The Apartment in Rome

by Penny Feeny

  Hovering at the fringe Sasha noticed a boy who was not as cool and self-assured as the rest. Red-faced from the heat, he was trying to keep under the protection of the bar awning. He had freckles too, but he was ginger. At least she’d been spared ginger. Once they set off again, she kept her distance from him, striding up the Spanish Steps alongside Renate and Ilse, her flip-flops flailing against the soles of her feet.

  They reached the park and headed for the nearest fountain. It wasn’t easy to find somewhere to set up camp. The grass, green at a distance, was coarse and sparse close up, the ground hard and dry. But there was shade beneath the trees and the muted hum of summer: children, birds, bicycle bells, even the clop of horses drawing carriages full of tourists.

  They passed around the food in its cellophane packaging and unscrewed bottles of warm rosé. Renate scratched her tanned thigh, crossed one ankle over the other. She took a swig from the bottle and passed it to Sasha, saying, ‘Tonight we go out, yes? To dance in a club? In Testaccio there are many, very funky.’

  ‘D’you need ID to get in?’

  The German girls shook their heads, surprised. No one had ever asked them for it. There was no age limit for drinking in Italy. ‘Also, you are a girl. You need only to wear make-up.’

  At home Sasha had struggled to get into clubs. No one was fooled by her fake ID. Ruby, who could talk her way in anywhere, had once said sharply that she needed to grow out of her ‘My Little Pony’ stage – though Sasha didn’t see why a love of horses should be a handicap. She’d hoped that spending time in a city as glamorous as Rome would result in being scattered with magic dust: instant suntan, blonde streaks in her hair, a miraculously narrow waist, an elegant way of walking. Like the photographer who’d come to see Antonio yesterday, whose movements were as fluid as a dancer’s.

  ‘Sure, that’d be boss. I’d love to come.’

  Drinking wine in the early afternoon made Sasha giddy; it also made her slow to grasp when the picnicking was over and the gang was breaking up. Ilse and Renate collected up the torn paper, empties and bottle tops. ‘We are not like the Italians,’ sniffed Renate, pinching an empty cigarette packet between her fingers and dropping it into a plastic bag. But once they’d disposed of all the debris, stepping over the low curved railings to dump it in the bin by the path, they didn’t come back for Sasha. They waved and called ‘See you later,’ and ambled off with their arms around each other’s waists. The American boys formed a phalanx that gravitated in unison towards the wide boulevard. Sasha felt a painful prick in her calf and by the time she’d finished brushing off the sharp pine needles, the only member of the group remaining was the ginger boy, Bruton.

  ‘Whatever kind of a name is that?’ she said. ‘D’you get called Brute?’

  He was unfazed. ‘It’s after my great-grandfather. I’m Scottish, you see.’

  ‘Scottish-American?’

  ‘Yeah. Anyway, Sasha’s weird too.’

  ‘Not to me it isn’t.’ At least it wasn’t the kind of name you’d give an ugly dog. ‘You can call me Sash if you like,’ she said grudgingly. ‘Most people do.’

  As she rose to go, Bruton jumped up alongside her like a puppy. ‘What’re you doing now?’

  She knew she was pickled by the heat and the alcohol, pink and slushy like a pear stewed in red wine. She planted her feet further apart so she wouldn’t sway.

  ‘Have you been to the Galleria Borghese?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I heard you have to book a ticket in advance and then you have to queue. Mental.’

  ‘That’s what you do for most places. Like, the Vatican’s two hours or more.’

  ‘Are you into art or something?’ said Sasha.

  He was studious-looking. Swotty. Nerdy. Not an outdoor type. ‘I’ve travelled 4000 miles. You get this far, you don’t know when you might come back to Europe, so you have to do the stuff. If I can tell my folks I’ve seen the Sistine Chapel, they might not ask what else we got up to, you know what I mean?’

  Shit, thought Sasha who hadn’t got up to anything. What was she missing out on? ‘I like ruins better than art galleries anyhow.’

  ‘You’ve done the Forum?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She had explored the Forum during a class she’d skipped. It had been strange wandering through the tumbled masonry by herself. Sometimes, in the street, boys on scooters had whistled and made overtures she ignored, but among the ancient temples and ruined palaces she was as inconsequential as the lizards that ran to hide in the cracks. No one was interested in her. Not that Bruton’s interest was what she wanted either. People might see them together and assume they were a couple. It bothered her that the others had left the pair of them behind like the runts of a litter, easily discarded.

  She didn’t seem to be able to shake him off. For a nerd, he was actually quite arrogant, strolling through the park with his hands in his pockets, giving her the history of the Borghese family like he’d been descended from them himself instead of from some displaced crofter in the Scottish Highlands.

  ‘I have to get back to the apartment to change,’ she said, ‘if I’m coming out again later.’

  ‘That’s hours away.’

  ‘Yeah, but I need to get my act together too. You saw what a mess I made of stuff in class.’

  The park stretched around them: drifts of lawn and parched flower beds in a web of dusty boulevards; tall chestnuts and limes shielding glimpses of palatial villas. To their right was a sign for the zoo.

  ‘Hey, cool!’ said Bruton. ‘Let’s go in.’

  Sasha explained at some length that she didn’t approve of zoos. The entire concept was horrific as far as she was concerned: animals should not be kept in captivity.

  He interrupted her passionate defence of animal rights to say, ‘Are you vegetarian then?’

  ‘Duh! You can’t be vegetarian if you live in the country.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well there’d hardly be any countryside if you didn’t have farms. And farmers keep livestock… It isn’t about what you eat anyhow. It’s about how you treat living creatures. It’s about respect.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Bruton with a patronising nod, as if she were a temperamental mare to be calmed down.

  Sasha resolved to lose him at the first opportunity. His nasal whine was getting on her nerves. Emerging from the exit beyond the zoo she tried to get her bearings. In the distance a bus turned a corner and she thought she recognised the number. ‘That’s mine,’ she said, and then, feeling she could afford to be generous, ‘I’ve missed it, obviously. D’you want to wait for the next one with me?’

  She wasn’t concentrating, that was the problem. Her head was woozy from the rosé and the sudden urgent need to take a siesta. She had a blister between her toes where her flip-flop had rubbed, and needed a plaster. So when another bus pulled up, she hopped aboard. ‘See you later, okay?’ she said. She didn’t want to fall out with someone who was offering himself as an ally, however low in the pecking order, and he was an improvement on Antonio. ‘When we meet up with the others, yeah?’

  Bruton frowned and began to say something, but she couldn’t hear him above the engine and wasn’t sure she wanted to listen. She slipped into a seat by the window and waved through the glass, miming that she would call him. With relief, she shed her flip-flop and examined her blister.

  Initially she didn’t pay much regard to the bus route. It trundled along the quieter fringes of the park before joining a noisy thoroughfare. Then she noticed it was approaching the Lungotevere and crossing the river. This should not be happening. The journey to the Bolettis passed through broad, tree-lined avenues, no water involved. Either this was the right bus going in the wrong direction or she’d misread the number completely. She’d have to get off.

  She alighted as soon as she could, in an unfamiliar piazza hedged with orange barricades, behind which workmen were re-laying stone setts. The obvious thing to do was retrace her journey, but bus routes varied according to the one-way system a
nd although she limped from one stop to the next she couldn’t find a recognisable number or destination. This wouldn’t happen to her father. He had a whole bloody crew with him when he travelled. She toyed with her phone and the idea of ringing him. She could leave a message on his voicemail: Come down off your cloud and rescue me! I want to go home! No, that was stupid. She did not want to go home. She wanted to go clubbing with Ilse and Renate and meet a handsome, brown-eyed Italian. All she really needed was someone to tell her where she was.

  She was using a new Italian sim card and had very few contacts on it. Clicking down the list from ‘Dad’ to ‘Ilse’, Gina’s name leapt out at her. Here was someone who’d lived in Rome for decades. She was bound to know her way around.

  Gina answered at the third ring. ‘Pronto.’

  ‘Hi, it’s Sasha here. Sasha Mitchell.’ A long pause. Sasha wondered if she was out of reception or battery. ‘Hello? Gina?’

  ‘Who did you say?’

  ‘Sasha. We met yesterday. I’m the English girl, at Antonio’s house, remember? And you said I should call you if I ever needed…’ At this point her voice wobbled.

  ‘Are you in some sort of trouble?’ said Gina.

  ‘I’m lost.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Lost where?’

  ‘I don’t know! I was trying to get back to Parioli but I took the bus in the wrong direction and it’s gone across one of the bridges to the other side of the river and I’ve got this awful blister so it hurts to walk and – ’

  ‘Have you got any money?’

  Sasha opened her purse. ‘Not very much.’

  ‘Why don’t you ring the Bolettis and ask them to fetch you?’

  ‘They’ll be at work. I don’t have to be fetched like a parcel or anything. I just want to know how to get back and I thought you might be able to tell me.’

  ‘Well, only if I know where you are! What’s the name of the street?’

  She craned her neck and shaded her eyes. ‘Piazza Cavour, only they’re digging it up and…’

  ‘Oh, you’re not so far from me. I live this side of the river, in Trastevere. That’s what it means: across the Tiber.’

  The words burst out unexpectedly: ‘Can I come and see you?’

  ‘What? Now?’

  She didn’t want to go back to the Boletti apartment. There was nothing to do there except talk to the maid or check in online with friends at home whose activities were currently irrelevant to her; she and Antonio were no company for each other at all. ‘Are you very busy?’ she asked.

  After another pause Gina came to a decision. ‘I’m finishing something off but it’s okay, I’ll send Super Mario for you.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘My taxi driver.’

  ‘You mean, like a chauffeur?’

  Gina laughed. ‘Well he doesn’t only work for me, but he’s very obliging. Not true of all cab drivers I can tell you. I’ll text you the number of his cab so you can look out for him.’

  ‘I haven’t got the money to pay for a taxi.’

  ‘Don’t worry. He’ll put it on my account and I’ll take some extra photos of his grand-daughter. In this city, favours have always been bartered. It suits the way people operate.’

  Fifteen minutes later Mario drew up beside her with a flourish, a gold tooth glinting in his smile, a Madonna dangling in front of his mirror. Tucked behind his sun visor he also kept a photo of the baby grand-daughter. Once Sasha was settled, he took both hands off the wheel to release it for her to admire. As she accepted it, the Fiat jolted over a set of tram tracks and she skidded across the back seat.

  ‘Attento!’ he cried. ‘La mia preziosa!’

  He was talking about the photo, she realised, and she passed it back with murmurs of ‘Bellissima’ – a word she over-used, but it never gave offence. In any case, the picture was lovely. Gina had captured the child’s angelic quality, and a hint of devilment too.

  ‘You’ve known Gina long?’ she said.

  ‘Ah, si.’ He nodded vehemently. ‘Però, una donna sfortunata.’

  ‘Oh…’ She assumed he would explain and hoped she’d understand it, but there wasn’t time. He shot through a red light, steered round two corners and braked inches from the pavement.

  4

  Sasha hadn’t yet got used to the dilapidated appearance of the city: the way you’d stumble across a heap of fallen columns or a rail protecting a ditch of ancient foundations, the way cars raced around the crumbling Colosseum, and the way buildings were so often daubed with graffiti or missing chunks of plaster. However, the block Mario had driven her to was worse than most. The rendering was mottled and discoloured and layers of varnish flaked from the heavy front door. The names written beneath strips of plastic alongside each bell-push were faint with mildew, almost unreadable.

  ‘La più alta,’ called Mario, pointing to the top button as he reversed at speed down the narrow street.

  A buzzing released the lock and admitted Sasha to a dim hallway with a cold stone floor. She took off her flip-flops with relief and sniffed a distinct odour of mould. Usually she liked warm animal scents, dense fur or a rich musky hide, but whatever she could smell here was more like something dead and quietly rotting. She was glad to reach the natural light of the landing at the top of four flights of stairs and find the door to the apartment had been left ajar.

  She entered a vestibule full of flowers: so many bouquets were on the console Gina might have been preparing for a christening – or a funeral. The vases were crowded haphazardly together, as if they were a nuisance, quite unlike the elegant architectural displays regularly refreshed around the Boletti apartment. Puzzled that Gina hadn’t come out to meet her, she pushed through another doorway.

  The walls of this room were filled with pictures, many of them framed photographs, including some of a younger Gina, emphasising the sculptural qualities of her jaw and cheekbone, her elongated neck and legs. There were also several modern paintings: abstract compositions, daubs of colour, arrangements of line and shape – the sort you’d need a whole other language to understand – and an assortment of sculptures. A bronze egg stood on a plinth and a hemisphere of beaten zinc on a bookcase. An assembly of metal rods and cogs was positioned on a blanket box to the left of the French windows. A matching chest on the right had its lid raised like an open coffin, its contents, mostly fabrics, spilling out.

  Another sculpture hovered near the chest, a life-size statue of a Roman emperor draped in a white toga and crowned with a laurel wreath sprayed silver. But it wasn’t carved from marble. Although its hands and face were chalk white, its eyes were dark and disturbed. They wheeled first towards Sasha and then to the far corner of the room, and were followed by an urgent jabbering that didn’t sound Italian.

  Sasha turned. Set into a recess was a row of kitchen appliances: fridge, stove, sink and washing machine. Beside them stood a young man, holding a steaming cup and regarding her with horror. Unlike the friend who’d been dressing up as Julius Caesar, this figure – slim and swarthy, with a ripple of dark hair flowing past his navel to the slack swing of his genitals – was completely naked. With his free hand he scooped a tea towel from a hook and tried to wrap it around his haunches.

  Sasha was too surprised and fascinated to do anything other than watch the progress of the tea towel. She’d have preferred to appear worldly and unconcerned, but in truth her knowledge of boys was far from extensive and she had to rely on Ruby for information and useful tips.

  The young man sidled out of sight. The emperor called, ‘Gina!’ and Sasha began to speculate on Gina’s role – what activity she might have disturbed and whether this was the reason she’d sounded peculiar on the phone. She was confused, too, when Gina appeared, by the fact that the woman looked so different. Yesterday her hair had been smoothly caught back, her lipstick had been bright, her dress chic and figure-skimming. Today her clothes were loose and shabby – a creased top and a pair of leggings that she’d pulled on in a hurry – and her hair was a to
usled bush.

  Sasha had once stumbled across a couple having sex in the stock cupboard at the back of the school art room. The boy, energetically pumping with his trousers round his ankles, hadn’t noticed her. The girl from the year above had flicked a middle finger insolently in Sasha’s direction. That had been mortifying; this was almost as bad.

  ‘So Mario got you here in one piece,’ Gina said, seizing a handful of hair and twisting it into a knot on top of her head.

  ‘Yes. Thanks.’

  ‘What did you want to see me about?’

  ‘Well… I…’ She didn’t know the answer to that. She should have asked Mario to take her back to the Bolettis. She’d probably have been able to find the money to pay him and it would have been worth it to save all this embarrassment. ‘You said you lived nearby… I don’t know this side of the river and, um… I did ask if you were busy.’

  ‘Busy? Yeah…’ Gina peered at her. ‘God, you look parched. D’you want a drink? Yusef’s just made some green tea. Or – ’

  ‘Have you got a Coke?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ She opened the fridge and withdrew a bottle of mineral water. ‘This is better for you anyhow.’ She poured a glass and handed it to Sasha.

  The liquid and its bubbles revived her. ‘And if you had a plaster for my blister, that’d be so great.’

  ‘You’d better wash your feet first,’ said Gina, ‘when Yusef’s finished in the shower. Sit down while you’re waiting, for goodness’ sake. This isn’t a cocktail party.’ Then she noticed the living statue. ‘Oh God, Sami, are you still here?’

  Sheepishly the emperor readjusted his coronet.

  ‘Sami does his stuff in Piazza Navona. But I help him with his make-up. Not bad is he?’

  ‘Could you help me with mine?’ said Sasha, perching on the arm of a chair.

  ‘What? Well…’ Gina came closer. She tipped up Sasha’s chin, then stroked her skin as if assessing its softness. ‘The whole hog?’