Alice stopped and looked. The Via di San Simone was something to behold. Ten paces wide by thirty paces deep, it opened behind her to the Via dei Coronari, the Piazza San Salvatore in Lauro, and, beyond, the beige brick monolith of San Salvatore church; to her left and right, the little square was bounded by two four-story villas with cracked and crumbling walls. A combination of arched and square iron-grilled windows, some with dusty shutters, punctuated the opposing façades. Below, a smattering of patrons sat in curved iron chairs outside a gelateria and a pizzeria, chatting animatedly around iron tables with tiled tops.
Fifteen paces into the little square, a large stone staircase, edged with travertine and pitted with age, hugged the exterior of the right-hand villa, climbing toward a set of four bottle-green timber doors, each inset at head-height with an iron lace panel. At street level, the stairs extended halfway across the street, but by the time they made their way to the green doors, shifting slightly and changing angles, they retracted to a few paces width.
How, Alice wondered, without symmetry or apparent planning, did it all manage to achieve such glorious composition? She felt light-headed. Heat beat at her temples. She peeled off her cotton vest and turned toward the sound of running water. Flanked by pots of variegated glossy-leaved shrubs, a small gray iron fountain the size of a New York fire hydrant burbled water from a thin, curved spout. Alice lowered her hand and filled her palm; the water was cooler than she’d expected. She splashed her face, shuddering involuntarily, then, without thinking, squatted, formed a cup with her joined hands, and began to gulp.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you!” said Blue Backpack.
Alice paused and turned to make sure he was talking to her.
He was.
Standing next to him, Rick nodded authoritatively. “You could get dysentery.”
Alice knew, of course, that there were many cities in the world where it was essential to boil the water before drinking. She was pretty sure that Rome was not one of them. Already on their brief journey through the city she had noted a number of small fountains like this, running freely. If they were not for drinking, what would be their purpose other than to waste water? She turned and resumed drinking.
“No, really,” said Rick with some force, “I wouldn’t.”
Pushing his round John Lennon glasses up his nose, Blue Backpack decided it might be more constructive to outline the specific physical consequences of Alice’s promiscuous gulping. “You’ll get really bad stomach cramps, and then your feces will liquefy and erupt in … ergh!”
A black-leathered elbow thrust into his ribs suddenly silenced Blue Backpack.
Alice laughed and snorted water into her lungs, coughing and sputtering.
Rubbing his rib, Blue Backpack turned defensively to Rick. “I was only trying to—”
But once again he was interrupted—this time by Signore Giorgio Vincenzino, who lived in an apartment around the corner above the hairdressing salon that he had run before arthritis forced premature retirement. Unlike many Romans, Signore Giorgio liked tourists; he enjoyed seeing his city swell and almost burst with humanity at certain times of the year. In his working years he had been grateful for the extra customers, but more than that, he simply enjoyed the otherness of foreigners. Especially pretty foreigners like the young woman—English or possibly American, he guessed—trying to drink from the street fountain in Via San Simone.
“Signorina! Signorina!”
Alice turned to see an older Italian gentleman with jet-black hair walking toward her. It did not occur to her for a second that he might dye his hair, which he did, every third Thursday after morning Mass, but it did occur to her that it was far too hot for him to be wearing a three-piece suit and tie, however lightweight and impeccably cut it might be. Were they to engage in a conversation on this matter, which they did not, Signore Giorgio would have vehemently disagreed: regardless of the temperature, it was always incumbent upon a gentleman to appear finely attired when dining in public, which he had just done with his cousin Alfreda at the excellent but inexpensive Da Tonino on the Via del Governo Vecchio.
“No, no, you drink it like this, see?” said the signore. He blocked the hole at the end of the spout with his finger, causing a little geyser of water to shoot upward from another hole farther up the neck of the spout.
“Oh, look, it was even designed for drinking.” Alice made a great show of drinking down the cool, fresh water.
Signore Giorgio turned to her British backpacking audience. “You want to try?”
“Oh no, grazie, signore. Englishmen are very weak,” said Alice. “They only drink water from their mommies’ houses; otherwise, it makes them sick.” Signore Giorgio didn’t catch all the Inglese because she spoke too quickly, but he did understand that the pretty girl was enjoying a joke at the expense of the eager boys.
Slick Rick pushed Alice out of the way and drank from the fountain. Then Blue Backpack pushed Rick out of the way and drank, then Pink Polo pushed Blue Backpack out of the way. Alice tried to push her way back in, but Pink Polo flicked water at her, and Blue Backpack elbowed her out of the way. At this point, Pea Green appeared at the top of the stairs. “Come on up!” he called down to them.
* * *
That evening, Florentina, who ran her little guesthouse like clockwork, an aberration that many credited to her German grandmother, served pasta early at 8:15 P.M. Normally she was a stickler for 9:00 P.M., the traditional time for the evening meal in Rome, but seeing some of the boys rubbing their stomachs, she could tell that they were starving. Also, truth be told, she was meeting her Web designer later in preparation for relaunching Villa Florentina as Florentina B&B and wanted to get dinner over and done with as soon as possible.
Florentina held back on the garlic and chili in the ragù for the pasta because she knew that English boys had bland tastes. She was glad for the presence of the pretty American girl at her table, as it had put the boys on their best behavior. Sometimes she had the most appallingly mannered guests, especially groups of students. It was not uncommon for her to wrangle food fights. She hated to see her handmade fettuccine flying about the table. But these boys were not like that. They were pleasantly subdued. Strangely subdued, now she came to think about it.
Alice sat at the dinner table feeling awkward. A pall of restraint had descended over the boys, and she knew it was her fault; this was not the rowdy, gregarious gang that she had encountered at the airport. They were modifying themselves on her behalf, and she did not want it. Even the obnoxious one in pink was quiet. She wished she had stuck to her original plans and gone to her hostel near Termini.
Halfway through the meal, Rick looked around the dinner table, feeling a little … wonky was the best word for it. He could see that his friends were not in the best shape either. Perhaps it was the change in weather. It had been quite cool when they left Sheffield, and Rome, by contrast, felt like an oven.
Pink Polo put down his fork and announced that he was full. Next to him, Blue Backpack wrapped both his arms around his abdomen and doubled in two, almost planting his face in his pasta. With a slightly panicked look on his face, he asked whether there was a toilet downstairs and immediately absented himself. Pink Polo asked if there was a toilet upstairs and also left. They could hear his urgent footfalls thumping up the stairs when Pea Green asked to be excused as well.
Florentina knew this was not food poisoning—not from her kitchen anyway, praise Jesus—because it was all happening too fast. Alice, on the other hand, knew exactly whose fault this was. She felt sick. Not as sick as the boys, or a least a different kind of sick. Listening to the sounds of flushing toilets, opening and closing doors, and moans of misery, she waited for retribution to strike.
EIGHT
The Do-Good Sister of Via Margutta
WE ALWAYS DECEIVE OURSELVES TWICE ABOUT THE PEOPLE WE LOVE—FIRST TO THEIR ADVANTAGE, THEN TO THEIR DISADVANTAGE.
—Albert Camus, A Happy Death
In a blue-curt
ained cubicle, the doctor flicked her glossy chestnut hair over her shoulder like a model in a television commercial. She applied a third and final stitch to the cut on Alec’s forehead while he studied the amber flecks in her hazel eyes, trying not to flinch unmanfully.
“Breathe. You’re not breathing,” she said, concentrating on tying off the thread.
Alec realized that he had indeed been holding his breath. He let go, surprised by how much better he felt. He became conscious of her breath on his forehead, steady and warm. She stepped back and shifted focus from the wound to the man.
“You’ll have a small scar,” she said, “but this is a face that can carry a scar.”
“You mean so ugly it doesn’t matter?” said Alec, secretly alarmed but not wanting to appear vain.
“No, that’s not what I mean,” she said, looking boldly at him.
Alec felt his body stir and quicken. He smiled and discovered it hurt to smile.
“Where are you staying?” she asked.
“Um, some place off Piazza del Popolo.”
“That’s just near me. Near my apartment.”
Behind the doctor Meg appeared, bearing two espressos in white waxed-paper cups. “Your English is excellent!” she said with an edge intended to communicate that she had intercepted the doctor’s attempted flirtation with her husband.
“Thank you,” said the doctor, rounding her vowels crisply. “That would be because I am English.”
Alec piped up with an introduction. “Meg, this is Dr. Stephanie…” he faltered, remembering her first name but not her last.
“Cope,” she said. “Stephanie Cope.”
“Dr. Cope, this is my wife, Meg.”
“You’re married,” said the doctor.
“To each other, yes!” said Meg merrily.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize.” Stephanie briefly contemplated stabbing herself with the stitching needle or nearest scalpel. Will I ever develop a capacity for self-editing? she despaired.
“Oh, don’t be sorry,” said Meg. “We’re really very happy.”
They all laughed, but Meg laughed the hardest because she was the most hilarious. She downed her shot of espresso. Then she downed Alec’s shot for good measure.
As Dr. Stephanie put a bandage over Alec’s stitches, he took great care not to look at her.
“I’ll take the stitches out in a week or so,” said the doctor.
“We’ll be back home by then,” said Meg.
“We’re only here for a day,” said Alec.
“Only one day in Rome?” said the doctor.
“You know us Americans. Very short attention spans,” said Meg, marveling that she had never pursued a career in stand-up. They all laughed again.
Dr. Cope discharged Alec and, as it was the end of her shift and she would be heading home, offered them a lift to their hotel. Alec accepted, and Meg declined, then Meg declined on behalf of both of them. Out in the waiting room, Meg told a triage nurse to order a taxi. The nurse was so taken aback that it did not occur to him to say no.
Outside, the sky had intensified to a deep brilliant blue, electrified by the setting sun. Having absorbed the heat of the day, the stones of Rome were now radiating it back in eddies. They waited with their bags on the small pedestrian island in the parking area until it became clear that no taxi was coming. Meg tried calling one from her cell but could not understand the stream of Italian that poured forth, so she hung up. She called back again and shouted instructions over the top of the person speaking, but this had no effect either. Eventually, Alec persuaded her to cross the small bridge that connected the island to the rest of the city and try their luck on the busy Lungotevere where traffic was passing all the time.
Despite assurances that he was perfectly fine, Meg forced Alec to sit on their luggage while she attempted to wave down a taxi. A powder-blue Fiat Bambino slowed, and Dr. Cope wound down the driver’s window. “Come on,” she said. “You’ll never get a cab at this hour.” Meg begged to differ; it had been her experience, with the right dress and shoes, that she could hail a cab in Rome at any time. Nevertheless, she accepted the offer with a smile.
It soon became apparent that the only way to squeeze the three of them and their bags into the silly little car was to wedge Meg in the backseat and feed the bags through the sunroof on top of her. Alec pretended to be concerned for Meg’s comfort, but she could tell that he was loving the sight of her with limbs enfolded, face squished against the side window. You’ll keep, she thought.
As Stephanie negotiated the traffic like a rally driver, it occurred to Meg that she was one of those annoying women who did everything well. In the front seat Alec was thinking exactly the same thing about the pretty doctor, only he didn’t find it annoying at all.
“This is very kind,” said Alec.
Stephanie flashed him a smile in return. “Actually, you’re doing me the favor,” she said. “I can’t tell you what a relief it is to be able to prattle away in English for a while.”
“So what brought you to Rome?” he asked.
Dr. Stephanie sighed. “I spent the last few years in a medical unit in Gaza, and before that I was at an orphanage in Baghdad,” she said. “So I guess I’m going through some compassion fatigue. I guess that’s what you’d call it. Anyway, Rome seemed like the perfect place to recoup. That sounds very self-indulgent, doesn’t it?”
“Not at all,” said Alec, delighted that his wife was listening.
With her face pressed against the window, Meg was still able to roll her eyes.
The Fiat swept around the great graceful oval of the Piazza del Popolo, past its ancient central obelisk, and headed down the busy shopping strip of Via del Babuino, brimming with Romans and tourists alike. Meg usually thrived in the evening heat, but she was beginning to melt.
“What brings you to Rome?” Dr. Stephanie asked.
“What brings us to Rome?” Alec said.
Meg had no idea which way he was going to go with this. He might confess the true nature of their—what had he called it?—vacuous and unimportant mission, seizing the opportunity to contrast the nobility of the woman in the front seat with the superficiality of the woman in the backseat. Or. He may be too embarrassed to confess the pale motivation for their journey and simply make something up.
Both would have been defeats in Meg’s eyes, so she leaped in before he could say anything more. “We’re here on a secret mission,” she said. “We could tell you what it is, but then of course we’d have to kill you.” It was a tired line, but it was edgy, Meg thought; not quite war-zone edgy, but it did the job.
“Oh, look, this is my street! And yours now,” said Dr. Stephanie. As she turned right from the Vicolo dell’Orto di Napoli into the Via Margutta, she gestured airily to her left. “Fellini used to live down there.”
Of course he did, thought Meg. Of course you live on the most stupidly beautiful street where a famous film director once held court. Of course. Just then, to add insult to injury, all the way down the Via Margutta, the coach lights flickered on. It was a magical sight.
“And I’m in there,” said Stephanie, pointing to a magnificent courtyard draped in Virginia creeper and lanterns of purple wisteria. “It’s just a tiny studio.”
Meg immediately imagined a vast rococo suite, complete with its own walnut-floored ballroom, but if they had stopped to look in, she would have seen that Stephanie was not exaggerating. The studio was tiny. It was also beautiful. It had been a part of a coach house, built into the boundary wall of the garden of a Renaissance villa. The villa had long been divided into flats and studios, once inhabited by painters and sculptors. On the ground floor a few galleries still displayed art, but this was clearly no longer an area for struggling artists—or anyone who struggled, for that matter.
The owner of Stephanie’s building had given her the studio for very low rent in the hope of forging a closer bond with the lovely doctor, preferably every Tuesday and Thursday night, when his wife was at bridge. But
Stephanie, oblivious, in her Anglo-Saxon way, to the kind of Latin contract she had unwittingly entered, simply smiled and laughed when her benefactor made the first of several advances. Eventually, he had given up.
Moving slowly now through the press of pedestrians, they approached a wall fountain of two gargoyles mounted on angular stone that gave it an odd, military air. As they passed, Meg saw a girl place a champagne flute under the gargoyle’s stream and fill it with water. It occurred to her, not for the first time, that nothing in Rome, not a single gesture, ever seemed ordinary. The car passed antique shops and exclusive boutiques, jewels gleaming enticingly from subtly lit alcoves. A gallery blasted great splashes of color from huge vivid canvases.
“This is you,” said Stephanie as she pulled into the entrance of the Hotel San Marco lined with terra-cotta pots of lovingly tended Buxus and azaleas. Alec looked up at the magnificent yellow-washed palazzo draped luxuriously in glossy vines. A doorman dressed in a cool gray silk suit opened the door and extracted the luggage through the sunroof so Meg could unfold her sweaty limbs and clamber out of the backseat.
It was not an elegant entrance, but Meg was well pleased with the destination.
“Actually, I’ve got the day off tomorrow,” Stephanie began to say. “I could—”
Meg cut her off. “We’ll be running around like crazy people, but thanks for the offer.”
Alec shook Stephanie’s hand and added, “And thanks for the brain surgery.”
“All part of the service,” said Stephanie. “It was great to meet you.”
“You, too,” said Alec. Without looking at his wife, he added, “Would you like to join us for some supper?”
One Summer Day in Rome Page 5
