One Summer Day in Rome

by Mark Lamprell

  “Oh, Alec, the poor doctor wants to get home and relax,” said Meg brightly. “Besides, we haven’t even checked in yet.”

  Stephanie took the hint and said her good-byes.

  “Maybe next time,” said Alec.

  He watched the doctor execute an awkward five-point turn and head back down the Via Margutta. Then he went inside and joined Meg, who was checking in.

  “I think she wanted to stay,” he said to his wife.

  “I think she wanted to have your babies, though Lord knows how she’d schedule it between immunizing the orphans and saving the rebel soldiers,” said Meg without pausing from searching in the recesses of her vast vintage Gucci shoulder bag for their passports.

  “I prefer you when you’re jealous,” said Alec. “You get this really interesting edge.”

  Meg excused herself from the desk clerk. She took a breath and faced her husband. A summation of her adventure thus far formed in her head: She’d just flown halfway around the world and been in a car wreck that she was partly if not wholly responsible for; a car wreck that had caused the destruction of an irreplaceable and uninsured Chinese urn as well as almost killing him (her husband) and an obese father of eight who worked part-time as a courier. She’d been in an ambulance, taken to hospital, and accosted by a hairy nurse. She was tired and hungry and badly in need of a shower, and she didn’t give a flying fig about some British twit rushing around the world saving everyone.

  She was on the brink of sharing all this with Alec when she suddenly thought better of it. Instead she flashed him one of her smiles and said, “Let’s go have an Aperol Spritz, okay?”

  NINE

  Ponte Sant’ Angelo

  THERE IS A LAND OF THE LIVING AND A LAND OF THE DEAD AND THE BRIDGE IS LOVE, THE ONLY SURVIVAL, THE ONLY MEANING.

  —Thornton Wilder, The Bridge of San Luis Rey

  During the Middle Ages, huge numbers of pilgrims flocked to Rome from all over Europe. As part of their holy journey to the basilica of Saint Peter, they would make their way down the Via dei Coronari, stopping to buy religious souvenirs from the rosary bead vendors, the Coronari, who lined the street. Afterward, they would cross the river over the bridge, Ponte Sant’Angelo, and walk through a maze of streets into the Vatican. Just before they reached the bridge, a Roman arch and a cluster of buildings caused the passage to narrow, and on busy days the crowds would often be funneled to a standstill at this point. Pilgrims would sometimes panic, pushing and shoving in a most unholy manner.

  I will never forget one terrible day in 1450. The veil of Saint Veronica was a hugely popular relic back then. It was a cloth, miraculously impregnated with an image of the Savior’s face after Veronica had wiped it on the path to Calvary. At the time the relic was so embedded in popular culture that it was referred to simply as “the Veronica,” and when displayed at the Vatican, as it regularly was, thousands flocked to see it.

  On this particular day, word came from the Vatican that the Veronica was to be taken down. Pilgrims panicked and rushed to the basilica lest they miss one of its main attractions. When they reached the bridge, there was such a crush around the arch that people fell underfoot and were trampled. In desperation the crowd surged over the bridge. The balustrades collapsed, and pilgrims toppled into the Tiber. In the end hundreds died, crushed or drowned, among them a gypsy girl named Angela.

  Angela had been one of my charges. Recently widowed, she was supporting a one-year-old boy and an invalid father. I had been in the process of brokering a romance between her and a potter named Melozzo when an extraordinary thing happened. I became enchanted with her. A dazzling truthfulness in the directness of her gaze had somehow enraptured me. I found myself frequenting Melozzo’s tile store, where she worked. One day as she was locking up for the night, Angela paused and said to the room, empty except for the piles of tiles, “I go because I know I will return.” I decided then that I would make this humble tile shop my base, my home, and wait here for Angela to return. The next day, the balustrades collapsed, and she drowned in the Tiber, one of hundreds.

  In response to this terrible loss of life, Pope Sixtus IV ordered the demolition of the arch as well as the buildings at the entrance to the bridge. It was a wise decision; the number of visiting pilgrims continued to grow, but the tragedy never repeated. In time, no one was left to remember a single name from the hundreds who had fallen. No one except me.

  Eventually, via circuitous means, I was able to inspire Pope Clement VII to commission statues of the apostles and prophets to guard the bridge and honor the dead. They stood on that bridge for a hundred years in remembrance of Angela, but somehow it was not enough.

  When Pope Clement IX commissioned the brilliant Gian Lorenzo Bernini to replace the stucco statues with ten astonishing marble angels, he thought it was his idea. I am aware that this is a grand claim to make, particularly given that Clement is no longer with us to refute it, but the inspiration was actually mine, transmitted to the pope via the newly laid floor tiles in his bedchamber. I do not make this claim to appear clever or powerful but merely to establish the facts. The bridge, with its angels standing sentinel, provides passage for pilgrims six centuries later. But be in no doubt about this: if ever there was a bridge built of love, it is this one. Among the genii of Rome, the Ponte Sant’Angelo is kindly referred to as the Ponte d’Angela.

  * * *

  Heading down the Via di Panico, Constance and Lizzie glimpsed a mighty set of wings and knew they were near. A breeze from the river brought blessed relief from the dusky heat, cooling their sweat-dampened clothes. Lizzie offered for the third or fourth time to share the load of the Henry box that Constance was carrying inside a Harrods bag. Once again her sister-in-law refused.

  Outside the Ponte Sant’Angelo Methodist Church, the two women paused to listen to a spinto soprano singing Puccini from within. Constance put down the Harrods bag and rested. Then they crossed the Lungotevere Tor di Nona and paused, briefly this time, to take in the bridge. A diminutive elderly man, bent almost in two, shuffled toward them, one hand working a cane, the other holding an empty cap. He reached toward Constance with this cap, smiling a toothless grin.

  “He’s a gypsy,” said Lizzie, sotto voce, looking everywhere but at him.

  “I know that,” said Constance, gripping her Harrods bag.

  “Don’t give him any money. He’ll follow us.”

  Constance uncharacteristically obeyed her sister-in-law. “Mi dispiace. Buonasera,” she said to the man.

  The man bowed low, twisted his face up toward Constance, offered another smile, and returned her greeting without malice or disappointment. Lizzie immediately felt mean. Why did she stop Constance like that? What harm would it have done to hand him a couple of euros? For a moment she contemplated rushing after him, but then she remembered there were more pressing matters at hand.

  Henry had requested that his ashes be scattered by the Ponte Sant’Angelo, and finally they were here. The old ladies walked to the middle of the bridge. Constance rested the Harrods bag on the balustrade and removed the Henry box. The sun hung low in the sky; the air was thick with heat and honey-colored light. The cooling breeze rippled the surface of the Tiber and caressed the world.

  The moment was perfect. Lizzie rested her hand on Constance’s hand.

  “I’ll never forget scattering Angus Millington into the sea at Dover,” said Constance. “Perfectly fine day. Not a cloud in the sky, hardly the mention of a breeze, until Daphne tipped the ashes out of the urn. Then—whoosh—there was this enormous gust of wind, and suddenly we were all covered in bits of Angus. Up our noses. In the ears. Daphne was mortified, of course. We all were. But we did laugh afterward.”

  This was not the sacred moment Lizzie had imagined for the scattering of her brother’s ashes. She looked at Constance, wondering what was going on.

  “Possibly not the best timing for that story,” said Constance, “but do let’s make sure we’re upwind of Henry.” She turned to Lizzie and ob
served a couple of stray hairs, escaped from a bobby pin, trailing in front of her face. “Oh no, we’re fine; the breeze is on our backs.”

  “Constance?”

  “Yes, girlie?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m a bit nervy.”

  “Of course you are, sweetheart.”

  Lizzie put her hand on Constance’s back and gave her a supportive pat.

  Constance twisted away. The Henry box rested on the balustrade of the bridge, but Constance made no move to open it.

  “Would you like me to help you?” said Lizzie.

  “No, no. Here we go.”

  Clutching the Henry box, Constance bent as far as she could to look down into the water. Lizzie wondered for a moment whether she was going to throw the whole kit and caboodle into the river. “You still have the lid on,” she said gently.

  Constance nodded. Lizzie looked around. While they did have official permission to bring Henry’s ashes to Italy, they had not actually asked permission to release him into the Tiber. And she certainly didn’t want to be negotiating now with the Polizia di Stato or the Carabinieri, or the Guardia di Finanza, or the Polizia Penitenziaria, or the Corpo Forestale dello Stato, or the Polizia Provinciale, or the Polizia Municipale.

  “Are we waiting for something in particular, darling?” said Lizzie.

  “In a moment, when the sun is a little lower—oh, here we go—the angels will turn red.”

  Lizzie turned to look at the ten white Bernini angels hovering around them. They had already turned sunset pink, and now, as the sun bled into the horizon, they turned red, a deep fiery red. Lizzie held her breath, witnessing a miracle. This would be the moment.

  But nothing happened. Lizzie did not look at her sister-in-law but could tell that she was not moving. Soon the statues began to fade. She looked to the horizon as the sun melted into it. Finally, Constance started to remove the lid of the box. Then she paused.

  “I’ll help,” said Lizzie. “We’ll do it together.”

  “Not yet,” said Constance.

  Lizzie gently put her hands on the lid of the Henry box. Constance tried to move the box away from her, but Lizzie gripped the box.

  “I can’t,” said Constance plainly.

  “It’s getting dark,” said Lizzie firmly.

  Lizzie started to draw the box away from Constance. She could feel Constance yield. Then without explanation Constance gripped the box and tried to pull it back toward her. Lizzie, however, was determined and did not loosen her grip. It hovered between them, marooned by equal and opposite forces. To break the impasse, Lizzie yanked the box. Startled, Constance stumbled back, wrenching it from Lizzie’s grip.

  “Stop it!” said Constance.

  Feeling as if she had suddenly reentered the earth’s atmosphere, Lizzie said, “I’m sorry, darling. I’m so sorry.”

  “Tomorrow. Can we come back tomorrow?” said Constance. “In the day? In the light?”

  “Of course we can,” said Lizzie. “We’ll come back tomorrow.”

  Back on the Lungotevere, the old ladies hailed a taxi and crossed the city to the Hotel Montini. The reception desk was unmanned, so they could not order any dinner. This did not matter; they were too tired to eat anyway. Lizzie made them cups of Irish breakfast tea using the kettle and complimentary tea bags on the credenza while Constance opened the doors to the roof garden to admit some of the cooler night air. They drank their tea in silence, and Constance retired with barely a word.

  Lizzie lay in bed watching Constance sleep, or pretend to sleep, feeling hurt and confused but knowing that above all it was her duty to extend kindness to her sister-in-law, who had, after all, suffered the greater bereavement. Lizzie had never had a relationship with someone who she could claim to be “the love of her life,” but Constance had. Lizzie had often envied Henry and Constance’s grand passion but, of course, there was a price for everything. And now Constance was paying it.

  * * *

  Sunrise seemed to herald a slightly cooler day than the previous one, although in Rome it was always hard to tell. Lizzie, who had barely slept, showered quickly and busied herself decapitating dying geraniums on the terrace while Constance seemed to take an age in their shared bathroom. When she finally emerged, Constance was bustling with efficiency. “I’ve found the most wonderful spot to dry our delicates,” she said.

  “Oh, marvelous,” said Lizzie.

  “Oh, God,” said Constance.

  “What?”

  “I’m talking like an old lady.”

  “We are old ladies,” said Lizzie.

  Constance laughed, and then Lizzie laughed, surprised by the extent of her relief that equilibrium had been restored.

  Bronco knocked on the door bearing a breakfast tray. He knew it was foolish to feel resentful—this was, after all, his job—but he felt it anyway. They ate like birds, these old ladies. It was hardly worth bringing it up in the elevator. On Lizzie’s instruction, he loped across the room and set the breakfast on the terrace.

  When he had gone, Constance sat at the breakfast table, bracing herself for the inevitable conversation that was to follow. She knew she owed Lizzie an explanation, and probably an apology, and was contemplating how to begin when Lizzie dove straight into the deep end.

  “Last night, at the bridge,” said Lizzie, “what happened?”

  “Coffee?” said Constance, feeling her back stiffen.

  Lizzie nodded, and Constance poured. Her arm was sore, too, from lugging Henry around in the Harrods bag.

  “Last night … last night…” said Constance, sounding like the ingénue she never was.

  “You were quite peculiar, you know,” said Lizzie, not letting her get away with anything.

  “I know,” said Constance. Then she stopped and decided on a different tack. “Last night on the bridge something occurred to me. It occurred to me that possibly Henry’s motives for being scattered into the river weren’t … how shall I put this?”

  “I have no idea, but you certainly have my complete and undivided attention,” Lizzie said, dry as a bone. Have we suddenly been transported to an Agatha Christie novel? she wondered.

  “I think Henry may have had a reason for wanting to be scattered from the bridge,” said Constance.

  “It’s where you met,” Lizzie reminded her.

  “I think there is another reason. I think before we take Henry to the bridge today we make a visit to a little church, just off the Campo. I think this is the best place to begin to … one sugar?”

  “Yes, please,” said Lizzie, on the edge of her seat. “To begin to…?”

  “Explain,” said Constance, clasping a sugar cube with a pair of silver tongs.

  TEN

  Via di San Simone

  HOW RIDICULOUS AND WHAT A STRANGER HE IS WHO IS SURPRISED AT ANYTHING THAT HAPPENS IN LIFE.

  —Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

  Florentina had returned to her guesthouse, soon to be relaunched as Florentina B&B, with a glorious sunshine-yellow-and-burnt-orange logo, in the early hours of the morning. Her session with the Web designer had become amorous, and they ended up making violent love on the floor in the space between his mother’s sofa bed and his grandmother’s coffee table. She had thoroughly enjoyed the interlude, although during part of it, her lover’s discarded boot had been pressing into her spine, which had resulted in an aching back.

  In the morning Florentina woke to discover her back had seized. She managed to roll sideways out of bed, shuffle to the kitchen, and place a few help-yourself items on the table. She scribbled a note saying, Help yoursef (minus the l in self) and shuffled back to bed, unintentionally slamming the door behind her.

  Alice woke to the door slam and went to the communal bathroom for a shower. It was empty but filled with the lingering and unmistakable smell of diarrhea. Serves me right, she thought. She opened the window as wide as she could and took the shortest shower she had ever taken.

  Rick woke to the sounds of cli
nking in the kitchen directly below him. He was dimly aware that his friends had been up and down all night, but with the exception of one horrendous explosion he seemed to have been spared. He dressed quickly and went downstairs, delighted to find Alice alone in the kitchen, squeezing a halved orange on something that looked like a metal rocket. The table was set with rough-sawn bread, a great block of pale-yellow cheese, cabanossi or salami, he wasn’t sure which, and a pile of glazed pastry.

  He noticed something at his feet. It was a note saying Help yoursef. He thought, Don’t mind if I do, announcing his arrival with an “Aha.”

  Alice turned and saw him. “Morning. How are the boys? Would you like some orange juice? Is it dysentery?”

  “Looks like you and I are the only survivors. Yes, please.”

  “Oh, God, I feel so bad,” said Alice, holding up two empty glasses. “Big or small?”

  “Don’t feel bad. Small. Look upon it as an opportunity.”

  “To…?” said Alice, squeezing him an orange juice.

  They both paused to register the sound of the front door opening and closing.

  “For you and I to get to know each other,” Rick said. “Does a turn of the Colosseum tickle your fancy?”

  Pea Green T-shirt, whose real name was August Clutterbuck, appeared holding a twelve-pack of toilet paper. August had been born in October and didn’t see the point of his forename. When he complained about it at a family dinner once, his grandfather had squinted in consternation and said, “But October would be a ridiculous name for a boy.” After that, August gave up. For a brief time when he started his A levels, he tried to get his friends to call him “Gus,” but the moniker never seemed to stick.

  Standing in front of Alice, he was suddenly conscious of holding a great stack of paper used for wiping people’s bottoms. He thought about putting it behind his back but decided that would only draw attention and possibly ridicule. He also regretted that he was wearing a green T-shirt almost identical to the one he was wearing yesterday; it would appear that he was one of those boys who never washed or changed their clothes.