The Rome Affair

by Karen Swan

  Elena would no doubt struggle to suppress her usual look of bafflement at Cesca’s outfit when they met up this afternoon for the next interview. As for Cantarelli – what was it he’d said last night? ‘I do not understand your clothes.’ What did that even mean? Why did they need to be understood? She bet he didn’t have any problems understanding Isabella’s clothes. She was the kind of ‘matching bra and knickers’ woman who dressed for men.

  Not that she had any intention of seeing him anyway, she thought to herself, banishing him from her mind again and closing her eyes as another cooling gust of wind swept over her. She wouldn’t be troubling him with the bother of trying to ‘understand’ today’s outfit. This place was plenty big enough for the both of them, she would personally see to—

  ‘Oh!’ Tea slopped over her hands, splashing the floor, as she found herself suddenly travelling backwards, rebounding off something hard. ‘Bugger!’ she cried, setting the mug down quickly and rubbing the tea off her skin with her dress before it scalded her.

  Nico, doing the same and holding his polo shirt away from his stomach, watched. ‘Are you okay?’

  She looked up at him in disbelief. Seriously? Of all the people . . . ? ‘Yes. Thank you,’ she said tightly.

  ‘You weren’t looking where you were going.’

  She stopped rubbing her arm and glared at him. ‘Oh well, just so long as we’ve established who’s at fault,’ she said sarcastically, picking up the mug and striding past him.

  ‘I didn’t mean . . . Cesca!’

  She didn’t stop, the sound of her own blood rushing through her ears. What was it with that man?

  ‘Cesca, wait.’ His hand was on her arm.

  ‘What? I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘I thought we could talk.’

  ‘We talked last night. You, me and Isabella, remember?’

  Oh, why had she said that? She saw the confusion in his eyes – and then the clarity. ‘That is right,’ he said, jamming his hand in his trouser pocket. ‘And my sister very much enjoyed meeting you.’

  ‘Your sis—?’

  He stared at her, his eyes hard and probing, as if trying to see into her, but she could tell he couldn’t gauge her at all. She was a riddle he could not read. ‘Of course, it was a shame your boyfriend could not have joined us. We could have made a four.’

  Now it was her turn to look baffled. ‘My boyfriend?’

  ‘Yes, Matteo, is that not his name? He took you home on Friday. Did you pass on Silvano’s message to him, by the way?’

  ‘Matteo’s not my boyfriend!’ she scoffed. ‘He’s the most terrible tart. He’s just a friend.’

  ‘I see.’ Nico nodded but bemusement danced through his eyes and she realized it had been a trick question. An ambush of sorts. His eyes still danced. Were they . . . flirting?

  ‘Well, I can introduce him to your sister if you li—’

  ‘No.’ Nico shook his head, firmly, his eyes still dancing.

  Cesca felt her muscles tighten under his stare. What was going on here?

  ‘I was coming to find you—’ he said finally.

  She tensed, remembering what he’d tried to start last night – a conversation about Friday, digging away at whatever it was she’d said, the memory still hidden from her, yet somehow grinding in the pit of her stomach.

  ‘—We’ve mapped the first tunnel.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Would you like to see?’

  ‘I-I . . .’ she stammered. The thought of being alone with him in the dark both excited and terrified her.

  ‘It cannot be now. The area is restricted, naturally. It would have to be this evening.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ She looked down at her now-tea-splashed dress. ‘I’m not dressed for it.’

  He looked at her dress too. ‘No.’ A puzzled silence passed before he added, ‘We could give you a suit to wear.’

  He meant a boilersuit; not a grey flannel one of the single-breasted variety. She had seen some of the men in them – navy, rugged all-in-ones – but she was remembering how good he had looked in his dinner suit last night.

  ‘You will like it . . .’

  The suit or the tunnel?

  ‘Meet me outside at 6 p.m. Everyone will be gone by then.’

  He didn’t wait for an answer, turning and disappearing around the corner before she could say either yes or no.

  ‘I guess it’s a date, then,’ she murmured, listening to the sound of his heavy boots receding on the marble, every bit as incongruous in this place as she.

  ‘. . . What people need to understand, Francesca, is that I never saw them as a “string” of husbands. I never, ever thought I would divorce once, much less three times. I was just a young woman, making mistakes like anyone else. I can see there’s almost a pattern to it, when I look back: I married too young, so then I swung the other way and married someone too old. And when that didn’t work, I stopped looking for ways out of the life I knew and tried marrying within it to someone who was just like me – famous and rich, but also isolated, marginalized. Steve and I would have been a match made in heaven but for one crucial aspect. Although we moved in the same circles when we met, he hadn’t been born to that life and that made all the difference in the world; I can see that now. I was jaded and tired – I wanted to settle down, have a family and make a home, but he wanted even more of it; he couldn’t get enough. Fame, money – it was like a drug to him. He wanted to be seen with all the right people at all the right parties. God forbid we should spend a night at home on our own. Right from the start, we were pulling in different directions.’

  Elena, standing by the bookcase, looked back at her. She looked older, somehow, today, her eyes pale and rheumy. She shook her head sadly. ‘I was desperate to make it work. I tried everything I could. The shame I felt that my third marriage was breaking up was immense. My father had recently died, I felt alone and such a failure.’

  She inhaled, filling herself up with air – energy – and beginning to pace again as Cesca watched from her perch on the sofa. ‘But looking at the positives – and there were many – Steve was . . . he was a sweet man. Ferociously talented, of course, but that was often overlooked; Redford had the same problem. He had just won Best Supporting Actor for his role in City Lights when we got together, but he kept getting offered the same parts – the lover, the sexy waiter – and he wanted to be known for more than just his looks. It frustrated him enormously and, even back then, he was already beginning to talk about getting behind the camera. It was the only way he could be taken seriously.’

  Cesca had spent a long time looking over his photographs. Steve Easton was a name that she recognized, although she couldn’t necessarily have put a face to the name as, in her lifetime, he’d worked only as a director. The camera loved him, though, and he was perhaps the most handsome of all of Elena’s husbands to date. Yet he seemed to have a hard-edged arrogance in his demeanour. His eye met the lens in almost every image, challenging it (or the person taking it) somehow.

  ‘Did you live in Hollywood?’

  ‘Not really. It was never my scene. Besides, Steve signed up to a long stint on Broadway, so most of our marriage was spent living in New York. It was the place to be back then, anyway. Studio 54, all the biggest names playing at Madison Square Garden . . . our marriage may have been falling apart but we were having a ball. Ironic, isn’t it?’

  Cesca had to agree. Marriage and divorce number three brought with them perhaps the most exciting collection of images yet. Cesca had known immediately upon delving into the box scrawled with ‘New York 1975–79’ that it contained exactly the kind of thing the publishers would want. Every big name of the era was in there in one frame or another: the Studio 54 set – Andy Warhol, Mick and Bianca Jagger, Liza Minnelli, Calvin Klein and Halston; rock giants the Rolling Stones, the Eagles and Fleetwood Mac (some taken backstage on tour), as well as some studio shots with John Lennon and Yoko; Manhattan royalty with Jackie Onassis in her iconic sunglasses,
Truman Capote and Rudolf Nureyev; and Hollywood stars Barbra Streisand, John Travolta, Jane Fonda, Robert Redford . . .

  ‘What was Warhol like?’ Cesca asked, more out of genuine curiosity than mere professional diligence. Their routine was well rehearsed by now: a pot of tea, some judiciously chosen pictures and the anecdotes and stories came rushing out. But Elena had surprised her today with her frankness, revealing some vulnerability for once instead of simply pushing an image of heady happiness. She felt Elena was beginning to trust her, that they were beginning to understand one another. Hell, they’d even started socializing together! Elena had been right that first day in Cesca’s apartment when she’d said she could see them as friends.

  ‘Rather spooky. He once came to a dinner and sat in the corner all night. He didn’t say a word.’

  Cesca gasped and giggled at once. ‘That’s so rude!’

  Elena shrugged. ‘He was an artist. I’ve always found it best to be tolerant of their sensitive moods.’

  A sudden terrible crash outside made them both jump.

  ‘Oh my God, what was that?’ Cesca gasped, rushing to the window.

  A small spider crane, which had been lowering the building props into the sinkhole, had toppled onto its side, the hydraulic arm still moving, cutting deeper and deeper grooves into what remained of the courtyard.

  ‘Oh no! My garden!’ Elena cried, her hands to her mouth as they watched the driver emerge tentatively from the upturned cab. ‘Do you think he’s all right?’

  ‘He looks okay. Just a bit shaken,’ Cesca said, watching as Nico climbed into the cab himself to turn off the ignition and stop the arm from swinging dangerously, before ordering the team to help the driver to sit down, get water . . .

  ‘This will mean yet another delay, no doubt,’ Elena tutted, moving away from the glass. ‘Honestly, why can’t they just be done with it? If it weren’t for my friendship with his mother, I’d have put my foot down weeks ago. They can’t remain camped out there for the rest of the summer.’

  ‘He said it’s for your own safety. The city’s effectively sitting on a honeycomb and with the discovery of these tunnels running beneath your garden and possibly the palace too, he said they need to check they’re stable before they close up the sinkhole again.’

  Elena looked bemused. ‘You seem to know an awful lot about it, Francesca. Have you been spending much time with Signor Cantarelli?’

  Cesca blushed. ‘No. Of course not. It was just what he said the other day when I went down there on your behalf.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Elena said, seeming to see much more as she turned away from the window and walked back to the chairs.

  ‘Nic— Signor Cantarelli,’ Cesca corrected herself, ‘said you already knew about the service tunnel.’

  ‘Of course. Vito loved to regale me with stories of how he and his brother would play in it as children. It was one of their favourite games, hiding from their parents at bedtime, scooting down the east wing and popping up in the west wing moments later. It infuriated their father, apparently. He was a rather strict figure by all accounts.’

  ‘Victorian Dad,’ Cesca smiled.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Elena appeared not to have heard her.

  ‘It’s a saying – referring to strict fathers.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s a British thing.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’ She seemed distracted.

  ‘Did you ever meet him? Vito’s father?’

  ‘No. He died when the boys were teenagers. Poor man, I get the impression he was as shackled by the responsibilities upon him as Vito came to be.’

  ‘What do you mean, “shackled”?’ Cesca probed. It was a strong word to use.

  ‘People think having a title and owning something like this is all glamour but it comes with a huge amount of responsibility – when Vito took over the running of the palace, it employed over a hundred staff. You become a figurehead, not a person. When I first got here, I thought the best thing about marrying into the Nobiltà nera was having a parking permit for the Vatican City,’ she quipped drily. ‘But social standing underwrites everything in this city. Its importance cannot be underestimated – even now, when so many of the noble families have lost their fortunes and had to sell their estates. The obligation remains: charity, duty, discretion above all else.’ She sighed, sounding weary now. ‘I used to think duty was a mild concept – rather boring, almost, and held against one’s own will – but as I have got older, I see it as a form of love, a passionate, raging thing.’

  ‘Could you give me an example of what you mean?’

  ‘Well, take Vito’s father. He worked with the Italian Resistance, first against Mussolini, who tried to plunder the art collection here, and later the Waffen-SS, who comman-deered the palazzo as their headquarters in 1943. For two years, the Nazi flag hung from those windows looking onto the piazza, bringing shame onto the Damiani name. But Vito’s father crafted a plan, running bombs into that very service tunnel. Such was his sense of duty, he was prepared to sacrifice himself and blow up his family home, this awe-inspiring building, just to rid his city of those German invaders. Can you imagine possessing such conviction, such love for something, that you would put a bomb under your own life to preserve it?’ Elena stared, unseeing, at the piazza on the other side of the far windows. She stared for so long that Cesca even began to wonder if something was the matter. ‘That is what I mean when I say duty can be love and it can be a passionate, raging thing.’

  ‘What happened?’

  But Elena didn’t reply; she didn’t seem to hear her, still lost in her thoughts. ‘. . . I’m sorry, what?’

  ‘Well, it can’t have worked – the plan. I mean, the palazzo’s still standing. Was Vito’s father caught?’

  ‘Oh. No.’ She shook her head and slowly wandered back to the small armchair, lowering herself into it gingerly. ‘I’m afraid it was far more boring than that. The Allies won. His father’s plan wasn’t needed in the end.’ She closed her eyes, looking depleted. ‘Aurelio always said he thought it was the greatest tragedy of his father’s life, to have been robbed of his moment in history and instead have to settle down as a dutiful father and husband.’

  ‘Aurelio?’

  ‘Vito’s twin,’ Elena murmured, leaning her head back and closing her eyes for a moment.

  ‘Oh, right,’ Cesca said in surprise. ‘Were they identical?’

  ‘As exactly as it’s possible to be.’

  ‘Could you tell them apart?’ Cesca asked. She’d always been fascinated by the concept of twins, ever since – as a left-hander – reading that left-handed people were likely to be the surviving twin of an early miscarriage. ‘. . . Elena?’

  But to her astonishment, she saw that Elena was asleep. That interview – and all the answers to her questions – would have to wait.

  ‘One size fits all, huh?’ Cesca asked, rolling up the arms and legs of the boilersuit. Aside from being enormous, it was also incredibly hot to wear. ‘I think I’d prefer to wear my own clothes, thanks.’

  ‘No. You must wear it. To protect your skin.’

  Cesca glanced at him as she put on the hard hat he handed to her. Now he cared about her skin? After two accidents and countless grazes?

  Somehow, the crane had been righted again and was standing motionless in the dusk.

  ‘You had an accident today – I saw,’ she said.

  He looked up; he’d been checking the ladder was stable. ‘You saw?’

  ‘Yes. It was very brave of you to jump into the cab when the arm was still moving about like that.’

  He looked away disapprovingly and she sighed, flopping her arms down to her sides. Whatever she had daydreamed this evening might be, she already knew this wasn’t it. Nico was in a distant mood, barely looking at her, even seeming surprised when she’d turned up, and so far he had spent more time examining images on his beloved computer than talking to her. ‘Okay. Shall we get this over with, then?’ she asked.

  Her words made him stare but she heade
d for the ladder, knowing this part of the drill at least. At the bottom, she waited for him, turning on her head torch herself this time, and let him lead her the short distance through the makeshift shaft into the service tunnel.

  They crept through the narrow, low cavity in silence, apart from the occasional warning from Nico to ‘mind’ something. He gave her a leg up again into the overhead tunnel and she waited for him on the other side, marvelling once more at the vast space that opened up. It was almost like a subway station down there. How could it be thousands of years old?

  ‘Ready?’ Nico asked, dropping down beside her. That grin was back on his face again now that they were down here, the one that rarely seemed to surface above ground. He was like a little boy in a sweet shop.

  ‘As I’ll ever be,’ she replied, following after him with a bemused smile in spite of herself. He made her emotions bounce like a yo-yo.

  ‘See this?’ he asked as they got to the delta of the tunnels, pointing out a taut length of string drawn over with blue chalk, which stretched out of sight down one of the tunnels. He pinged it, and she saw the chalk make a line along the brick wall. ‘It is a backup for getting out, in case the string should fail.’

  ‘Why should it fail?’

  He shrugged. ‘Rats.’

  She shuddered. ‘Wish I hadn’t asked,’ she mumbled as he headed on again.

  ‘See how wide this is?’ he said from ahead, arms out-stretched to the sides yet unable to reach either wall. ‘It is to allow carts through. Probably for carrying firewood along here.’

  It could easily have accommodated a family-sized saloon, Cesca found herself thinking.

  They continued walking – Nico just ahead, even though it was wide enough to walk side by side. It was so dark, only what fell within the scope of her head-torch beam could be seen at all. ‘Are you okay?’ he called back intermittently.

  ‘Uh huh,’ she replied, thinking it was lucky she wasn’t afraid of the dark, or confined spaces, or being metres underground with a grumpy man she barely knew.