‘Woof!’ replied Finnegan, and he gobbled her pasta before she could change her mind.
Freja crept into Trattoria Famiglia. ‘Buongiorno,’ she whispered.
Enzo must have just told a very funny story because the old men at the bar were roaring with laughter, their shoulders shaking, their heads bobbing up and down. Edmondo slapped Xaviero’s back so hard that his glasses fell off. This sent the old men into a fresh spasm of laughter, and Freja and Finnegan were able to slip by, unnoticed, into Nonna Rosa’s kitchen.
‘Freja!’ cried Nonna Rosa. She waved a floury hand over the mound of dough she was kneading. ‘Little angel! How beautiful it is to see you.’
‘Woof!’ said Finnegan.
‘Sì! Sì!’ Nonna Rosa rolled her eyes. ‘It is good to see you too, you big, hairy lump!’
Freja held forth her bowl of fettuccine aglio e olio. ‘For you, Nonna Rosa. I made the pasta just like you said. I asked my fingers to listen to the eggs and the flour, and they really did seem to get along just fine!’
Nonna Rosa wiped her hands on her apron. She took the bowl and gazed at it, nodding slowly. She grabbed a fork from the drawer, dug it deep down into the bowl and twisted it around and around until it held an impossibly large swirl of fettuccine. Opening her mouth wide, she shoved it all in at once.
‘Mmm-mmm-mmm-mmm!’ Nonna Rosa closed her eyes as she chewed. She swallowed with a noisy, theatrical gulp, then slammed the bowl onto the bench. Grabbing Freja’s face in her hands, she kissed both cheeks with gusto. ‘Mwah! Mwah!’ She smiled, then kissed each cheek once more!
‘Clever bambina!’ she cooed. ‘It makes Nonna Rosa’s tired old heart sing to taste such perfect pasta. You have learnt so quickly. I think you have Italian fingers, an Italian heart, an Italian soul!’
Freja blushed and smiled.
‘Now, you must eat a little bit of Nonna Rosa’s tiramisù while I finish making my bread and soup. And the dog might like a sausage, no?’
‘Woof! Boof!’ Finnegan jumped up so that his front paws rested on Nonna Rosa’s shoulders and his big, wet nose pressed against hers.
‘Sì! Sì!’ Nonna Rosa grumbled as she pushed him away and waddled across to the fridge. ‘Two sausages for the dog.’
When the soup of the day — ribollita — was bubbling steadily along on the stove, Nonna Rosa pulled off her apron and announced, ‘I’m going to the Church of Santa Maria in Aracoeli to light a candle for my sister.’
‘Why?’ asked Freja.
‘I light a candle as a prayer to God,’ explained Nonna Rosa, her voice suddenly soft and gentle. ‘My sister, Carlotta, is very sick and I am asking God to give her peace.’
‘Why don’t you go to the Church of Trinità dei Monti?’ asked Freja. ‘It’s just at the top of the Spanish Steps and it’s ever so grand. The ceiling is higher than Paddington Station’s in London! Tobias and I went in the other day, although we couldn’t stay for long because Finnegan sat at the entrance and howled. He doesn’t like being left out, you see.’
Nonna Rosa glanced through the door to where Finnegan was now standing with his front paws on the bar, licking up a spilt drink. ‘Sì! Sì! I have noticed that about the dog!’ She smiled at Freja. ‘You are right. Trinità dei Monti is a beautiful place in which to pray and, truly, God hears me everywhere, I am sure. Even in my kitchen. Even when Enzo is grumbling and wailing at the top of his voice. But I go to Santa Maria in Aracoeli because it is the place where my sister was baptised and she has asked me to light the candle there. I do it for her.’
Freja sighed. ‘That’s lovely.’
Nonna Rosa squeezed into a black coat and grabbed her handbag from a hook on the wall.
‘My mother is sick,’ whispered Freja. ‘Clementine.’
Nonna Rosa did not make a fuss. She did not ask prying questions. She simply placed her soft, plump hand on Freja’s shoulder and said, ‘Clementine is a beautiful name for a beautiful woman, I think.’
Freja nodded and a little tear slipped down her cheek.
Nonna Rosa opened her handbag and drew out a white lace handkerchief. She wiped the tear away with a rough swipe, then pressed the handkerchief into Freja’s hand. ‘You might need this again, piccola. Come along.’
‘Where?’ asked Freja.
‘To the church,’ said Nonna Rosa, waddling to the front door. ‘You can light a candle for your mother.’
Turning to the old men at the bar, she said something in Italian. The men argued amongst themselves for a moment, then Roberto, the oldest and frailest of them all, pulled on his hat and slipped off his chair. He followed Nonna Rosa and Freja outside and pointed at a tiny green three-wheeled truck. It looked like an overgrown tricycle. It looked familiar.
Freja turned to Roberto. ‘You . . .’
Roberto winked.
‘How? Why?’ Freja whispered, wide eyed.
‘My son is a builder. I was visiting him yesterday at an apartment he was working on in Piazza Navona. I saw your crazy writer being chased, so I decided I must do something.’
‘But why did you help?’ asked Freja.
‘He is your friend.’ Roberto rested a gnarled hand on Freja’s head. ‘And you are Nonna Rosa and Enzo’s friend . . . and my friend. So that makes the crazy writer my friend too.’ He dropped his hand to his side and chuckled at the thought. ‘See?’
Freja felt an unexpected flutter in her chest. Yes, she did see.
Friends. All of them. So quickly. And without even trying.
‘Grazie, Roberto,’ she whispered.
The old man flicked his hand as though it was nothing.
But it was, in fact, everything.
Freja squeezed into the truck’s cabin, between Nonna Rosa and Roberto. Finnegan leapt up into the tray at the back.
Roberto turned the key, revved the engine and puttered away. He drove slowly, but straight down the middle of the narrow cobbled street, so that pedestrians, cyclists and mothers with prams had to jump out of his way. Nobody seemed to mind. Roberto waved his wrinkled hand out the window and sang, ‘Buongiorno! Buongiorno!’ In return, they shook their heads and smiled. Some even waved and greeted him by name. Nonna Rosa barely seemed to notice the danger and chattered on to Roberto in her melodic Italian. It was all very friendly and calm.
But then the little green truck turned out of the alleyway and onto a busy two-lane road that soon became an even busier four-lane road. With one toot of a horn, Roberto was transformed from a sweet old grandpa into a madman. He sped up, careened in and out of the motorcycles and cars, honked the horn, shook his fist in the air and shouted to one and all, ‘Buffone! Buffone! Buffone!’
Freja giggled. She committed the new word to memory so she could record it later in her scrapbook. ‘Buffone. Buffone. Buffone,’ she whispered.
They hurtled towards a traffic policeman who stood on a platform in the middle of a busy intersection. The policeman held his white-gloved hand towards them in a stop sign. Roberto ignored him, pressed down on the accelerator, swerved to miss a red Ferrari, zoomed around the corner and screeched to a halt.
Finnegan’s large, hairy body slammed against the window at the back of the cabin. ‘Woof!’
‘Grazie! Grazie, Roberto!’ cried Nonna Rosa as she almost fell out the truck door.
Freja followed and took the old woman’s hand. Turning to Finnegan, she said, ‘Stay here with Roberto. We’ll be back soon.’
Finnegan lay down in the tray and whined.
Freja stared up at the Church of Santa Maria in Aracoeli. ‘Urgh.’ Her shoulders slumped. This did not look like the kind of place to offer a prayer of hope. It looked like a factory or a warehouse, flat faced and stark. ‘What a grim building,’ she whispered. ‘Not at all pretty like the other churches I’ve seen in Rome.’
Nonna Rosa squeezed Freja’s hand and, together, they climbed the stone staircase. It was long and steep, as though built to discourage people from visiting the church. Nonna Rosa huffed and puffed like a steam engine. On rea
ching the top, they were met with a grey timber door so large and heavy that it took their combined weight to force it open.
Not very welcoming, thought Freja, but she took a deep breath and stepped inside.
‘Oh, Nonna Rosa!’ she cried, dazzled by the sunlight streaming through the high windows. A smile spread across her face and she clasped her hands to her cheeks.
Nonna Rosa chuckled. ‘It is not what you were expecting?’
‘No,’ said Freja. ‘It’s . . . it’s magical.’ She spun slowly around, her eyes wide as she took in all the details — marble pillars, grand arches, soaring ceilings, half-hidden nooks, pastel paintings, golden altars and, amazingly, crystal chandeliers.
‘Chandeliers!’ Freja beamed at Nonna Rosa. ‘They’re real chandeliers. Dozens and dozens of them. Like they have in ballrooms in Vienna or châteaux in the French countryside.’
‘They are a surprise,’ agreed Nonna Rosa, ‘but they look so very pleasing, no?’
Freja nodded. ‘It looks like Heaven.’ She closed her eyes and whispered, ‘Feels like Heaven.’
Face tilted upward, Freja drifted across the marble floor, delighting in the way the light danced and played with the crystals on the chandeliers.
At the far end of the church, a golden altar was framed by two giant arches. Each arch was adorned with fifteen chandeliers — exotic giant raindrops hanging from the ceiling of a cave. At the first arch, Freja stopped and stared.
‘Look, Nonna Rosa!’ she cried. ‘That chandelier, the one at the top of the arch, is special. It shines more brightly than the rest. I can see rainbows, bolts of lightning, tongues of fire, twinkling stars. There’s a whole world caught in every crystal!’
‘Sì! Sì!’ said Nonna Rosa. ‘Bellissimo! It has been polished just now, perhaps after some repairs. If you look at the others, you can see dust and cobwebs. They are not easy to clean — too high and too many fiddly bits — but still they do their job and dance with the light. But you are right, this one is a little different. Maybe because it is the most important. It is right in the middle, above the sanctuary.’
‘I’m going to make that one Clementine’s chandelier,’ Freja decided. ‘If a candle helps a prayer make its way to God, then a chandelier will do an even better job. Especially one as splendid as this.’
Nonna Rosa chuckled, patted Freja’s mop of curls, then stood reverently by, her handbag clutched to her body.
Freja shuffled about, making sure to position herself right beneath the chandelier. She closed her eyes and pressed her hands together.
After a moment’s pause, she opened one eye and whispered, ‘Psst! Nonna Rosa. I’ve never prayed before. I’m not sure what to say.’
‘It is God you are talking to, bambina,’ said the old woman. ‘Just say what is in your heart.’
Freja nodded and closed her eyes once more. ‘Dear God,’ she began, but then remembered that she was in Rome and wondered if, perhaps, God was actually Italian. He certainly had a lot of churches here! Even the Vatican. She cleared her throat and started afresh. ‘Buongiorno, God. Ciao.’
She opened one eye again and peeped at Nonna Rosa. Was the old woman shaking? And why was her mouth twitching at the corners?
Freja closed her eyes for a third time. ‘Ciao, God. Clementine is sick and that makes me sad . . . and sometimes rather scared. Amen.’
‘Amen,’ echoed Nonna Rosa. ‘That was a good prayer, bella.’
They walked over to the side of the church, where they each lit a candle. Nonna Rosa eased her plump body down into a pew and prayed for her sister, Carlotta.
Freja wondered how she should use her second prayer. ‘Maybe a blessing for Tobias, or Nonna Rosa and Enzo,’ she murmured. ‘Or perhaps I should ask for God’s help on the journey home. Roberto is not a good driver — worse than Tobias even — and he really could use all the help he can get. Yes, that’s it!’ Pressing her hands together, she closed her eyes and was just about to pray a special Three-Wheeled Truck Driving Prayer when she was rudely interrupted.
Finnegan had forced his way through the front door amidst a crowd of visiting nuns. Now he galloped across the church and leapt at Freja with a flap of tongue, a wag of tail and a whimper of joy that described his relief at finding her. He had, after all, been left outside, so far away, for such a long and trying time.
CHAPTER 21
Lemon tart with extra first aid
Vivi’s lemon tart was delicious — sweet and sour, sharp and soft, all at the same time. It sat lightly in Freja’s tummy and spread a warm, tangy buzz through the rest of her body.
Finnegan seemed to have mixed feelings about the tart. Each and every bite made him wince and cringe. He might have rejected the tart altogether, except that the sour lemon bits were tangled up with so many marvellous things — sugar, butter, almonds, eggs. What was a poor dog to do but soldier on and hope for a nice fortifying lump of cheese or salami at the end of it all?
Tobias, of course, was enraptured. He ate three slices of lemon tart, then licked the spoon until Freja thought he might dissolve the silver.
‘That was delectable!’ he declared. ‘Best lemon tart in the world!’ He threw his arms wide and slapped the bottom of a passing woman. Accidentally, of course, but the woman was not to know that.
Freja gasped. Finnegan grinned and dribbled on the tablecloth.
The woman swung around and glared at Tobias, but he barely noticed. He had eyes only for Vivi, who was, at that very moment, dashing by on the other side of their table, holding a large pizza above her head. As she passed, Tobias reached out absent-mindedly and grabbed the tie at the back of her pink-and-white polka-dot apron. Vivi was jerked to a halt, but the pizza kept moving, flying off the tray and onto the floor. Finnegan leapt from his chair and pounced. Within thirty seconds, all that remained was a little pile of dribble and a dozen black olives.
‘Finnegan!’ gasped Freja. She slipped from her chair, plucked the olives from the floor and stuffed them into her pocket.
‘I don’t know what happened,’ cried Vivi, her eyes two round pools of chocolate surprise. ‘Un momento I was walking along with a perfect pizza for my customers and the next I came to a halt. POOT! Just like that! The pizza is gone!’
Finnegan trotted away, tail in the air. He leapt up onto the pink velvet lounge, stretched along its full length, yawned and fell asleep.
‘Strano! Strange!’ cried Vivi, shaking her head at the empty tray in her hands. ‘I must be going crazy! Pazzo Vivi!’ She sighed, apologised to the diners who were waiting for their pizza, then returned to the kitchen to make another.
‘Tobias,’ hissed Freja, slipping back into her chair. ‘That was dreadful! I know you didn’t mean to, but . . . poor Vivi.’
Tobias looked up at Freja and blinked. Just like Finnegan did when caught chewing on the curtains.
‘Shall we go for a walk and buy raspberry gelato?’ murmured Tobias.
‘But you’ve just eaten three slices of lemon tart,’ said Freja.
‘Have I?’ He tugged at his ear and chuckled. He sipped the last of his espresso and grinned stupidly. ‘I say! Doesn’t the sauce on that fellow’s pasta look remarkably like blood?’
Freja giggled. ‘I suppose so, but I wouldn’t say it too loudly, or —’
Too late! Tobias was already making his way to the table where the man was eating fettuccine Napoli.
‘Looks a little bit like the medical journals I was studying this morning!’ said Tobias. ‘Blood everywhere, I’m afraid.’
The man dropped his fork and gaped at the writer. ‘Huh?’
‘Look!’ cried Tobias, jabbing his finger into the man’s pasta. ‘The contents of your bowl could be a nasty wound to the leg. The fettuccine might be bits of ligament and tendon. The sauce, obviously, is the large amount of blood that would be oozing out all over.’
The man stared at Tobias’ finger where it poked and swirled around in his lunch.
‘Tobby,’ whispered Freja, now at his side and t
ugging at his cardigan.
But Tobias had already slipped away from the real world, into his writer’s mind. He pulled out the pale yellow chair beside the man and made himself comfortable. ‘Let’s just say, my good fellow, that you have fallen off a cliff of some height and landed rather awkwardly on some jagged rocks.’ He grabbed the man’s foot, lifted it onto the table and pushed the leg of his jeans up to his knee. ‘And let’s imagine that this pasta sauce is your horrific wound.’ Grabbing a spoon, he scooped out some of the rich red Napoli sauce and drizzled it along the man’s shin.
The man stared, open mouthed, too stunned to protest.
By now, three other diners — a Chinese couple and an Italian woman — had gathered by the table to see what was happening.
‘This poor fellow has fallen from a cliff,’ explained Tobias. ‘Well, he was pushed actually, but we won’t go into the details just now. We really should tend to his wounds. He has a nasty gash, maybe even some mangled tendons.’ Tobias draped two short strands of fettuccine along the line of sauce. ‘These are the tendons, of course.’
‘Ah yes! Of course,’ said the Chinese man, rubbing his chin.
His wife clutched her hands to her chest.
Freja sighed and shook her head, making nervous sideways glances towards the kitchen. She hoped Vivi couldn’t see what was happening in the middle of her pretty café.
‘You are quite right to be concerned,’ said Tobias, nodding encouragingly to the Chinese man. ‘For this poor fellow is still halfway up a mountain and miles from any sort of medical help.’
‘Mamma mia!’ shouted the Italian woman. She leaned forward and wrapped her arm around the victim’s shoulders.
‘But,’ Tobias continued, ‘he is a resourceful man and decides that, if he is to survive, he must perform his own first aid.’
‘Incredibile!’ cried an Italian man who had now joined them.
‘Yes,’ agreed Tobias, ‘incredible, and absolutely critical. First, he cleanses the wound with water from his canteen.’ He tipped the man’s glass of white wine over his leg, and most of the sauce and fettuccine washed away. Tobias dabbed it dry, ever so gently, with a serviette. ‘Then he stitches up the wound the best he can using a blunt needle and nylon thread designed to mend his sleeping bag.’ Taking a nib pen and a pot of red ink from his cardigan pocket, he drew a jagged line of stitch marks along the man’s shin. ‘And now he must bandage the wound to keep it clean and secure.’ Tobias scanned Café Vivi for a suitable object.
The Girl, the Dog, and the Writer in Rome Page 12
