‘Toss in a cat and you will live for many, many years!’ Tobias shouted. ‘The cat’s nine lives will become yours!’
‘Toss in a roll of toilet paper,’ cried Freja, ‘and you will never get diarrhoea again.’
‘Toss in a gold watch,’ roared Tobias, ‘and you will become a millionaire!’
The crowd went wild. They whistled. They cheered. They hugged one another and shouted in delight.
‘Brilliant!’
‘Marvellous!’
‘Wonderful!’
‘Fantastico!’
‘Woof! Boof!’
Boris and Nadia pressed forward and hauled Tobias up onto their shoulders.
‘The girl!’ Nadia yelled. ‘Lift the little girl too!’
The backpacker and his friends hoisted Freja into the air.
The crowd closed in and, as one giant, excited mass, they paraded the girl and the writer around the piazza — between café tables, through the middle of a British tour group, past Padre Nico (who was now biting his fingernails) and back to the steps. They set Freja and Tobias down. One by one, they pressed money into Freja’s hands and drifted off, chuckling and shaking their heads, until all who remained were Boris and Nadia. Padre Nico loitered by the edge of the pool a few metres away.
Boris slapped Tobias on the back. ‘Donald Dawkings!’ he shouted. ‘You are the best tour guide we have met in Rome! Come! Let us buy you a drink!’ Wrapping his thick, short arm around Tobias, Boris led him away.
And as Boris walked away, he just happened to pass the priest.
And as he passed the priest, he just happened to stumble.
And as he stumbled, he just happened to push the priest into the pool. Head first.
Boris and Tobias walked on as though nothing had happened.
Freja stared, open mouthed, as Padre Nico floundered about in the shallow water, trying to stand.
Nadia shrugged and roared, ‘Voopsy-daisy!’ She took Freja by the hand and, together with Finnegan, they followed Tobias and Boris out of the piazza, along the street and away to safety.
CHAPTER 28
Chocolate gelato at last!
Side by side, they sat on the Spanish Steps, eating chocolate gelato — Tobias, Freja, Nadia and Boris. Finnegan frolicked in the pretty fountain nearby, a piece of black fabric clenched in his teeth. Every now and then, he stopped and shook it violently to make sure it was dead.
Freja was grateful that Boris had chosen the gelato. Firstly, because chocolate was her favourite, but Tobias seemed unable to buy any flavour other than raspberry. Secondly, because Tobias could eat a chocolate gelato like a normal person. If he had a raspberry gelato, he’d be sighing, puckering his lips and daydreaming about Vivi. They wouldn’t get a jot of sense from him.
‘Thank you, Boris and Nadia,’ said Freja. ‘And not just for the chocolate gelato. You rescued us.’
‘Ha!’ roared Nadia. ‘You were doing just fine on your own. You are a brave girl, Freja.’
‘And smart!’ roared Boris. ‘I think you might be a hero!’
Nadia scowled and pointed her gelato at her husband. ‘We don’t think she is a hero, Boris. We know she is a hero!’
Tobias leaned in and nudged Freja with his elbow. ‘Brave as a bear, old chap.’
The girl smiled at them, all teeth and chocolate-gelato lips.
‘Still,’ said Tobias, ‘it was jolly good to have your assistance, Boris and Nadia. Lucky you happened by. But how did you know we needed help?’
‘Nadia saw the priest chasing Freja up onto the fountain,’ Boris explained.
Nadia nodded. ‘I said to myself, “Aha! There is the bad priest! The same one, I am sure, who was bothering my friends in the Borghese Gardens just yesterday.”’
‘But that’s the mystery of it all,’ said Tobias. ‘It wasn’t the same priest!’
‘No,’ whispered Freja. ‘It was a brand-new priest. One we’ve never seen before.’
‘No-o-o-o!’ barked Nadia. ‘Another one?’
‘Poo!’ barked Boris. ‘That makes Boris cranky. Three bad priests? There is no room in the world for even one bad priest!’
‘But why do they chase you?’ asked Nadia. She glared at Tobias. ‘And do not tell us about the ink and the nun. A priest does not chase an angel like Freja, because a silly writer has spilt his ink!’
Tobias scratched his head with the point of his gelato cone.
‘Think!’ snapped Boris. ‘You are the crime novelist. You must know all about bad men and why it is they do horrible things to harmless writers!’
‘Woof!’ Finnegan bounded across the piazza, dripping wet. Stopping in front of Tobias, he shook the water from his fur, then flopped to the ground. There, he gnawed at the strip of fabric from the priest’s pants.
Boris laughed. His gelato fell from its cone onto his boot.
Finnegan crawled forward, swallowed the gelato in two great gulps, then licked the boot clean.
‘Look how shiny Finnegan has made your shoe!’ Freja giggled, then stopped. She squealed and slapped her hand across her mouth. For the thing that had poked and prodded at the back of her mind for days had now marched boldly forth to the sound of a trumpeted fanfare.
‘I say, old chap.’ Tobias frowned. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Shoes!’ gasped Freja. ‘The clue is in the shoes!’
Boris and Nadia looked at one another, each raising a single eyebrow.
Freja turned to Tobias. ‘Remember the journal we read for our bedtime story — the one about disguises?’
‘Absolutely!’ said Tobias. ‘That poor American spy slipped up on one little detail with his disguise.’
‘Yes!’ shouted Freja. ‘The plastic water-spurting flower was all wrong.’
Tobias held out his hands in a silent question.
‘But this time,’ Freja explained, ‘it’s not about plastic flowers. The mistake is with the shoes. It’s all about the shoes!’ She grabbed Tobias’ knee. ‘Don’t you see, Tobby? THE PRIESTS HAVE BEEN WEARING THE WRONG SHOES!’
‘Aaaaah!’ said Boris, nodding. ‘The wrong shoes.’
‘Yes!’ cried Freja. ‘I was thinking of all the nuns and priests I’ve seen in Rome — Mother Superior with her scuffed boots; the cycling nuns wearing sandals and socks; the kind priest with the hole in his shoe; the sisters in Campo de’ Fiori who tossed their old boots in the bin and bought cheap sandshoes for five euros; and even now, look!’ She pointed at three priests who were clomping across Piazza di Spagna in long brown robes and khaki gumboots.
‘Farm priests,’ said Nadia. ‘They are from the countryside. Perhaps their gumboots are the only shoes they own.’
‘Exactly!’ shouted Freja. ‘Nuns and priests are poor. They don’t have money for fancy shoes. Sometimes they don’t have any money at all. But Padre Paolo — the priest who came into the bookstore — had shiny black shoes that looked like something a movie star would wear. I got all excited because I thought he was a rich man who would buy lots of Tobias’ books. But he wasn’t . . . and he didn’t . . .’ Her eyes boggled. ‘Padre Flavio, the priest in the Borghese Gardens, kicked Finnegan, so I noticed his shoe. It was pointy and shiny, made of fine leather. It was similar to the shoes worn by the man in the café this morning. You remember him, Tobby — the one who used too much hair oil. Those were expensive shoes. I’ve seen them in a shop window. Eight hundred euros!’ Freja jumped to her feet. ‘And now Padre Nico, the silly fat priest at the Trevi Fountain . . . well, he had shoes made of crocodile skin. Real crocodile skin!’
‘Aaah!’ said Nadia, nodding so that her fish earrings dangled back and forth. ‘Crocodile skin is very expensive, I think.’
‘Yes, yes,’ agreed Boris. ‘Shoes made of crocodile skin cost a lot of money. Hundreds and hundreds of euros a pair, I think.’
Tobias leapt to his feet. ‘By gum, you’re right, old chap!’ He tottered at the edge of the step, tugging at his ears. ‘Shoes. Yes, shoes,’ he muttered. ‘Priests who care too much about shoes . . .’
He fell silent.
The girl and the writer stared at each other.
‘I suspect,’ said Freja, talking slowly and precisely, ‘that the three nasty priests are not really priests at all.’
That evening, back in their apartment, Freja and Tobias sat on the sofa, sipping milk and nibbling on biscotti. Finnegan dozed by the fire, his nose wedged into an empty biscuit box.
‘The million-dollar question is this,’ said Tobias. ‘Why are the priests — who are not really priests at all — pretending to be priests? And why are they chasing after me?’
‘That’s two questions,’ said Freja.
‘So it is!’ cried Tobias. ‘Well then, I might as well throw in a third: How do they know what I am trying to do, when I don’t even know what it is myself?’
Freja scrunched her nose. Tobias scrunched his nose. They both bit down on their biscotti and stared at the ceiling.
Finally, Tobias said, ‘The thing is, old chap, you had better not go out alone any more.’
‘But it’s you they’re after. Not me.’
‘Yes . . . but now they’ve seen you and me together. They know you’re an important part of my life.’
Freja’s heart leapt at his words. An important part of Tobias’ life! How good it felt.
‘I’ll be okay,’ said Freja. ‘Finnegan will take care of me.’
They looked over at the dog, who was now chewing on the biscuit box in his sleep.
Freja smiled. ‘He’s probably dreaming about pizza.’
‘Well, that’s just the problem,’ said Tobias. ‘Finnegan is a marvellous dog and a faithful friend and would do anything in the world to keep you safe and sound . . . unless something edible gets in the way. Actually, it may even be a problem if something inedible gets in the way. Just look at the meal he made of the seat of that priest’s pants today! No, no, no. He’s just a puppy and can’t be depended upon.’
Freja slumped into the cushions.
‘You can still visit Nonna Rosa,’ explained Tobias, ‘as long as I walk you there and Nonna Rosa walks you home. And we’ll still have lots of outings. I thought we might go to the Vatican someday soon. Light a candle. Climb the stairs to the top of the dome. Say hello to the Pope.’
‘I’d like that,’ said Freja.
Tobias babbled, ‘We’ll just play it safe until we work out what’s what and who’s who and which way is up and why blue and green should never be seen unless a colour is in between!’
Freja giggled and spilt her milk in her lap.
‘That’s better now!’ cried Tobias. ‘A cackle and a swim in a puddle of milk and everything seems much brighter.’
But as he took their empty glasses to the kitchen, Freja noticed that he stopped to peer out the window.
And on his way back, he closed the shutters on both the window and the French doors.
And as Freja got ready for bed, he checked twice that the apartment door was locked and that the ancient bolt, which they had never used before, was pushed firmly into place.
CHAPTER 29
A tingling neck and jelly knees
The next morning, Tobias walked Freja and Finnegan to Trattoria Famiglia.
‘Here you go then, old chap.’ He squeezed Freja’s shoulder. ‘You’ll be as safe as houses here in Nonna Rosa’s kitchen, frolicking amongst the pots of pasta. No outings! I’ll be back to fetch you when I’ve done a spot of writing.’
Freja pushed open the door and crept inside.
‘Buongiorno, Freja!’ Enzo slammed a bottle down on the bar and beamed at her. His cheeks were round and rosy, and his eyes danced with delight. ‘Welcome! Welcome! So good to see you, my little friend. And look how beautiful you are. Like a building that is overgrown with ivy.’
Freja had worn green clothes today and decorated her hair with tendrils of ivy. She’d clipped them from the courtyard wall just that morning, so they were fresh and shiny and sprang about merrily amidst the curls of her hair.
The four old men turned around from the bar, stared for a moment, then broke into raucous greetings.
‘It’s the little golden-haired angel!’ cried Xaviero. ‘Buongiorno!’
‘Ciao, bella!’ sang Roberto. He blew a kiss from his knobbly hand to her cheek.
‘Hello and good morning, Freja. You are looking very green today.’
‘Ciao! Ciao!’
Freja clenched her fists, took a deep breath and waited for the panic to rise up inside.
But it didn’t.
Her cheeks burned a little, but before she knew what was happening, she found herself smiling and whispering, ‘Ciao ciao.’ She even blew a kiss back to Roberto. The old man caught it in his hand, pressed it to his cheek, closed his eyes and sighed.
Nonna Rosa crashed through the kitchen door, a lump of bread dough in her hand. ‘You noisy old goats!’ she yelled. ‘How can I plan my day’s menu when —’
Her eyes fell upon Freja and she stopped, her mouth still open for the next angry word. She squeezed the dough so it bulged between her fingers. ‘Ah, my beautiful girl. It does my heart good to see you standing up to these ugly old men and not letting them scare you away beneath the tables. I hope you are scolding them for their silly stories and lazy ways.’
Freja giggled.
‘Pah!’ scoffed Enzo. ‘She is an angel and would never say a cross word to anyone.’
‘You old fool!’ cried Nonna Rosa, slapping the lump of dough down on the bar. ‘Even an angel would be driven insane if she had to listen to you and your stupid old friends, day in, day out!’
Enzo swallowed a chuckle and pasted a mock frown on his face.
Nonna Rosa rolled her eyes, grabbed her dough and retreated to the kitchen. Freja followed, but Finnegan stayed with the old men. They had been drinking grappa and nibbling on bread. There were puddles to be slurped, crumbs to be licked.
Nonna Rosa and Freja worked together in companionable silence, kneading bread dough and shaping it into long, thin loaves. They were just beginning to roll large sheets of pasta for lasagne when Finnegan slunk into the kitchen and cowered under the bench.
‘Finnegan,’ soothed Freja. ‘What’s wrong?’
The dog whimpered and hid his head beneath Nonna Rosa’s apron. Nonna Rosa shrugged and continued to work her rolling pin back and forth.
Freja peered into the restaurant. ‘It’s Pazzo!’ she cried. ‘Giuseppe and Pazzo are here!’
Nonna Rosa threw her hands in the air. ‘Mamma mia! That is just what Nonna Rosa needs!’ She sighed. ‘Another silly old man at the bar to tell stories and a naughty monkey to eat all my walnuts and figs! Freja, be a dear. Go out and keep an eye on them.’
Freja nodded and slipped from the kitchen.
Pazzo was wearing a bread basket on his head and juggling walnuts. The old men rocked back and forth, laughing themselves stupid.
Freja crept closer. ‘Hello, Giuseppe.’
‘Ah, my dancing partner!’ Giuseppe wobbled forward on his stool and kissed her once on each cheek. A tendril of ivy dangled from Freja’s hair and tickled his nose. He sneezed loudly, wetly, three times.
Pazzo screeched in fright and dropped his walnuts. Seeing Freja, he scuttled along the bar, stood before her and patted her curls. ‘Oo-oo-oo,’ he murmured.
Giuseppe smiled. He tossed down the last of his drink, grabbed his hat and stood up. ‘Off to work I go. It is a slow day for organ grinders at this end of the city. Pazzo and I will drag our weary feet to the Colosseum and see if we can find some tourists with hearts full of love and pockets full of coins.’
‘Wait! Wait!’ cried Roberto, stumbling off his stool. ‘I will drive you in my truck. I must go and help my son who is working near the Colosseum.’
‘Grazie! Grazie!’ Giuseppe clicked his fingers. ‘Pazzo! Come!’
Pazzo screeched and leapt onto Freja’s shoulder.
‘Pazzo!’ grumbled Giuseppe. ‘It is love, I know. And Freja is a true beauty. But it is time to go. Come!’
Pazzo wrapped his arms around Freja’s head and buried his face in her wild curls and tendrils of ivy.
Giuseppe slumped his shoulders and sighed. ‘I am too old and too tired to be arguing with a monkey today!’
‘Perhaps,’ said Freja, ‘I could come too. I haven’t seen the Colosseum yet.’ To go would mean ignoring Tobias’ instructions to stay with Nonna Rosa. But she’d hardly be alone. Finnegan, Giuseppe and Pazzo would be right by her side. In fact, Pazzo might stay stuck to her head!
Giuseppe smiled and nodded. ‘You are always welcome, my friend! And Pazzo will be happy.’
The organ and its wagon were loaded onto the back of the tiny green three-wheeled truck. Freja and Pazzo followed. Finnegan squeezed into the cabin with Roberto and Giuseppe, casting anxious glances back at the monkey from time to time.
As Roberto’s truck chugged into the middle of the street, a red three-wheeled truck pulled out from an alley just half a block behind them. Freja watched as the red truck wobbled and bobbed along the rough cobblestone surface. It was a wonder that it stayed upright. She laughed and closed her eyes. The fresh winter air felt delicious blustering through her hair.
When Freja opened her eyes once more, the red truck was still following them. Roberto turned onto the main road and the red truck turned after them. Roberto sped up and zipped in and out of the traffic, and the red truck did the same.
Freja felt her throat tighten, her breath catch. ‘I’m just scared because of Roberto’s driving,’ she told herself as they flew around a corner at breakneck speed. ‘I’d forgotten how bad it is.’ But as the red three-wheeled truck flew around the same corner, her breath caught again.
They zoomed past bustling piazzas, monstrous monuments, marble arches and ancient Roman ruins and, still, the red truck followed.
‘Why didn’t I listen to Tobias?’ Freja scolded herself. But at that moment, the Colosseum loomed into sight, Roberto slammed his foot on the brakes and the red truck zoomed on by. Within moments, it had disappeared around a bend in the road.
‘Phew!’ Freja flopped forward, resting her forehead on the pipe organ. ‘Silly me. I’m as dotty as an otter, muddling real life with one of Tobias’ novels.’
The Girl, the Dog, and the Writer in Rome Page 17
