The Rome Affair

by Karen Swan

  Three minutes later, with the signoras still going strong over the jasmine hedge, their pizzas were done – paperthin dough perfectly charred on the pastry bubbles, mozzarella oozing.

  Silvano refused payment when Cantarelli tried to hand over the money. ‘Is on the ’ouse. Cesca’s blog on us makes our takings up by five times!’

  ‘Oh, I’m so pleased,’ Cesca smiled, delighted to hear there’d been such a positive response. ‘You totally deserve it. It doesn’t make financial sense to be too well-kept a secret! Ciao, Silvano,’ she said, taking her box.

  ‘Ciao, Cesca – and tell Matteo he owes me ten euros on the match last night!’

  ‘Will do,’ she grinned, wandering out into the square. ‘Shall we sit over here?’ she suggested, pointing to her own steps as Cantarelli joined her. His silence had turned up a notch. Something appeared to have annoyed him. Again.

  Cantarelli shook his head. ‘No. They are private.’ He jerked his head towards the shade of the olive tree and the low wall surrounding it.

  ‘Well, they’re my steps so—’ Cantarelli looked so surprised, she felt almost sorry for him. ‘But we can sit on the wall if you prefer.’

  For a moment, he looked conflicted. ‘No. The steps are fine.’

  She led him up the steps past the maze of geraniums and retrieved the key from under the closest flowerpot.

  ‘That is terrible security,’ he said, frowning.

  ‘I know,’ she replied, pulling a grimace herself and opening the door. ‘But on the other hand, it’s not like I’ve got anything worth stealing. Half the time, I don’t even bother to close the door, much less lock it. And my landlady lets anyone in who happens to be passing half the time, so . . .’ She shrugged as she remembered finding Elena sitting there in the dim light. ‘Beer?’ she asked, heading straight for the fridge, enjoying the immediate cool of the dark, shaded apartment. As ever, she had left the window open but the shutters closed so that a breeze could enter but not the heat; the curtains lifted a little every now and then.

  Cantarelli, standing in the doorway but making no signs to enter, nodded. He looked like a cardboard cutout, perfectly backlit by the sun and curiously hesitant.

  ‘If you want to come in to wash some of the dust off, you’re more than welcome,’ she said, running the taps and splashing water over her own face and hands. It felt good to clean up after spending time underground; she hadn’t realized how dusty she was until she was back in the daylight.

  Cantarelli came in and did the same, Cesca watching as his skin turned from grey to brown again. If it weren’t for the ever-present frown and dust, she’d think he was actually very good-looking. ‘Here,’ she said, opening both bottles and handing him a beer. ‘Let’s eat outside.’

  ‘I did not know you lived here.’

  ‘Well, why would you?’ she asked, stepping out into the sun and sitting down with her back against the wall, facing the little square. ‘It’s not as if I know where you live.’ She pulled her long skirt up to expose her legs; they were almost brown (well, by her Celtic standards, anyway), the scabs from her various run-ins with him still on her knees.

  ‘What I mean is, if I had known, I would not have suggested pizza here,’ Cantarelli said, joining her on the small patch of concrete. ‘There were other places we could have gone. But this was close and—’

  ‘And Franco’s are the best in the city,’ she smiled, taking a huge bite of pizza and grinning as the cheese fronds refused to break, continuing to stretch even as her arms were straightened completely. ‘I refuse to eat any pizza but theirs,’ she grinned, her mouth full.

  ‘He said you write a blog?’ he asked, watching her with an expression of bewilderment as she continued to grapple with the cheese as though she were winding yarn on a loom.

  ‘That’s right, it’s called The Rome Affair,’ she said, beginning to laugh at the tangle she was getting herself into.

  ‘The Rome Affair,’ he repeated vaguely, still watching her. She supposed Italian girls didn’t eat their pizza like this.

  ‘It’s about all my favourite things here and the discoveries I make.’

  He looked alarmed. ‘You cannot talk about what is happening in the palazzo.’

  ‘Well, of course I wouldn’t,’ she groaned. ‘God, what do you take me for?’

  He looked at her, his eyes darting over her face as though that was an actual question: what exactly did he take her for?

  ‘You live very close to your work,’ he said instead, sitting back, his eyes on the palazzo now.

  ‘I do.’ Cesca shot him a sidelong look – it was hard to differentiate between accusations and mere statements of fact with him – but he was eating and staring ahead, watching two children running ahead of their mother with the shopping bags. ‘Where do you live?’ she asked instead.

  ‘Parioli.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Fancy,’ she mumbled, her mouth full.

  ‘Not really. I grew up there. It is just home.’

  ‘How long does it take you to get in?’

  ‘Ten minutes on the scooter.’

  She wondered how many other sites he was working on. ‘Tell me more about your job. I can’t quite get a handle on what exactly it is you do.’

  ‘I could say the same about you. I do not believe you are a writer.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I can’t say why. Is just a feeling.’

  ‘Fine. Well, let’s just say I’m a writer for the time being.’ He looked at her sceptically and she wondered why he was so certain he was right that she wasn’t a writer – and whether she should be offended that her new guise didn’t fit. ‘Anyway, I asked first. Do you just deal with sinkholes? Are you a sinkhole bureaucrat?’ she teased.

  ‘I am an urban speleologist,’ he said, seemingly missing the humour in her question. ‘I attend the scene of any sinkholes that open up in the city, but I do not work on them exclusively. Any time ruins are discovered, either through building or repair work, I am called in. My role is to examine and investigate whether there is anything of archaeological significance that is exposed when a sinkhole occurs. Rome, as you know, is built on the ruins of its past.’

  ‘I didn’t know that, actually. I’m a Londoner.’ In fact, she did know it. Tour guiding meant she knew more than most about her adopted city, but she didn’t like him – or anyone – making assumptions about her.

  ‘Well, it is. Did you know, for example, that there is a Greek-style stadium below the Piazza Navona?’

  ‘No!’ She really hadn’t known that.

  ‘Yes. You can trace the evolution of this city from the ground up – from bedrock to the Republic, to Empire and then the Age of Antiquities. Rome itself was built from the very rock it now stands upon. There are vast quarries beneath huge areas of the city.’

  ‘Actually directly underneath it?’ she asked, interrupting him. It didn’t sound like a great idea to her.

  ‘Yes. And whilst the first builders knew to cut narrow channels, later ones were not so careful, meaning there are multi-storey buildings out there weighing down on these over-excavated quarries. In effect, Rome is built upon a honeycomb. You know, like the bees?’

  She pulled a face. ‘That’s not a nice thought.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How many sinkholes do you see a year?’

  ‘About eighty, but that number is rising quickly. And if we find anything of importance down there, then the sinkhole cannot be filled until our explorations are complete.’

  ‘That explains why Elena had a face like thunder when we told her about finding the new tunnels.’ Cesca had been surprised by her boss’s agitated reaction, which had bordered on a tantrum and ended with her storming off. ‘I think she must have been hoping you would present her with a priceless artefact, not a damp tunnel.’

  He nodded. ‘Her response is not unusual. People want the hole to be fixed and to get on with their lives. They see me as responsible for stopping that from
happening. You will see that I shall become more and more unpopular with the Principessa, with every day that passes.’

  Cesca watched him as he picked a few crumbs from the dough of his pizza and threw them for some sparrows that were hopping below the railings. The tiny gesture warmed her towards him. She loved those sparrows. ‘You must need a thick skin, then.’

  He glanced across at her. ‘I don’t care about other people’s opinions of me, if that’s what you mean. I have a job to do. You know the new subway planned for the city centre?’

  ‘The one that’s cost four billion euros and taken over ten years and it still hasn’t been built?’ she groaned. ‘Oh yeah, I’ve heard about it all right. Every time I go out for dinner I hear about it. Every time they dig, they hit rui—’ Cesca gasped. ‘Oh God, and you’re the guy saying no?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s my job.’

  ‘It must be like being a traffic warden,’ she grimaced. ‘Everyone hates you.’

  Cantarelli didn’t reply.

  ‘You know what I mean, though,’ she added, a little more gently, hoping he did.

  They both took a swig of beer, watching as tourists trickled in from the Piazza Angelica, stumbling upon this little nook of a square whose entrance was partly obscured from view by the unwieldy fig tree.

  ‘So why is the number of sinkholes rising?’ she asked, trying to get the conversation back onto firmer ground, so to speak.

  ‘Lots of reasons – flooding from the river, heavy rainfall, seismic shocks, and then of course human actions: leaks from the water pipelines, vibrations from traffic, excavations for networks of gas or electric or phone lines . . . it all means the substance of the structures just comes off like wet plaster. Sometimes, the membrane between the underground and the city is so thin, you can stand down there and hear voices from the streets above.’ He arched an eyebrow, his hooded round eyes pinned on her. ‘I once heard a couple . . . well, you know,’ he finished diplomatically.

  ‘You’re kidding,’ she mumbled, her mouth full but forgetting to chew. ‘And the . . . ?’

  ‘Bed?’

  ‘The bed . . . was right above a cavity?’ It was a terrifying thought.

  ‘Basically.’ He softened, smiling. ‘Don’t look so worried. I’ve been advising on a project for sinkholes in Rome, collecting data so we can identify possible locations of danger and then grade them according to their . . . how you say? Likeness? Likeness to collapse?’

  ‘Likelihood,’ she nodded.

  ‘So the authorities have got a complete 3D map of the city now, showing all the upper and lower structures at once. They know where the highest risk areas are.’

  ‘Are there many?’

  ‘Inside the ring road, there is about forty square kilometres of territory that has a very high probability of triggering a sinkhole event.’

  Cesca shuddered. ‘Well then, if you wouldn’t mind giving me a copy of that map . . .’

  Cantarelli chuckled before looking over at her, enquiringly. ‘Actually, it is a map I have been looking for,’ he said after a moment, finishing the pizza and pulling his knees up to his chest, his elbows splayed. ‘The Forma Urbis Romae?’

  ‘Never heard of it,’ she said blankly, pulling on another cheese string.

  ‘It is an ancient marble map from the third century, which covered an entire wall inside the Templum Pacis. It was very big, almost two hundred and fifty square metres, and was carved with the floorplan of every building and architectural feature in the city – it even showed staircases. For this reason it is incredibly important – whatever we can find and identify of the map, we can then verify through underground exploration.’

  ‘Wait. Let me get this straight. You’re telling me that you can trace out the original layout of Ancient Rome by going underground?’

  ‘With the guidance of the map, yes.’

  ‘But that’s so cool!’ Cesca said excitedly. ‘And you found a piece at the palazzo?’

  ‘Yes. There are fragments all over the city but it will never be restored in its entirety. Only 10 per cent is thought to remain now.’

  ‘Oh! What happened to the rest?’ Cesca frowned, finally finishing her pizza too and sucking her fingertips clean.

  ‘Most of it was destroyed during the Middle Ages. They burnt marble to make building materials like chalk and lime, and what little did survive was recycled by the Renaissance builders – they would turn it over and paint the other side for wallcoverings.’

  Cesca looked at him. ‘So you’re saying it could be lining the interiors of palaces across the city?’

  ‘It could be, but we shall never know. Just occasionally we get lucky and a shard is found. Trying to trace it is a particular passion of mine.’

  ‘And you think there’s more in the palazzo?’ she asked, her eyes sliding back to the forbidding shuttered blue facade opposite. She’d been right about that place – it kept secrets. But who said they were bad ones?

  ‘I hope so. There is a good chance, I think. The age of the building is right.’ His eyes were on the palazzo too.

  ‘And Elena knows about the tile and the map?’ She remembered Elena’s caustic comment as Cesca had stood at the top of the ladder.

  ‘Yes, I have informed her, but she has asked me to keep the information confidential. Everything I have told you today is privileged.’

  ‘Of course. But what if you find some more? Can you seize it, or is it her property?’

  ‘In the case of the sinkhole, where I found the tile, it becomes the property of the state. But if more were to be found inside the palazzo structures, it would come down to the Principessa’s generosity.’

  ‘I’m sure she would be generous. She can afford to be.’

  ‘We will see. People are less enthusiastic about historic conservation when it involves having their homes turned upside down.’

  ‘Or back to front,’ she quipped.

  He looked at her. ‘Exactly. On the plus side, we now have the new tunnels to map, which will buy me the time I need to make further explorations on the Forma Urbis Romae.’

  ‘It sounds like you’re going to be busy for the foreseeable,’ she said, thinking how exciting it was that all this should be happening beneath the very building in which she was working. She wondered if he would let her go down to the tunnels again. She wondered if they would do this again.

  As if reading her mind, he checked his watch suddenly. ‘Yes. In fact, I should get back.’

  ‘Oh! Really?’ To her surprise, Cesca realized she was disappointed. This lunch had been . . . interesting. He had a refreshingly different perspective on the world. As a barrister – former barrister, she reminded herself – she was trained to see things from two sides, but she had never met someone for whom the present could be explained so thoroughly by the past, where what was visible was less important, less treasured, than what was hidden.

  The same could be said of him, she supposed. Beneath the brusque exterior, deep, deep down he did have something of a gentle side – feeding the sparrows, hunting for treasure maps, the light in his eyes as he showed her the tunnels . . .

  He rose, looking down at her. She went to stand too, but he shook his head. ‘Enjoy the sun and the rest of your lunch break.’

  Cesca’s mouth parted, suddenly unsure of what to say. ‘Well, thanks for the pizza.’

  He nodded. ‘It was the least I could do. You save my life? I take you for pizza.’

  It was a second before she laughed, unaccustomed to this dry humour of his. She supposed it was an acknowledgement of sorts.

  ‘—And thanks for the chat,’ she called after him as he was halfway down the steps. He raised his hand in reply.

  ‘And the tour!’ she called again as he walked across the square, his shorts still dusty, a sweat patch down the back of his t-shirt, his hobnailed boots incongruous compared to everyone else’s flip-flops.

  He didn’t look back and she didn’t know what else to say, to thank him for. She was out of reasons
to keep him here, out of excuses to make him stay. And in the next moment, anyway, he was out of sight.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Ischia, August 1980

  The pretty white-walled, red-roofed town of Casamicciola bobbed outside the portholes of her suite, the turquoise water sparkling in the midday sun. Laney brushed her hair back from her face. It was still wet from her swim but she preferred not to blow-dry it in the heat; she wore no makeup either. Two reasons why she loved summer so much: a private rebellion against the glossy armour that was expected in her everyday life, a below-the-radar, two-fingered salute to the Park Avenue brigade.

  She tossed the hairbrush onto the quilted bedspread and tugged, straightened and smoothed her strappy navy terry shortsuit down her body, admiring her recent weight loss – four pounds in three days – from the grapefruit diet everyone was on now. It wasn’t for the undisciplined; very often she felt light-headed and weak, forgetful of what she was saying mid-sentence, and she frequently needed to nap. But it was still worth it to feel extra slender in her bikinis beside the famously lissom limbs of her hostess, Allegra Santi.

  Chin held high, her square Chloé sunglasses on, she left her cabin and climbed the mahogany steps to the deck of their beautiful cream schooner, the Serena. The seating area was in shade now that the awnings had been rolled out, platters of cut fruit set out on the tables, as colourful as floral displays; everyone was already showered and changed and lounging on the padded benches, talking loudly and sipping on margaritas. At thirteen, they were a rather large crowd. Most she already knew, in varying degrees, from her various annual jaunts – the Mongiardinos from skiing in St Moritz, the Packfords from sitting on a charity committee in Palm Beach, Yves Saint Laurent and his muse, Loulou de la Falaise, from Paris, of course. The two couples she hadn’t previously known she was perfectly able to tolerate for this eight-day cruise.

  ‘Laney!’ Adolfo Santi greeted her with his usual admiring visual sweep, placing a chilled glass in her hand and indicating for her to take the empty space beside him. ‘I was wondering where you were. Look at you – ravishing as always. You are like a water nymph. Your hair is always wet.’