by S L Zammit
Chapter 6
A shopping spree in Rome
We take the six AM Air Malta flight to Rome and the Leonardo express to the Termini train station. Aurora pulls me away from a young pregnant gypsy with a Madonna face, who hackles us for money as we buy subway tickets from Metro A to Battistini. We get off at Spagna and emerge from the darkness of the underground station into the bright heat of the crowded cobbled streets of Piazza di Spagna.
Aurora leads the way past the dramatic sweeping Spanish steps crowded with sightseers, and Bernini’s ‘Barcaccia fountain’ referring to the ugly boat it depicts, to a boutique hotel on Via Mario de Fiori where she regularly stays.
A heavy green door with brass fish knockers opens onto a pretty and colorful courtyard encircled by various guest rooms.
A padded leather door leads into a charming room. The walls are lined with silk wallpaper embossed with gold embroidery patterns. The low wooden ceiling and daisy dome light fixtures give the suite a distinctive look. An adorable crocodile-skin covered table stands on the outer side of two beds between which is a black velvet vase holding two-dozen roses on a pedestal. A corridor leads to a mosaic room-sized shower with gold grouting and several showerheads. The LED lights embedded in the bathroom ceiling switch on automatically when I enter the room, and are programmed to change colors as one walks around the room past certain triggering spots.
“This is so cool,” I call to Aurora who casually starts to unpack stuff from her luggage.
“Dame Esmie always gets me a room here. Don’t tell me you’re playing with the shower lights!” I hear her giggles as I compulsively walk around to flip the colored lights on and off. “Let’s not settle in just yet, we have lots of damage to do on those streets! The Great Dane will be flying in later. We should just leave our bags and do some shopping before her flight’s arrival and her incessant text messages start coming in.”
I reluctantly leave the adorable room and follow Aurora towards the exit. She leads the way down Via Mario dei Fiori where we pass Pucci, Balenciaga and Mattiolo.
“We’ll go in there later,” she tells me. “First I have to make a stop at the Chanel boutique on Via Babuino. They have a little black dress with my name all over it.”
The crowded Via dei Condotti is lined with high-end designer shops: Dior, Moncler, Prada, Gucci, Bulgari, across from where Cartier jewelers, I notice as I pass by, are selling fountain pens for over twenty thousand euros, a two-story Louis Vuitton superstore, and a huge Giorgio Armani store, Valentino, Max Mara, Bottega Veneta and Salvatore Ferragamo boutiques.
Everything I look at is way more expensive than I could ever dream of affording. Aurora, who buys every item she fancies, must have sensed my discomfort. She smiles at me, and whispers, “Remember the credit card the marquis generously handed you? Pull it out!”
Aurora snatches the black charge card from me and waves it around playfully. “You have to get used to dressing and looking a certain way if you want to work with that kind of person,” she says. “Think of it as a job requirement. You can think of this card as being a stroke of good luck, like winning the lottery jackpot, or you can think of it as being something you’ve deserved all along. You need to start being okay with good things that come your way. Anyway you look at it, just thank your lucky stars that your new boss is a generous man and go along with it. I assure you that it’ll only take a few purchases before you stop feeling guilty about it and accept the situation. Do you remember when we were young and those mean girls used to pick on us in school and make us feel like we were inferior to them?”
I nod in accordance.
“Well, you got stuck in that disgraceful and demeaning situation,” she scolds. “It’s time to move on, and fast. We’ve come a long way, and about time too. We deserve this.”
The last I heard of our childhood tormentors, from another one of their victims, was that they had both been struck by misfortune. One had tragically died in a fire, and the other had become mentally impaired in a traffic accident. So, no Aurora, I want to say but refrain, I don’t, by any means feel stuck anywhere and I can’t in any way justify the price tags on any of the things I’m looking at. Although Zia Marie brought both of us up from age ten onwards, our personalities could not be more different.
Starting soon after her father’s death, Aurora has been on an insane self-imposed success trajectory, the projectile covering everything from her grades in school to her flawless looks and physique and encompassing just about everything else. I remember Zia Marie having to pull her away from her books and constantly reminding her to eat.
But I don’t say anything to her, and despite my sentiment, by the end of the morning I’ve charged a nauseating amount of money to the black card. The fact that I haven’t found any information about the gold box only makes my anxieties worse.
Aurora talked me into buying a pair of Balenciaga giant gold wedge gladiator sandals, a bright red Versace cocktail dress with cutouts up the leg, on the sides and down the front and back and even a small one in the middle, both ridiculously expensive. I can’t even begin to imagine how I can justify these as work-related acquisitions although not obliged to.
However, albeit my misgivings, I am overall pleased with my purchases since I did get some very elegant marquis-worthy outfits.
Feeling rather lightheaded after such frivolous expenditure of money and tired to boot, my toes feeling like swollen sausages as a result of being on foot all morning, I manage to coerce Aurora into taking some time out from our shopping spree and stop for a light lunch of salad and sparkling water at a quaint osteria. I swear the girl never eats. We have hardly finished our food before Aurora’s phone buzzes.
“We need to go back to the hotel,” she says, looking disappointed after checking her messages. “The Great Dane just landed.”
Back at our deluxe accommodation, Aurora gathers her requirements for the evening and instructs me to relax for a few hours before the taxi service she arranged picks me up and drives me to Trastevere where she would meet me at around seven PM.
“Open the door,” Aurora calls to me from the bathroom where she’s freshening her makeup. “The Great Dane just texted that she’s outside.”
When I open the door, Dame Esmie, whom I’ve never met in person, but who is a familiar and constant presence on local social media, stands in the doorway shrouded in an aura of sophistication.
She’s even more attractive in person, so slim and well preserved that she looks closer to being thirty than fifty. Everything about her is refined and impeccable, from her elegant gait, her simple and classy outfit, her exquisite makeup, to her perfectly coiffed hair. Widely known for her charitable works and her naturalness, Dame Esmie has been my idol since childhood.
Thoroughly star struck, I make a concerted effort to stop myself from dropping into a very low curtsy. The items of our shopping spree suddenly seem more garish than ever. Shocked whenever Aurora ridicules her, I always wonder why she isn’t as thoroughly awed by Esmeralda Montfort as I am.
“Hello,” she says. Her face is kind and smiling, making me hope wholeheartedly that she didn’t hear Aurora’s comment earlier. “You must be Aurora’s friend.” Her tone is harmonious and sweet but I notice she is inspecting me head to toe. “The girl Andras interviewed last week.”
Aurora rushes past me before I have the opportunity to utter a single word.
“Shall we?” she says nicely to her boss as she ushers her away.
“It was nice to see you,” says Dame Esmie over her shoulder. “I’m sure we’ll meet again.”
Aurora looks back, rolls her eyes at me and displays her mischievous smile.
“See you later doll,” Aurora says, shutting the door in my face.
Standing in the lingering subtle smell of Dame Esmie’s perfume, I passionately resolve to return the Versace cutout cocktail dress and Balenciaga wedges since I’m sure the dame would never wear anything like that. Ever. And by extension how could the marquis possibly appro
ve? I shudder as I recall the sarcasm on his face and harsh critique of my clothes and highlighted hair. The unceremonious expulsion of Half-naked-fawn-eyes from the palazzo comes to mind. I suddenly feel unbearably tacky.
Literally running down the crowded streets, I head back to the Versace boutique, crimson dress secured in its dress bag.
The friendly woman who helped me earlier is very understanding.
“Not for everybody,” she says nicely in her strong Italian accent. “Of course you can return it. Just swipe the credit card you used for purchase please.”
I feel relieved as I hand her the dress bag and swipe the black card through her machine.
The device makes a strange buzzing noise and the lady glances at the cash register with a puzzled look on her face.
“Un momento per piacere,” she says moving to the other end of the bench behind which she’s standing.
I observe as she dials a number and makes a phone call. I see her lips move but am out of hearing range of the conversation.
When she finally returns, she smiles at me and says, “Sorry, you are to keep the dress. No return. Please enjoy. Thank you.”
Since I speak decent Italian, I explain to her that I had second thoughts about the very expensive purchase and didn’t want the dress anymore. It even says clearly on the receipt that unworn dresses can be returned within fifteen days and I was here less than an hour ago. But the woman insists nicely that I keep the dress and enjoy it. And every time she has to repeat herself, her voice gets sweeter but incrementally louder, until the security guard at the door is eyeing me ominously.
I finally leave the store and head to the Balenciaga boutique where to my amazement I get the same treatment from a tall, spindly salesman: an extremely polite, yet very persistent recommendation to keep the shoes and please enjoy them following the phone call he makes moments after he had said he would be happy to return the wedges.
I am suddenly reminded of the marquis’ narrowed blue-green eyes as he said, “Once you’re in this there’s no way out until I get what I’m looking for,” and I am struck by the sickening realization that although I am able to purchase anything I choose on the marquis’ card, I might not be able to return items I purchase, irrespective of store policies.
Perturbed by the turn of events, I return to the guest room skipping the visit to the John Keats’ museum I had planned, and decide to drop off my shopping bags and take a walk instead. I feel the need to blow away the aura of discomfort and heaviness I’m feeling.
Strolling aimlessly down Via dei Condotti, I take a left turn on Largo Carlo Goldoni and continue onto Via della Fontanella di Borghese.
The quaint roads are well preserved; medieval moss-covered walls rise steeply on both sides curtained with climbing-ivy. Crowds mill around the many trattorias, the gelato and coffee shops, and the various boutiques. I pass several running drinking-water fountains carved into the thick stone walls in the form of an arched niche with a small basin at the bottom; a testament to the advanced aqueduct systems of the ancient Romans.
On the spur of the moment, I decide to call Zia Marie.
She responds promptly. “Hello,” sounds more like a question.
“Zia Marie, it’s me!” I say, instantly animated by her voice.
“My Graziella,” I can see her smile. “I was thinking about you. How was the job interview?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner,” I say, and after a second’s pause, “it went well.”
“You sound hesitant,” says Zia Marie, “and your voice sounds sad. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I continue. “It’s not your typical office job but I’ll be all right.”
“Tell me all about it,” she insists.
“I was interviewed by an antique collector in Mdina,” I say as I walk along the cobbled street. “He’s looking for an ancient artifact and thinks I can help him locate it. He’s quite a character.”
“Sounds like a good job for you. You’ve always had good instincts and a good head on your shoulders,” she says. “If something doesn’t feel right, it probably isn’t. I trust you’ll make the right choices. And please don’t feel pressurized due to lack of funds. I’m happy to help you for as long as you need. You know that!”
I imagine old Zia Marie making financial sacrifices from day to day in order to have enough money to support me and I feel a sudden pang of guilt.
“I miss you,” she tells me. “Make sure you sleep and eat well.”
“I miss you too,” I say truthfully.
“How’s Aurora?” Zia Marie finally asks. “I rarely hear from her. I’m concerned about her too.”
“She’s doing great,” I reassure her, making a mental note to tell Aurora off later in the evening. “Please don’t worry about us. Everything’s great.”
“I love you sweet girl,” she says. “Tell Aurora I love her too. You girls should come and visit your old aunt soon.” She sighs and says, “Be good and do good and remember that it is not the material things in life that make you happy.”
I ought to remind Aurora of that too.
“We’ll both come to visit this Saturday,” I promise her. “We’ll have lunch together.”
By the time I get off the phone, I find myself in Piazza Navona.
I gravitate towards the Fountain of the Four Rivers, an architectural masterpiece designed by Bernini for Pope Innocent X who commissioned the decoration of the piazza surrounding his family palace, now the Brazilian embassy.
Amidst the splashing water, four, semi-reclined, giant marble river gods surround a huge phallic obelisk crowned with the Pope’s family emblem of a dove with an olive twig.
Strong pagan inferences dominate every facet of Rome’s magnificent architecture and sculpture. The city housing the Holy Vatican still evokes the marble city built by the mighty Roman Empire, reminiscent of Julius Caesar and his great-nephew Octavian who became its first Emperor, Augustus.
Rome’s early churches were transformed pagan temples wherein pagan gods were reformed into Christian saints. This phenomenon can be attributed to the collective mutating perception of people living during that era. Romulus and Remus during the 3rd century were transfigured into the twin saints Damian and Cosmas, the reputed twin brothers, physicians, and early Christian martyrs who accepted no payment for their services, eventually becoming the subject of many paintings and illuminations. The gods of the Pantheon, looked upon by the heavens through the round eye in its coffered dome, disguised as the Virgin Mary and the martyrs. The old gods only superficially transformed, the microscopic indestructible building blocks simply rearranged, remaining pagan at the atomic level, making its religious effigies travertine transvestites. Many holy images depict prostitutes in the guise of saints. There is more perceptible spirituality in Zia Marie’s kitchen.
Recalling the sarcastic comment the marquis had made about old Rosina and the many churches in Malta, I appreciate that while the fairly permissive culture and rather lenient lifestyles thrive, insensitive to what is proclaimed from the countless church pulpits, the island still retains a certain tangible and visible quest for the holy, more perceptible in certain areas than others; this perhaps emanating from some miniscule divine atomic inherence.
My pensive ramblings land me in Campo de’ Fiori where vendors are dismantling the stalls and the remnant fruits, vegetables, fish and other wares from the daily morning market.
The blackened statue of Giordano Bruno clad in Dominican friar’s garb and holding a book, a haunting doomed look on his face, looms in the background. The figure stands facing the Vatican in the same spot where he was burned alive at the stake in 1600 for heresy, his controversial philosophies about facets of the teachings of the church and his beliefs that God, rather than being a discrete deity, is homogenous in his divinity with nature and the infinite universe, indistinct down to the last atom.
The effigy reminds me of what the marquis had said in the library. The divinity we pursue and the demon
s we chase away are all within, down to the last atom. Our perception of reality is limited by what we are able to see and envision. As humans we avidly protect our inherent myopia: the world is flat and God is an old man with a white beard sitting on a cloud directing personal and world affairs, but are also game to take on another conviction at the prospect of being barbequed alive.
Looking at the face on the statue, I envision Andras’ intense, all-knowing eyes burning into me. I can’t help wonder what course the friar would have taken had he known his fate. Shaking his creepy stare, I decide to head back to the guesthouse since I still have to shower and get ready for my evening in Trastevere with Aurora.
Opting for a short nap before showering, I am out cold until the ringing of the room phone awakens me. It’s 7:15 PM and Aurora’s driver informs me that he is here to pick me up. I ask if he can come back in an hour since I overslept, but he insists that it is now or never since his shift ended fifteen minutes ago.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the bedroom mirror. Flattening my messy hair with one hand, I wipe off the mascara smudges under my eyes with the other. I’m still wearing the tank top and short denim shorts I’ve been wearing all day. The shopping bags filled with new clothes are strewn all over the room, Aurora’s mixed with mine.
The driver impatiently rings the doorbell.
I don’t have time to change and I really don’t care. I dab on some lip gloss, slip on my new wedge sandals and rush outside to meet him.
The drive is a short one throughout which the driver embarks on a loud and coarse conversation in Italian over his cellphone. He pauses momentarily when he stops the car.
“The streets are full of restaurants to eat and nightlife to enjoy,” he informs me in broken English as I step out of the car. “If you walk across the bridge you can go down the steps to the river walk. Lots of shops there too.”
Thanking him, I head down one of the small lanes crowded with pizzerias, trattorias and osterias where people of all ages are strolling or at table eating pizza and pasta and drinking wine.
