by Liz Newman
She pulled the drapes shut, yawning and tired. Her hands went to the buttons on her shirt as she undressed, running a warm bath in the tub. She sank into the water, breathing in the smell of the jasmine-scented bath oils. Her eyes closed, and she forced them open, not wanting to lose a moment to sleep. She could get dressed and explore her new home. Annabelle could make her a nice, strong shot of espresso. Wrapping herself in a robe, she lay down on the bed, planning on resting her eyes for just a moment.
A door opened and slammed, the sound reverberating up to her room, and she awoke with a start. The darkened room closed in. She groped about for a light switch, finding nothing. She found the edges of the drapes and pulled them apart. The moonlit sky shone in from the balcony, and as her eyes adjusted, she gazed at the soft light cast on the regal furnishings. She peered out at one of the stone cottages. A faint light burned from within from a small window.
She removed the vestiges of her make-up with a face wipe and changed into a pair of white linen pajamas, sinking once again down into the soft coverlet. Her stomach growled insistently. She ignored it, trying to return to the bliss of sweet slumber. Her stomach gnawed and felt as if it chewed on itself. She crept down to the first floor, her hands running over the walls, trying to find a light switch, to no avail.
Every old house has its ghosts, her unwelcome thoughts echoed. Ghosts of the past, of the people who lived the greater parts of their lives within these walls. Death. This house was plagued by untimely death. Signora Luciana’s father dying on the floor, his daughter heartlessly watching him writhe in the grip of death. Isabella Luciana and her firstborn son in a plane crash. The woman in the picture. In your room. Is she dead too? Skye shuddered, as if a specter’s long, bony fingers grazed her shoulders. She wrapped her arms around her body as chills went down her spine. Why do I think about these things? International call to Dr. Carter. It’s Skye. Am I crazy? It’s a simple yes or no. To which he will answer, ‘do you think you’re crazy?’ I’ll say yes, and he’ll say, ‘you’re still grasping.’ I pay him three hundred and fifty dollars an hour to answer my own questions.
A clock chimed next to her and she jumped. “Annabelle,” she half-called, half-shrieked. Silence answered her, and she presumed Annabelle slept quite soundly at three thirty in the morning, Roman time. After traversing through dark halls and winding staircases with the meager light of the moon shining in through an occasional window, she found the kitchen and a tiered basket of bread. She gnawed on a stale piece of ciabatta.
A phone hung from the kitchen wall, below a row of decorative called Kleinstiver. His voicemail answered. She hung up. Skye assumed he was deliberately ignoring her calls.
She called back. His voicemail picked up. She opened the refrigerator, finding a whole skinned cow torso and nothing else. She slammed the door of the refrigerator in disgust. “I’m starving here,” she said at the beep. “No packaged snacks. No microwave. This place is creepy, and not only because of the food. Or lack of it. You can’t leave me here to die for two weeks. Call me back. I have some ideas about the show. By the way, there’s a dead body in the fridge. Call me.” She hung up the phone, leaned on the granite countertop, and her eyes roved from side to side in the dead of night, listening to the silence. “Gibbs?” she asked in the darkness. “Gibbs? Since I’m damned near crazy I might as well try everyone. Dad?” The silence maintained its secrecy. The darkness confirmed her solace in this strange place, and her spirit felt as empty as the ghosts who shared the room with her.
Chapter Eighteen
Skye awoke in her guest room at midday. The afternoon sun peeked through the slit in the curtains. She opened the double doors and windows of the balcony and felt the sweetness of the Roman air, sultry on her face. She turned her face from side to side, bathing in the warmth and the wonderful smells of eucalyptus from the gardens.
She sifted through the clothes hanging in the armoire, disregarding cotton shirts, silk tanks, and jeans. Dress to the nines, she mused to herself. Do as the Romans do.
She settled on an ensemble consisting of a hip-length, aubergine jacket with a myriad patterned trim on the collar and sleeves, wide legged pants, and jeweled heels. Stuffing a city map, a tube of lip balm, a credit card, and seven one hundred dollar bills of Euro into a Ferragamo wristlet, she left the villa in a hired jalopy and headed toward the city.
She leaned closer to the driver. “Do you speak English?”
“You think I drive a cab in Roma if I do?” he snapped.
“Uh, yeah,” she replied, her voice thick with sarcasm. “Where’s the best place for lunch downtown?”
He brightened and turned toward her, his smile wide with pointy teeth like a shark’s. “Good meal at my cousin’s restaurant. Best seafood outside Venezia. You will love it. Tell your friends, okay?”
Down the Via de Corso she walked, admiring the fashionably dressed socialites sharing the sidewalk with nuns and beggars. The store windows beckoned to her, although she had no intention of shopping that day. She stared at the eclectic window dressings, brightly colored leather jackets, and pants so tight they looked painted on even as they adorned a mannequin. She gazed at the carvings on the Trevi Fountain, the fish spouting water, their scales meticulously carved onto their bodies, and statues of men and women whose ancient status granted their lifeless eyes windows into their admirers’ souls. Passersby flicked coins into the fountain, laughing whimsically as their coins splashed into the water and rippled beneath the surface. Skye took a quarter from her pocket, and made awish.
A woman stood next to Skye, her newborn baby swaddled in a blanket. The woman sang to her child, a lovely, lilting tune in Italian. Skye closed her eyes and thought, I wish…I wish…I wish. A vision of her late father’s friend Millie, seated across from her in her father’s study, popped to mind. She remembered Millie’s smooth hands as they covered hers, when she had told her about the undelivered letters Skye opened her eyes and sighed, the sound of the cascading water of the fountain pulling her mercifully out of her reverie. She grasped the coin and opened her wristlet, placing the money inside.
The crowd around her was jostled by the force of a crowd of a dozen rowdy, begging children; the woman with the baby cried out. Skye witnessed the baby flying high up into the air over her head. Skye screamed, as the baby’s mother did, and reached up to catch the falling child. One of the tiny beggars ripped her wristlet purse away, and the mother’s retreated swiftly into the crowd. The baby fell to the ground as Skye gripped its wrist, finding the feel of its skin alien and unfamiliar. She unwrapped the dirty cloth swaddling the baby and found a dirty, broken doll with a missing eye. Placing the doll at the base of the fountain, she ran after the child who stole her purse. He dodged in and out of the crowd, looking behind him at Skye with fear in his eyes. Pursuing him doggedly for several city blocks, blood coursed through her veins as adrenaline shot into every working muscle. She pushed through elderly tourists and men in suits, knocking a bag of groceries crowned with a loaf of bread out of someone’s hand as they shouted obscenities in Italian at her back. “Sorry,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll pay for that! Soon as I steal back my own wallet,” she grumbled.
The boy thief looked over his shoulder again as he dashed across the street. “Get back here!” Skye shouted, enraged. His feet flew behind him, the dirty soles of his sneakers almost within her reach. She stumbled and felt a sharp pain in her foot. Grasping the front of her shoe, she massaged a mincemeat middle toe through her shoe. The boy looked back at her and smiled with triumph. Then he tripped over the curb and fell.
She hobbled quickly toward him, grabbing him by the nape of his neck, dragging him onto the sidewalk, and yanking back her wristlet. “Don’t steal! Don’t steal! It’s wrong!” she rebuked. Wielding the wristlet by its strap, she lightly slapped it onto the back of his neck as he drew up his hands to protect himself. “You understand? If you need something, ask for it! Or get out and earn like the rest of the free world!” She held him b
y his shirt collar as he wiggled around. She pushed him down onto the cement face up and placed her high heeled shoe on his midsection. He remained in a heap on the ground staring at her, too stunned to speak.
She wrapped her wristlet back on, adjusting it tighter this time, and removed her foot from his stomach. She leaned forward, resting her hands on her knees and panting. “What’s your name, kid? Speak English?” He stayed sullen, his brown eyes glaring at her through unkempt, dirty bangs. She slapped him upside the head gently with her open palm.
“Roberto Gusanti,” he answered.
“Why do you steal? Answer me!”
“We are hungry. Me and my family.”
Skye withdrew all her Euros from her bag. His eyes widened at the denominations of the rolled bills. She removed her cell phone from the wristlet. “Dial your home phone number.”
Obediently, he punched the numbers into the phone. Skye brought the phone to her ear. A woman picked up the call, attempting to silence a multitude of screaming children with sharp words.
“I’ve got Roberto here,” Skye said.
“Roberto!” the woman shrieked. “Ay, mi Roberto! Ay dio mio, dio mio!” The woman sobbed, her heaving breath creating an enormous amount of noise through the phone.
“He’s…venendo…a casa. Do you speak any English?” Skye asked.
The woman on the other line shrieked and sobbed.
“He’s going to change…intendendo cambiare…”
“Il mio bambino. Per favore aiutarmi. Qualcuno!” The woman howled with what sounded like a dozen children howling along with her.
“He’s coming home, for Christ’s sake!” Skye yelled into the phone and hung up. “Where do you live, kid?”
“Via Emmanuelle. Apartamento cince,” he responded. She grabbed his hand and stuffed a thick wad of bills into it, doing her best to curl his small fingers around it.
“Listen to me,” she said. “This should be enough to buy you and your family new clothes and food for a long time. I don’t want to see you again while I’m visiting, you understand?”
Roberto Gusanti nodded. The golden sheen of his skin peeked through the patches of dirt on his face. She stood up, her back cracking.
“Miss?” he said.
“What?”
“Ringraziala. I spend it well.”
“I’m sure you will. If I see you out here again, we’re going to have big problems. Tell your mama if she can answer a phone she can get a job. If you’re half as good at keeping an eye on people as you are at stealing, you can watch your brothers and sisters while she’s at work.”
“Si. Capisco.” Roberto made his way into the crowd, rubbing the back of his neck. The sea of people glistening in the late afternoon sun swallowed his downtrodden figure.
Skye search for the restaurant suggested by the cab driver. She came to a café with glass walls and an outdoor seating area overlooking the Piazza del Popolo. Sipping a cappuccino at a dining table on the patio, she propped her head on her hands, enjoying the colorful umbrellas emblazoned with the Cinzano logo and trying to decipher the articles in an Italian newspaper before her. Occasionally, she looked up and caught the gaze of an interested man. She looked quickly away,. She sipped a malty, bubbly Peroni, and watched tourists pose in front of the Santa Maria dei Miracoli churches and a large fountain swarming with pigeons. Her waiter arrived, setting her plate in a grand fashion. A fat roasted mackerel stared up at her, its body wrapped in a slice of undercooked fatty pancetta bacon and drowned in a pool of olive oil. Beside the fish lay a sprig of parsley and an unidentifiable root vegetable. She picked at the fish, leaving most of its pathetic carcass on the plate, the rest untouched.
“Kleinstiver,” she said into her cell phone after his voicemail picked up. “My first dining experience here is a tourist trap. Call me right away. I need to go over some specifics about the new show. I’m not having such a good time I can’t talk. Quite the contrary. Call me as soon as possible.”
After she paid the check, she rose and her feet hurt. Sinking back into the chair, she removed her heels and surveyed them. Her chafed toes and heels ached. She shoved them into her shoes. Skye hobbled along the curve as she attempted to wave down a taxi cab. Church bells tolled six o’clock. Dinner time in Rome rang out with the clinking of silverware and laughter of tourists. Passengers filled the passing cabs, staring in wonder at the buildings and statues around them. A chestnut vendor across the street stood by an iron roaster, speaking broken English to a passing couple. Skye limped over to him.
“Scusi,” said Skye. She took off her heels, propped her ankle on her other knee, and massaged her aching toes,. “How can I get around this city without making my feet into salsiccia?”
The vendor laughed, exposing a cavern of several missing teeth. He pointed a finger toward the end of the street. “Bienvenuto, Americana. Turna di corner there, and rent il moped, si? Il Vespa. Very popular with the tourists.” She bid him farewell and heard air whistling through the gaps in his teeth as she hobbled away.
On the way to the moped rental, she wandered into the Basilica di San Pietro. The church felt cold, its marble floors echoing with footsteps. The magnificent dome, designed by Michelangelo, glowed with angels and cherubs in mid-flight overhead. The fonts, walls, and windows looked as if they had been fashioned for a congregation of giants, and Skye felt small as she sat in a pew and stared at an empty bronze throne, flanked by a large statue of the Virgin Mary.
Folding her hands on her lap, she waited for feelings of peace to come to her. Her hands felt cold and damp, as her fingers wrung into each other. Her mind flooded with thoughts about Kleinstiver, the new show, and Gibbs. I’m sorry I killed you. God, please let him know I’m truly sorry. She closed her eyes and wished the ghost of Gibbs would visit her now, simply so he could free her of her guilt, and she could assure herself with certainty that she kept a grip on her sanity. She laughed at the ironic thought. Her mind felt thin and wiry, like a strand of over-processed hair, stretched and ready to snap. She closed her eyes and took deep breaths, trying desperately to flush out the negative thoughts welling inside her brain. A vagrant slept in a pew across from hers, yet another reminder of her new calling, surrounded by curious onlookers but destined to remain filthy and alone. An edifice that remained an imposing symbol of power and the promise of functional necessity, much like Teleworld Network Broadcasting Corporation.
She stared at the at the stained-glass window portraying Jesus hanging on the cross, angels floating around him. Perhaps a ray of light through the glass, or even an unusual flicker of the candles on the altar might rekindle a long gone belief in a higher power. Jesus’ brown eyes pierced hers. Know what I have to say, Skye? the crucified Jesus spoke. No comment. The church seemed cold. Skye leaned forward, softly bumping her head against the back of a pew several times. She rose from the pew and limped to the moped rental store.
“Kleinstiver,” she said into her phone as she crossed the Piazza de Rovere. “I’d really like to speak to you today. We need to touch base.” She hung up and less than a half an hour later, she wrapped her hands around the textured rubber grips of a rented Vespa.
She gunned the engine and sped down the Via della Lungara as she cornered turns and passed other riders in her wake. She pushed down on the gas and rode the Vespa like a wild horse, clipping a couple’s heels as they momentarily stepped down from the sidewalk onto the street to avoid a thick crowd of people. She smiled into the wind as the breeze picked up the dust from the side roads, sending it into tiny vortexes at her feet. A trailer parked in the middle of the lane blocked her path. Twisting on the hand brake, she weaved around it and stopped at the curb.
A honeymooning couple glanced at her, turning back to each other and giggling. He spooned chocolate ganache into his newlywed’s mouth, her cupid’s bow twisting upward as she licked chocolate off her upper lip. Skye’s mouth curled into a sneer. She lifted off her helmet and adjusted it. If you were on television you’d never eat that, Skye
thought as she looked at the new bride. Unless you were on as a guest spot for Porky Pig. The bride’s happiness remained impenetrable to Skye’s thoughts. She gazed at her husband, who gazed back at her with adoration. They leaned forward and kissed each other, soft and slow, and his finger caressed her cheek as he pulled away.
A moan of agony escaped Skye’s lips. The couple turned and frowned at her. Skye slapped her helmet back on her head and slammed on the gas, her moped wobbling back into traffic; oncoming cars honked as she cut off their path. She sped through the city streets, flying over the glittering black pavement as her sweater flew behind her like a cape. The air smelled of fried food, car exhaust, and simmering heat on stone. She turned a corner sharply and knocked over a wooden wheelbarrow filled with melons. The shopkeeper threw down his hat and yelled profanities. She weaved around the rolling melons that followed her down the street, throwing back her head and laughing wickedly.
Recklessly flying by a tinkling marble fountain, the renegade moped sent dozens of pecking pigeons into the air, blocking the lens of a photographer taking a picture of a group of uniformed, smiling schoolchildren. The children screamed and scattered in the same manner as the birds. You’re driving like a jerk, a calm rational voice spoke inside of her. Get control before you hurt someone. She pushed the voice down, and turned down the streets leading to Villa Pastiere.
The bike screeched to a stop in front of the gate and the long, sloping path to the villa. Skye revved the bike as she surveyed the slope. Above her bowed a trellis of curving grapevines, weighed down by plump, juicy purple orbs. Groves of waving cypress, olive, and fruit trees flanked the curving driveway. Brick columns stood about four hundred feet away, crowned by alabaster urns, and at the end of the sloping driveway trickled a gorgeous fountain, the centerpiece of the front courtyard. The villa crowned the hill, the front gardens, and the rolling hills beyond, spotted with mature trees. The lowest edge of the slope remained invisible from the front gate. There, a small sedan was parked at the side of the road, in the evening shade of a looming Italian oak tree.
