by S L Zammit
The cobbled streets are lantern-lit and the establishments, converted ancient buildings, spill tables onto the street beneath hibiscus-heavy awnings. The air is saturated with chatter and laughter and the delicious smells of Italian food.
Beautiful, boisterous, impeccably dressed Italian men and women teem the alleys, just as Aurora had promised. I stand out like a miserably underdressed tourist amidst the exquisitely fashion-forward clad and suddenly wish I had taken the time to change. I could have easily found this place without Aurora’s rude driver.
A gorgeous woman, looking downright rich and expensive in a black lace dress I had admired earlier in one of the boutiques, walks past me in an opulent cloud of perfume. I could have at least showered.
The woman glides right up to two men guarding the door to what, through the large windows of the well-lit establishment, looks like a private party. The men immediately nod at her in recognition and pull open the door for her.
I can’t help watching as she enters the room, greets some of the people with air kisses on both cheeks, and walks towards the bar area which is directly visible from where I stand.
Moving towards a tall man standing at the bar, she slides her hand down his back. He turns around to hug her. My jaw drops. It’s unmistakably him. Andras Valletta towering over everybody, affectionately hugging the gorgeous woman who I realize bears an uncanny resemblance to Half-naked-fawn-eyes.
Momentarily frozen in my spot among the throng of passers by, I look on as the woman, neck craned, whispers in Andras’ ear. He laughs as he raises his head and looks straight in my direction. I can almost feel his glacial eyes boring into me across the crowded room and instantly dart down the alley away from the scene, hoping he hasn’t noticed me standing on the street.
I’m halfway across Ponte Garibaldi when I stop running. The man most definitely has a type. Old Rosina was right about his womanizing ways, he’s already found himself a brand new Half-naked-fawn-eyes. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry and am shocked by the riveting effect seeing him has on me.
Needing something or someone to divert my attention, I grab my cellphone and text Aurora as I look over the bridge at the well-lit market stalls lining the Tiber. Hey! Where are you?
Still occupied, she texts back followed by a frowning emoticon. Are you in Trastevere?
I’m on the bridge overlooking the river walk, I inform her. Waiting for you.
Go down by the river. There’s a place called Bevi, they make really good mojitos. I’ll meet you there in a bit, she texts.
I walk down the stone slabs to the outdoor festival along the riverbank. Bright party lights from white linen stalls converted into restaurants, cafés and bars, line the sleeping Tiber all the way from Ponte Sublico to Ponte Sisto.
Welcoming the laid-back feel of the drafty river walk crowded with teenagers playing foosball, basketball and bocce ball at gaming stations, I walk along the stalls packed with customers.
Vendors sell dried fruits in paper bags, roasted nuts and loose candy, gifts, souvenirs, clothes and jewelry. The river breeze, carrying happy chatter and Italian rock music, is complimented with the fused smells of a combination of warm foods from many cultures: Italian, Turkish, Middle-eastern and Asian. Artistic graffiti covers most of the thick river wall above which people sit, chat and make-out on strewn-about cushions.
The relaxed atmosphere is contagious as I wander along the stalls inspecting the assorted wares. Realizing that I’m ravenous as the only thing I’ve eaten all day is the salad I shared with Aurora following our shopping spree, I decide to buy a handful of dried figs. I’m certain Aurora will be hungry when she joins me later, knowing her she won’t admit it, and won’t eat unless I share her plate. The girl never eats unless coerced.
I finally make it to Bevi and realize that it’s almost nine PM and the festival is now twice as crowded and rowdy as when I got here. Finding a small table close to the river, I order a Hibiscus Mojito and text Aurora.
I have a table at Bevi. Are you on the way?
People ask for my empty chair but I let them know I’m waiting for a friend.
A group of Italian men sitting nearby call out to me, “Ciao bella! Why all alone? Would you like some company?” I ignore them and check my phone for messages from Aurora, but have none.
“Are you shy, bella?” taunts one of them. When I fail to respond, the group very quickly loses interest in me and refocuses on two British blondes sitting on the other side across from them.
Ordering a Black Cherry Mojito, I’m served a Passion Fruit Mojito instead and realizing his mistake, the server, without second thoughts, brings me the cherry drink as well. The taste of the alcoholic liquid candy is so delicious that I drink both drinks with relish in quick succession, whetting my appetite further. The server recommends the Russian Mule. My empty stomach demands attention amidst the vibrant atmosphere of the festival. Everything around me is loud and bright and rollicking.
My phone buzzes. Aurora texts me a wide-eyed, blushing emoticon with a straight line for a mouth followed by, I have to stand you up.
Damn you Aurora!
So sorry doll! This friggen woman, I swear I’m about to smack her in the Botox! she texts, followed by an emoticon laughing tears. I have to stay and fix her mess!
Aurora never elaborates about her job, but the tidbits of information I glean from various situations make me wonder if every aspect of what she does is legitimate.
Halfway into my fifth drink, Bevi’s signature cocktail, the River Rat, everything around me blurs as I realize only too late that I’ve had way too much to drink on an empty stomach. Nausea and fatigue threaten to take over.
The frenzied ambiance on the riverbank reverberates around me as I attempt to mentally figure my way back to the guest room, shivering as a chilly river breeze sweeps over my bare skin.
Unwittingly sipping at the straw still hanging from my lips, I shudder as I have the last sip from the freezing drink. A strange cold sensation runs through my body.
“There you are!” the voice startles me, but I instantly recognize who it belongs to.
Andras Valletta, looking downright hunky in his perfectly tailored ensemble, tight black pants and a white dress shirt, that reminds me of something Karl Lagerfeld would design, is standing right behind me. “I thought that was you earlier on. I’ve been looking for you!”
“Looking for me?” I say astonished, realizing that I’m slurring every word. What about Half-naked-fawn-eyes mark two?
“What are you doing here all by yourself?” he asks smiling coyly. “These streets get dangerous at night.”
Although the glint in his eye reminds me of Aurora’s words: big bad wolf, I can’t believe how utterly hot he looks: a handsome wolf in designer clothing.
“Waiting for Aurora,” I blurt, feeling drunk and smelly as I catch his scent.
“Hm,” he says, sitting beside me at the table. “Aurora is Montfort’s assistant right?”
I nod. “Yes, but something cropped up unexpectedly and she has just texted me that she’s not coming,” I blab on sounding very drunk.
Andras is regarding me with intent smiling eyes. “Have you had anything to eat at all tonight?” he asks softly as I realize that the five large empty cocktail glasses are still on the table.
Trying to appear as sober as possible, I shake my head. “I lost cocktail count.” I hiccup and giggle nervously.
“I know a place,” he says standing, proffering his arm. “Come with me.”
Feeling the earth shift beneath my feet and emotionally unrestrained, I spring out of the chair. I stumble forward and land in his outstretched arms.
Face planted into his chest and feeling utterly intoxicated and captivated by his manly smell, I snuggle deeper against him. Nested, comforted, “Mmmm,” I murmur.
Andras’ laughter has an immediate sobering effect. I feel mortified.
“It’s worse than I thought,” he says as he sits me back in the chair. “We can get s
ome food right here,” he says kindly as he beckons the server and orders pizza. “Best food ever for the slightly tipsy,” and winks at me jovially.
“Thank you so much,” I mutter, feeling embarrassed but cheery.
“Don’t worry about a thing,” he says firmly. “I love your new look by the way.”
Blushing, I touch my hair.
“You’re beautiful,” he says. “More beautiful than I can recall.”
An instantaneous look of melancholy invades his face. Maybe I’m too drunk.
He grins. “I was expecting you to be wearing that red Versace dress you bought this morning,” he says, now his face reads pure mischief.
“I didn’t have time to change,” I mumble, registering that it must have been him on the other end of the line with the girl at Versace.
The marquis’ phone buzzes in his pant pocket, he glances at the screen and places it face down on the table reverting his full attention back to me.
“I went to your house on Monday by the way,” I say, wanting to divert the subject completely. “I started going through the books in your library.”
“So I heard,” he says in a mellow voice.
His uncomfortable demeanor reminds me of Half-naked-fawn-eyes’ expulsion from the palazzo. I wonder if her dismissal had anything to do with the map and her fingerprint not working the way he anticipated. I have to stop myself from laughing out loud. I wonder if he’ll ask for all the money I’ve spent on the credit card back if I’m unable to locate Isabella’s jewelry box. Then I remember the agreement I signed.
“I was in the library the whole time,” I assure him with a slur in my voice.
His deportment changes, he’s no longer flirty and fun. I imagine he feels bad that I witnessed old Rosina doing the dirty work on his behalf.
The server brings around a huge pizza. Grabbing one of the hot slices of gooey dough, I munch greedily into a sizeable portion. Sitting across the table from the solemn marquis, impossibly handsome and tastefully dressed, swaddled in moonlight, I hear myself sputter and can’t help the giggles that follow.
He just stares at me. “Eat,” he says abruptly. “You’ll feel better.”
I can’t help the sudden pang of jealousy. He must still have feelings for her. Half-naked-fawn-eyes.
“Basic emotions have never been my strong suit,” he says quietly, startling me. He reaches for his phone and makes a call. “I’ll drop you off at your room,” he says. “You look tired.”
Andras pays the server and leads the way through the masses. Something I said or did must have really annoyed him. Stumbling, I catch up with him.
Putting his arm around me, engulfing me in his heavenly scent, he stares into my eyes and says, his tone stern, “Silly girl. I don’t want you getting drunk ever again. Especially when you’re out alone in a place you don’t know. I don’t want you getting hurt. Understand?”
Still feeling quite drunk and giddy from his scent, I nod and nestle even closer to his body. His eyes are a deep blue-green in the night, like celestial space swimming in stars, drawing me in. My face gravitates closer towards his, an instinctive motion I don’t anticipate and can’t resist. I reach out and touch his mouth and chin with my fingertips.
Andras puts his hand over mine and moves his face closer to me until our mouths touch. His lips are soft, caressing mine. My tongue outlines his mouth, the taste of him intoxicating. His mouth is over mine, his hands moving down my back pressing me closer to him until I feel his whole body against me. The loud sounds of night fade to nothing, the world is empty and all there is, is his mouth on mine, his strength pressed against me, his smell and taste consuming me, and I want more of him but he pulls his face away from mine and huddling me close to his side, he whisks me through the tight night crowd.
Arriving at a square through a short maze of deserted back streets, Andras leads the way to a black town car bathing in the light of an old lantern. His eyes diverted from mine, he opens the backseat door ushering me into the car and taps on the driver’s window giving him the address on Piazza di Spagna where I’m staying with Aurora.
The back of the car smells like Prada Candy or Flowerbomb or a mixture of both, indicating that Half-naked-fawn-eyes two has just been in the car. Disappointed, I wonder if he regrets kissing me.
Andras scoots in beside me. The drive is a short one and he doesn’t talk much. His fingers move swiftly as he texts on his phone. We’re on Via Mario de Fiori in minutes.
Andras leads the way to the green door with brass fish knockers and walks me through the pretty, colorful courtyard shrouded in moonlight. The peaceful ambiance impervious to the bacchanal on the Roman streets, the songs of crickets cut through the night.
He stops in front of the room. “This is you,” he says quietly as I open the door with the key Aurora gave me.
“Sleep well,” he says, “and have a good flight tomorrow.”
“Good night Andras,” I say gazing into his eyes, half expecting him to kiss me again in the moonlight, but then shaking off the ridiculous thought.
“Be at the house Monday morning so we can talk more,” he instructs, his tone all business.
He must be eager to get back to Half-naked-fawn-eyes two.
“Yes sir,” I say, mustering a smile.
“What did I say about calling me sir?” he says as he walks away in the night. I picture his smile.
Staggering into the dark room, I make my way to the bed, undress, and gratefully slip under the cold sheets and into the soft mattress. Replaying the kiss in my head, I envision Andras’ eyes under my eyelids, my whole being free falls into the sea of green and blue, his taste still on my lips, his smell on me. I’m on the verge of oblivion when I hear the door to the room creak open.
“Andras?” I whisper in the dark.
“No, it’s just me silly,” says Aurora, bursting into the room. “Were you dreaming about your marquis?”
“You just missed him,” I say annoyed. “He brought me home after you deserted me. Luckily I ran into him in Trastevere.”
“I’m so sorry doll,” says Aurora sounding genuine. “What a night! I’m beat. I don’t even have the energy to wash my face.”
“What happened to you?” I ask angrily as she changes out of her clothes and slips into bed.
“Oh! Dame Esmie!” she says, her tone sarcastic. “The Great Dane, savior of the world! That’s what happened to me!”
My silence must have indicated that I was still mad at her. She continues her story, surprising me since she never says much about work.
“Everyone has been trying to convince Esmie to get involved in the migrant crisis in the Mediterranean for months and months now. She has been reluctant to get involved so far, her time fully occupied with fundraising for cancer-stricken children. The dame always chooses her charity work very carefully and is very concerned with public opinion. She usually steers clear of high-profile situations where the populace has polarized opinions. Her public image and volume of exposure are of utmost importance. She limits her good deeds to the ones where she is completely sheltered from negative press,” Aurora says as she shuffles around under her sheets. “Last week she pulls me off this very important case I’ve been working on for almost a year. A boat, loaded with four hundred migrants from Libya and Syria, capsized off the southern Italian coast. Most of them perished at sea, but among the survivors, the Italian coastguard fished out an old Egyptian archeologist clinging to his life on a wooden barrel.”
“I was shocked she even wanted to get involved in the situation since the man is wanted in Egypt for selling national artifacts and the Italians want to ship him back to his country ASAP,” she says. “Her every move is a meticulously choreographed production and normally involves a whole team. This time she wanted just me. Esmie spun this tale about how she was so moved and impressed by his story of survival. She had me pull a bunch of favors at the Italian consul. I knew something was off from the get go. Are you still awake doll?”
&nbs
p; “Yeah, I’m here,” I say from under my sheets, interest peaked.
“She moved everything around to ensure a meeting with this Egyptian guy before his deportation, even took me with her under the ruse that we were going to get him political asylum and relocate him elsewhere. The guy is an old nut job, I’m telling you. Esmie was in there with him for ten minutes maximum before she burst out of the room saying he was beyond help and there was nothing she could possibly do for him. Dame Esmie is normally the epitome of calm and composure; I’ve never seen her so frazzled. When she left the room, the guy had a fit, demanded the woman be brought back in. The situation got so bad the Italians wouldn’t let us leave. So of course, she sends me in to calm the old Egyptian down. The man was a mess: haggard, water-worn, coughing and blabbering away, totally demented, didn’t speak a word of English or Italian, but we managed to communicate in Maltese. He spoke Arabic and seemed to understand me. He kept saying that she stole his key, the lady stole the key he had on the gold chain around his neck.”
“Do you believe Dame Esmie took his key?” I ask, astonished at the notion that my childhood idol would steal a key from a drowning man.
“Why would she?” says Aurora laughing. “I don’t know why she gets me involved in this nonsense. I was finally working on an interesting case, now I’m off kilter. It took hours to get us out of there. What a mess! And she just had to involve me. Good thing you met your marquis.”
“What about the old Egyptian?” I ask her. “What’s going to happen to him?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she says yawning, “and I really don’t care. I’m just happy to be in bed. Let’s sleep doll, we have to be up in four hours. Our flight leaves early and I have to go in to work tomorrow. I’m telling you, they make me earn every penny they pay me.”
Chapter 7
A short visit to Gozo
1
Deciding to be assertive for a change, I pack a bag for Aurora and me. I’m not about to spend the weekend in the apartment thinking about Andras and wondering why he hasn’t called. It is six in the evening on Friday and Aurora will be back from work any minute now. I promised Zia Marie we would visit and there is no way I’m letting Aurora get out of a quick trip to Gozo.
