soon can you leave?”
Natasha looked at Gilli. “How soon can I leave?” she repeated. He shrugged his shoulders as he put his arms around her. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m being held by the police.” Gilli smiled.
“Why? They can’t hold you. You can leave anytime. Call the Consulate.”
“I can leave anytime?” she repeated, looking at Gilli. He nodded yes. “I thought perhaps I should stay awhile,” she said to Max. Gilli nodded his head no, and lay back at her side. “But, you’re right, there’s no reason to stay. I’ll leave tonight”
“I’ll meet you. What plane?”
“I don’t know. Don’t meet me. I’ll come to the Plaza.”
“I’ll wait for you. And Nat?”
“Yes?” she asked.
