“I hope you will have a pleasant stay in Roma,” Antonio said, and she thanked him distractedly, for the train was very close now. The other passengers all busied themselves hoisting up their bags, bidding farewells to their friends or families. She reached out for her own bag, which had a wide strap that Antonio helped her to settle onto her shoulder. Then, as the noise grew deafening and the passing cars ground to a halt before the platform, Antonio shouted to her one last, amazing bit of information. “If you want to see Caterina Bultman,” he said, “you will find her in Roma.” The doors snapped open and the exiting passengers struggled against the crush of those getting on. Lucy was swallowed up in the turmoil, pushed first one way, then another. “What?” she shouted back at Antonio. “What did you say?”
“In Via Margutta,” he called out. “You will find her there.”
“Via Margutta,” Lucy said. But of course he could not hear her and she could no longer see him, for the crowd obscured her view, the doors had closed, and the train was already pulling away.
Chapter 14
SOME SAY HE IS putting his sword away, others that he is drawing it out.”
They were standing on the Ponte Vittorio Emanuele, looking up at the forbidding crenellated walls of the Castel Sant’ Angelo, which rises like a pale dune above the dark pines of the small park on its grounds. Massimo was referring to the presumed intention of the angel perched at the top, his wings extended, one hand raised before him, holding a downward-pointing sword, the other relaxed around the sheath at his hips. His head was bowed, yet even from this distance Lucy could make out the serene otherworldly smile, so unsuited to the drama of his pose. “He’s putting it away,” she said. “That’s what the bishop saw. An angel sheathing his sword, and he knew the plague was over.”
“Ah,” Massimo said. “You know everything.”
“I read it in an art book,” she admitted. “Long ago. Maybe it wasn’t a bishop. Maybe it was a cardinal. I’m not sure.”
Above the castle, the intense blue of the sky deepened, the thin clouds shifted from light to steely gray, and the Tiber, which flowed sluggishly between the trash-strewn, dry, cracked dirt and patchy grass of its banks, took on a glistening sheen like oil. Massimo pointed to the platform opening out around the angel. “That is where Tosca jumped to her death.”
“Yes,” Lucy said. “Can we go up there?”
“It is possible to go. The view is very fine. But unfortunately, now it is closed.”
Lucy laughed. It was already a joke; Rome, unfortunately, was closed. They had passed the morning in the uncomfortable bed at her hotel and by the time they’d gotten dressed and out on the street, it was afternoon and everything was closing for the pausa. They had walked through the narrow streets near the Pantheon, across the tourist hubbub of the Piazza Navona, along the quieter Via dei Coronari, where the antique dealers were busy pulling down the metal shades of their cluttered, fabulous shops, to the river. Lucy turned away from the castle and looked across the roaring fury of the bridge traffic to the other side. In the distance she could see the dome of St. Peter’s and before it a more classical building—it looked like a Greek temple—set back among low trees near the riverbank. A tourist couple approaching stopped to snap each other’s picture with the dome as a backdrop. Massimo took Lucy’s arm and turned her back the way they had come. “We will have lunch near here,” he said.
She leaned against his arm. Antonio Cini had been right: The uneven stones of the streets were torture for her. She picked her way among them carefully, but it was impossible to make much progress without putting constant stress on her ankle. She had not brought the walking stick. Massimo had noticed it at once and seemed annoyed by it; she wasn’t sure why. Was it because Antonio had offered it or because she had accepted it? Was he jealous, or had she somehow offended his sense of propriety? Perhaps he simply did not wish to be seen with a woman so clearly disabled. Though he seldom disguised his displeasure, he was never willing to discuss it, or even to own up to it. If she had said, What exactly is it about my having this useful stick that bothers you? he would have told her she was imagining things, that he was not in the least bothered. She thought about this as they walked along the Lungotevere while the cars and motor scooters roared around them and a seagull swooped down toward the deceptive calm of the river. She knew a few things about him now, though the principal thing she knew was that he was closed to her.
Everything was different here, in his city, where his real life was liable to pop up at any moment to claim him. She had known some adjustment would be inevitable, and the moment he had entered the cramped hotel room with its too-big furniture and too-busy wallpaper, she had felt the need of it, but she was overcome with timidity and pretended nothing was amiss. She chattered about the train trip and the wild taxi ride from the station through the racket and beauty of the ancient city, how immense and yet livable it was, for there were no tall buildings to intimidate the pedestrian, and how magical and marvelous it appeared in the crisp autumn light, especially when they went careening through the old streets near the Pantheon, where her hotel was tucked away. He listened patiently, but he was not much interested. His phone started shrieking and he yanked it from his jacket pocket impatiently. “Pronto,” he said, and then, for what seemed a long time, he stood before her, his head inclined into the receiver, frowning and silent while a woman’s voice issued angrily and at considerable volume into the room. When she paused for breath, he jumped in, speaking firmly and so slowly that Lucy understood most of it: “No, it is impossible. Tell him it is impossible. Nothing can be done about it. He must—” Then she missed the verb, he picked up speed, and she lost the gist of his reply. She sat on the bed, swinging her legs like a girl and taking note of the mixture of excitement, anxiety, and desire occasioned by his presence in the room. She felt vulnerable in a way she could not remember feeling before. She wanted to please him. When at last he closed up the phone, he jammed it under the mattress, to her delight, declaring he would not be interrupted again, and threw himself across the bed, pulling her with him. Then for some exhilarating time, there was no need to talk about anything.
But now, as he guided her into a narrow street off the Lungotevere and the fury of the traffic receded behind them, she was aware again of a subtle difference in his manner toward her. He was solicitous, but distant, nearly polite; he was affectionate, but without warmth, as if he was required to show more than he could feel. When they arrived at the small bustling restaurant he had chosen, he held her loosely by the elbow while he discussed the best table with the waiter, who seemed to know him. They took for granted, Lucy observed, that it was more desirable to sit outside, where the cloths flapped in the damp breeze and the motor scooters whined and sputtered, whipping up choking clouds of dirt as they whirled by, than at the quiet, largely empty tables in the pleasant interior rooms. When there was a pause, she tugged at Massimo’s sleeve, gesturing away from the crowd. “I’d really prefer to be inside,” she said.
He gave her a startled, incredulous look before he conveyed her inexplicable prejudice to the waiter, who, in turn, subjected her to a brief, fascinated perusal, then led them to a small table near the door.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said when they had taken their seats. “It’s so noisy outside.”
“No, no,” he said. “It doesn’t matter.” She noticed he had chosen a chair that allowed him to look out at the crowded, voluble diners on the sidewalk. His attention flickered among them, settling first here, then there, like a busy insect. So much for romance, Lucy thought. The waiter inquired about their wine and water. “Bianco, non gassata,” Massimo suggested, and she nodded her agreement. A bowl of bread appeared, a plate of crostini with chopped fresh tomatoes, then the big bottles of water and wine. The waiter engaged Massimo in a discussion of the food, which Lucy understood. She made appreciative noises at Massimo’s choices, a dish of potatoes and porcini mushrooms, shrimp, the big ones, mazzancolle, grilled, followed by an
other of cicoria, which he knew Lucy favored, and perhaps, they would see, a mixed salad. Lucy sipped her wine and munched a crostino. She was ravenously hungry. The waiters passed in and out of the room, carrying plates of steaming, mouthwatering food, looking bored and exchanging terse comments with one another. But when they arrived on the sidewalk, they became animated, solicitous; they lowered their offerings with solemnity, passing them beneath the noses of the diners, many of whom stubbed out half-smoked cigarettes in tribute to the superior gustatory charm of the food.
“This is wonderful,” Lucy said.
“It is a good place,” Massimo confirmed.
“You eat here a lot?”
“When I am in this part of town,” he said. He was looking away from her, out at a couple who had just arrived. The woman was statuesque and dressed in a minuscule stretchy red dress that revealed every detail of her figure.
“Do you live near here?”
This got his attention. He turned to her and took her hand over the table. “Why do you want to know where I live, Lucy?” he said. His eyes searched her face with an intensity she thought inappropriate to the offhandedness of her question.
“I just wondered,” she said.
“I think it would be better if you did not know this.”
She shrugged, she acquiesced, but she thought, What does he think I’m going to do? Show up at dinnertime? Did he seriously imagine that she couldn’t get this information if she really wanted it?
While the waiter filled their plates with fragrant mushrooms and potatoes from a heaping dish intended to serve eight or ten, Lucy had a moment to reflect that Massimo had seemed to like her better when she was unable to get out of bed. He had proposed this public venue himself; she had the impression that he thought it important that they be seen together. But he wasn’t enjoying it. He seemed, in fact, to be having difficulty concentrating on it. Her past experience had led her to the observation that when a love affair starts out with some romanticized notion of us against them, disillusion is bound to set in, and the equation is rewritten then as us against each other. When Massimo was defending her from the jaws of death, or even from a threat as innocuous as the Italian medical bureaucracy, he had been full of quiet confidence and determination. Now that she was able to express contrary views, exhibit preferences, and ask for information, he was entirely ill at ease. She drank a little more wine, watching his handsome profile, which he was presenting to her at the moment, for his attention was given over to two young men who had arrived on motor scooters and were immediately engaged in a disagreement with the waiter. Studying his face in such an arrested pose made her think of their recent lovemaking—had it been only a few hours ago?—and of his mouth against her ear, saying softly, tenderly, with the perfect mixture of surprise and relief, “Ah, Lucy, I have missed you.”
Gradually, he disengaged himself from his scrutiny of the young men and his attention drifted back to her. He saw the combination of affection and suspicion in her eyes—she made no effort to disguise it—and he said, “What is it, Lucy? Why are you looking in this way?”
There was an edge to this question that struck her as distinctly challenging, as if he expected her to lodge some preposterous grievance, one he would throw off disdainfully the moment she uttered it. And what could she say? You are different here? You are not paying enough attention to me? I think you are already bored with me? The substance of her impressions was unworthy of her, and she refused to give them utterance. She looked down at her plate, from which there arose such tantalizing aromas that, without her will, her hand grasped the fork and speared a section of succulent mushroom. She bit into it and opened her eyes wide. Massimo watched her as she chewed, waiting for her answer; he was not to be deflected with chatter about the food. She swallowed the mushroom. “I was thinking about how handsome you are,” she said.
He gave a small huff of disbelief, but, she observed, he did believe it, and it was the best thing she could have said. The shallow pool of uncertainty between them evaporated and they were back on their proper footing—he was wonderful; she was appreciative. She tried a bite of the potato. “I think this is the best food I ever ate,” she said.
He smiled. “The cooking here is the authentic Roman cooking. I prefer it to all others.”
“Naturally,” she said between bites.
Later, after she had eaten large portions of shrimp, cicoria, various bites the waiter insisted she must try—of breaded grilled sardines, of an odd sproutlike green called puntarelle, found, he assured her, only in Rome, of bright radicchio stuffed with seasoned meat—as well as salad, a rich panna cotta, and a glass of the special house amaro, Lucy declared herself good for nothing but a nap.
“And what will you do after that?” Massimo inquired.
“I will go to Santa Maria del Popolo in Piazza del Popolo to see the Caravaggios. My book says the church opens at four.”
He shrugged. “It could be,” he said.
“And then I’m going to look for Catherine Bultman in Via Margutta.”
Massimo downed his inch of black espresso in one gulp. “What makes you think you will find her there?”
Lucy tried, without much success, to keep an edge of smug superiority from her reply. “Antonio Cini told me I would find her there,” she said.
“I hope you did not acquaint him with your foolish suspicion that he is in love with this woman,” he exclaimed.
“I didn’t,” she replied. “I merely said I wanted to find her, to find out why she left DV. And he said what he said before, that he thought she just got bored and left, and he pretended he knew nothing about it. Then, just when I was getting on the train, he told me I would find her in Via Margutta.”
Massimo pulled down his upper lip, raising his eyebrows at the same time in his “who can say” look. “So,” he said. “He must have nothing to hide, where she is concerned.”
“Maybe,” Lucy agreed. “Or maybe he does and he wants her to cover for him.”
“Shall I go with you?” he suggested.
“If you have time. But I thought this whole thing didn’t interest you.”
Massimo signaled for the waiter, who changed direction midstride to come to him. “It interests me a little,” he said.
Chapter 15
LUCY SAT BENEATH a gay umbrella, ignoring the coffee cup on the bright tablecloth before her. She looked out upon the Piazza del Popolo, where competing herds of tourists and locals milled ceaselessly, circling the ancient obelisk and its honor guard of stately lions, whose frozen marble jaws magically gushed four identical streams of bright water into the basins beneath their paws. Beyond them she could see the facade of the church of Santa Maria del Popolo, where she had not seen the paintings of Caravaggio, or the statues by Bernini that decorate the chapel designed by Raphael for the great Renaissance banker Agostino Chigi. Instead, she had seen a wedding, or the beginnings of a wedding, a remarkable assemblage in its own right.
She had arrived at the church just as the bride emerged from a black limousine, attended not by giggling maids in pastel gowns but by several handsome young men, all impeccably dressed, perfectly coiffed, tanned, flashing their dark eyes and white teeth in charming boyish glee. They were engaged in shoving one another amiably in and out of the bride’s path. The bride herself rose before them, one hand holding her veil, which was more like a small rigged ship of voile and lace set amid the perilous black seas of her lacquered coiffure. She wavered, looking back anxiously at her train, half of which was still in the car. Two of the intrepid young men dove in behind her and began carefully arranging the heavy satin folds around her ankles. Lucy wondered why, as economy was so clearly not a consideration in the skirt of the dress, a little more material hadn’t been spared for the top. The bodice, stiffened by stays and covered over in tiny beads, was cut so low and laced so tightly that the bride’s impressive breasts were forced up and out, so that they resembled two hard golden balls attached to her sternum. She chided the young men,
who responded by raising the volume of their clowning. A small crowd of guests gathered at the entrance to the church, chatting and laughing, one or another turning from the conversation to smile down upon the bride. Lucy looked on from the side, near the bottom of the steps, invisible to the happy company, so much so that she thought she might slip in and have a quick look at the pictures before the ceremony properly began. But, on some signal she did not understand, the guests poured into the church, the car pulled away, and the bride began her progress up the wide stone steps. Her eyes fell briefly upon Lucy, without interest. She was still absorbed in the problems of equilibrium and motion presented by her dress. One of the young men, rushing up ahead, called back something that amused her. She laughed and raised one arm stiffly as if to brush him away. Lucy was close enough to see the cracks the laugh made in the thick lipstick on her mouth. She was wearing an enormous amount of makeup—crimson lipstick, ultramatte foundation, black eyeliner, thick mascara—all applied lavishly and without much skill. The vision of this garish face grinning above the absurd décolletage was so blatantly in opposition to any idea of virginal innocence as to be alarming, yet her Mamma had no doubt cried out when she saw her daughter attired at last for the altar, “Sei un angelo bellissimo!”
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