One Summer Day in Rome

by Mark Lamprell

  Alec noticed a blond woman across the bar, watching him. He lifted the vodka to his mouth, using the tilted glass as camouflage, while he examined her. She was older than he was but in good shape, with raccoon mascara eyes and at least one bottle of prosecco sloshing around inside her. He put his glass down and looked directly at her. She wasn’t just looking back. She was eye-fucking him. Suddenly he was peeling her red-lace underwear down her thighs. After a little trouble extricating them from her shiny stilettos, her vulva lay exposed before him. “What a cliché you turned out to be,” the vulva said to him in his wife’s distinctive voice.

  Alec chugged the rest of his vodka and jostled his way out of the busy bar. As he passed the raccoon blonde, she was greeting someone else and did not notice him leaving. Nevertheless, he paced quickly down the Via del Babuino in case she followed. His head buzzed with adrenaline and vodka, and he kept seeing flashes of the hurt on Meg’s face. Not just the hurt, the hurt little girl. That’s what made it worse. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he could not live with the lie any longer. She would see that, too, that they were both living a lie. She would thank him one day for calling it.

  He reached the Piazza del Popolo and sat on a bench, watching a gaggle of rambunctious teenagers gathered around the central obelisk. They would be friends again, too, he thought, if for no other reason than the kids. They would do a good job of raising their children together, even though they would be living separate lives. Meg could be enormously practical when she needed to be. She would see sense and help him make this work. Eventually.

  He decided to find another bar. Trouble was, they were all brimming with exuberance. Instead, he bought a bottle of Peroni from a mercato and wandered up the Via del Corso, drinking discreetly. He was not going to be one of those assholes who was mean with money, either. He fully acknowledged that Meg had contributed to the success of Lighting Schack as much as he had. It had been her drive, her vision, her creativity as much as his. She had emboldened him to take risks. Risks that had paid off big-time. And she would be compensated accordingly. He drained his Peroni and bought another.

  Alec decided to stop thinking about Meg and think about his future without Meg. He thought he would like to have a lot of sex. He might move down to Santa Monica, near the beach. The kids would like that, too. He entertained the idea of buying a convertible Bentley but decided that was too predictable. After some apparently aimless wandering Alec found himself back in the Via Margutta, outside the palazzo with the lanterns of purple wisteria and the tiny coach-house built into its garden wall. Alec had imbibed just enough alcohol not to confront himself with the fact that he had been headed here all along.

  He clambered over a metal gate, climbed a flight of stone steps, and knocked on the purple door. Dr. Stephanie Cope answered wearing a long T-shirt and nothing else. She looked pleased to see him and not really that surprised.

  “Alec!” she said. “What a lovely surprise.”

  Alec did not answer. He stood, swaying slightly, looking at her.

  “What’s wrong?” she said, suddenly subdued.

  Alec stepped inside and wrapped his arms around Stephanie’s waist. He put his mouth on hers. He kissed her. She kissed him. He slid his leg between hers. He could feel the hardness of her pubic bone on his thigh. He pushed into her. She pushed back.

  * * *

  Meg had sobbed herself to sleep in the enormous bed and was now overheating under the covers. Her arms swept over the sheets, searching for a cool spot. Her right hand slid under the pillow where Alec’s head should have been resting and found something cold and hard. Meg opened her red swollen eyes and blinked; the lights were blaring. She felt the object under the pillow. It was square and thin. She removed it and squinted at it, remembering now that she had placed her beautiful blue tile there earlier. She put it back under the pillow and rolled over, deciding she was too tired to deal with the lights. She drifted for a moment and then her eyes snapped open.

  Meg took the tile out from under the pillow again. She ran her fingers over the blue glaze, feeling some strange sensation. Starting in her fingertips, the sensation moved up her arm and into her whole body. She would never admit this to another living soul, but she felt as if the tile was telling her something. And then she remembered. She remembered exactly where she had gotten this tile and how she had come to get it. She had not collected it when she was gathering samples for her renovation. She had, in fact, been carrying it around with her for a very long time.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Un Colpo d’Aria

  GIVE SORROW WORDS; THE GRIEF THAT DOES NOT SPEAK WHISPERS THE O’ER-FRAUGHT HEART, AND BIDS IT BREAK.

  —William Shakespeare, Macbeth

  As Bronco descended the stairs of the Hotel Montini, doom leached into the marrow of his bones. Someone had rung the buzzer at 11:30 P.M., an hour after lockout, wanting to be let in. By the time he had crossed the cold tiles of the drafty reception area in his bare feet, he was certain: He had been taken by un colpo d’aria.

  Of the many dangerous things in Rome, there are few more dangerous than un colpo d’aria, the potentially life-threatening phenomenon of being hit by a gust of cool air. As any Italian mother will tell you, those unfortunate enough to experience un colpo d’aria are likely to suffer a myriad of health problems, ranging from a headache to a stiff neck, a sore liver, influenza, or even death. Prevention is better than cure, and during the winter months this can be achieved by wearing a wool vest called a maglia della salute, literally a “shirt of health,” with a warm scarf to protect the very vulnerable neck area. In all seasons, one must never stand on cold tiles. In summer, one must avoid air-conditioning and fans. Fans are lethal. Once a person has been afflicted by un colpo d’aria, he or she must absent himself or herself from school or work immediately, go to bed, keep warm, and, most important, keep away from drafts.

  So it was extremely unfortunate that, as Bronco opened the door to one of the old British dames and an elderly gentleman, he was assaulted by a gust of cool night air. The lady apologized for rousing him and explained that she had left her room key with her companion. She began to ask what time her companion had returned, but Bronco could already feel that he was slightly feverish. He interrupted and explained that he needed to get back to bed because he was suffering from un colpo d’aria.

  Instantly appreciating the gravity of the situation, the elderly gentleman apologized sympathetically and sincerely. He asked where Bronco was afflicted. Bronco thought it might be his liver. The gentleman offered his condolences, pressed his lips to the lady’s hand, and kissed her once on each cheek. They were still saying farewell when Bronco closed the door between them, but he knew the gentleman would understand. Once inside Bronco explained to the lady that, as they were in the midst of an unfolding medical emergency, he would need to take the elevator first.

  Lizzie climbed the stairs, grateful for a moment to collect her thoughts before she returned to the room, and Constance. It had been a remarkable evening. Horatio had taken her to his favorite restaurant. It was not grand by any means but simple and elegant with excellent food and fine wine. Lizzie had been dreading the idea of dinner with some fellow she did not know, so it had come as a surprise that conversation had flowed and topics were batted back and forth between them as if they were old friends.

  Horatio was a quiet, serious sort of man, but he laughed easily and often at Lizzie’s dry observations, which pleased her immensely. He sat squarely in the world as if he had seen a lot of life and not much surprised him. Before she knew it, she had put aside her worries about Constance and was completely absorbed in conversation. They chatted about things, silly and profound. Neither had children, both regretted it. He preferred Venice, she preferred Florence. Together they made up a story about the couple at the next table having an affair, creating imaginary biographies for the pair and composing exposé headlines for tomorrow morning’s papers. They waded through music and art, more often than not disagreeing with each ot
her, but they clicked, they just clicked.

  When the dessert menu arrived, Lizzie felt herself drawn to the highly irregular asparagus gelato, but Horatio insisted she try the tiramisu, which was, he promised, buonissimo. By way of compromise, he offered to bring her back the following evening for the asparagus gelato. She laughed and accepted his offer, but a small contraction in her heart warned her not to see him again. She was an old lady. She had long ago given up any hope at all of finding a life’s love. This evening’s flirtation was surprising enough; she should be grateful and move on. One last hurrah before the curtains closed. To make anything more of this unexpected delight would be ridiculous. And foolish. And potentially humiliating. Thank God Bronco had closed the door between them. She had been on the brink of embarrassing herself with inappropriate gushing.

  By the time she reached her room, Lizzie had remembered herself, her advanced age, her necessary lack of ambition. She was quite herself once more, except perhaps for the flush of pink across her cheeks. She turned the handle, hoping it was not locked. The door opened. She crept into the room and closed it behind her very quietly.

  A voice in the darkness said, “Did you have a nice evening?”

  Lizzie could tell from the direction of the voice that Constance was not in bed.

  “Do you mind if I turn a light on?”

  “Go ahead,” said Constance.

  Lizzie turned the night-light on. Constance was sitting in a chair, looking out through an open door onto the terrace. She turned toward Lizzie, squinting in the light.

  “Sorry. Is that a bit bright?” said Lizzie.

  “How was your evening?” said Constance.

  “Oh, it was fine, but more importantly, how was yours? I’ve been so worried about you. How did it go?”

  “Unlike you to stay out so late.”

  “I’m sorry, girlie. The time just got away. How did it go with Gina?”

  “Fine. I was just about to go to bed. Do you mind if we save it for the morning?”

  “Don’t be angry with me,” said Lizzie, suddenly exhausted.

  “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  A mighty pirate voice boomed across the room. It took a moment for Lizzie to register that Constance was shouting at her.

  “Jesus H. Christ!” Constance exploded. “You stay out half the night when I could well have been here, a quivering heap in the corner, and then you come home and start picking fights!” She leaped from her chair, stormed into the bathroom, and slammed the door.

  Lizzie walked to the door and studied her aching feet as she talked through the solid wood. “I should have been here with you. I’m sorry. But I’m not the one picking fights.”

  Constance did not answer. After a while, Lizzie turned the door handle, and it clicked open. She walked into the bathroom.

  “You’re the one picking fights,” Lizzie continued. “You’re the one embroidering affairs. You’re creating distractions and diversions and anything else you can think of to stop yourself from seeing, from feeling, what’s really going on.”

  Constance layered toothpaste across her toothbrush. “Get out,” she said to Lizzie.

  “What happened?” said Lizzie, holding her ground. “Was Henry having an affair with Gina?”

  “No,” said Constance. She started brushing her teeth.

  Lizzie watched Constance brush in the mirror. They both looked ancient and furious in the fluorescent light.

  “You do this grande dame routine like you’re the original Merry Widow,” said Lizzie. “Let’s all press on, darlings. Well, you can’t press on from something unless you go there first. Don’t you see what you’re doing? Making all this drama so that you don’t have to face the fact that he’s dead, girlie. He’s dead and gone and never coming back.”

  Constance spat toothpaste into the sink and rinsed her toothbrush, flicking tiny white dots onto the mirror. “I’m going to bed,” she said, quivering with suppressed rage. “Turn off the lights when you come.” She pushed past Lizzie and closed the door behind her.

  By the time Lizzie reappeared in the bedroom, Constance was asleep, or pretending to be. Lizzie crawled into bed with every bone and most organs aching. What an awful end to this strange day, she thought. As her eyes began to adjust to the dark, she realized that the doors to the balcony were open, but she was too tired to do anything about them. Despite her exhaustion, she lay awake for a long time watching patterns of reflected moonlight play across the ceiling.

  * * *

  In the middle of the night, the pale silk curtains of Lizzie and Constance’s room began to dance in the slightest of zephyrs. Constance woke and watched them. She could hear music playing softly on the terrace, a tune from her girlhood. She slipped her feet onto the cold tiles and padded out to the terrace.

  A man was standing at the balustrade, looking down into the piazza. He turned, and Constance saw at once that it was Henry. “I thought you were dead,” she said. “Everyone said you were dead.” She fell into his arms. Henry held her tight and purred an explanation into the top of her head. It was his work, he explained, kissing her hair. He was working for the country on something so important that he was unable to tell her without risking her security. They had faked his death, and he could not tell her about it. He was so sorry for the pain he had caused her.

  Constance clung to Henry. Tears of relief tumbled down her face. She could not believe how happy she felt. He was not dead after all! She knew it in her heart all along. Henry wiped away a tear with his familiar hands.

  “I’ve missed you so much,” said Constance.

  “Shhh,” he whispered, and he bent down to kiss her. Constance closed her eyes, and their lips met. When she opened them again, Henry had gone.

  Lizzie woke to the sound of a woman sobbing. At first she thought it was Constance but dismissed this idea because it was not coming from the bed next to her. The weeping was horribly forlorn and seemed to be originating from outside, possibly from someone down in the piazza.

  As she hoisted herself into an upright position, Lizzie saw that Constance’s bed was empty. She hurried outside and discovered her sister-in-law slumped on a stone bench. What on earth had happened? She ran across the terrace and gathered Constance in her arms. Constance clung to Lizzie, weeping and wretched. Tears and mucus streamed down her cheeks. Lizzie wiped them with her sleeve. Constance’s beautiful face twisted with brutal grief. Lizzie had no idea what to do, except hold her. So she held her, watching the sky lighten.

  Lizzie lost all sense of time. Eventually, she led Constance back inside. Constance curled on the bed with her head in Lizzie’s lap. Lizzie stroked Constance’s gray-flecked golden hair. Constance had long since stopped crying but lay there, helpless as a child. Her body shuddered involuntarily in the aftershock of her sobs. The sun rose over Rome. The sky turned brilliant blue. Turrets and domes began to shimmer in the heat.

  “Lizzie?” said Constance quietly.

  Lizzie looked down at Constance. Her red-lidded eyes had swollen shut. Lizzie made a mental note to hunt down some ice. “Yes, darling?”

  “Let’s go home.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  The Angel of Grief

  ONLY IN THE AGONY OF PARTING DO WE LOOK INTO THE DEPTHS OF LOVE.

  —George Eliot, Felix Holt, The Radical

  August woke, lying on his back. His eyes opened to the undercarriage of an umbrella pine, all its limbs collaborating to raise the needled canopy into a brilliant sky. He stretched and registered the assuring presence of someone next to him. He felt the plastic of Alice’s raincoat crinkle and yield underneath him. Gently he reached out to touch Alice. She was soft, but cold and lifeless. He turned quickly. It was not Alice but her green backpack. He propped himself up on an elbow and looked around, blinking. Alice had gone. Reasoning that she would not have left without her things, he sat up and waited for her to return.

  As the minutes passed he grew more anxious until he could contain himself no longe
r. He was about to call out her name but stopped, realizing he might be discovered and evicted. He took a quick piss behind a tree, debating whether to leave a note, but decided his time was best spent executing a search. He darted off through the garden and gravestones, one eye open for Alice, the other open for early-morning gravediggers or gardeners. He told himself not to panic, but the more time passed, the harder he found it to heed his own counsel.

  August found Alice sitting on a rise at one of the highest points of the cemetery, next to the Angel of Grief, an 1894 sculpture by William Wetmore Story that serves as the gravestone of his wife, Emelyn. The large white angel, with her wings outspread, has collapsed in grief over a funereal pedestal. Her head is buried on one folded arm while her other arm drapes in resignation over the pedestal. Otherworldly in form and scale, she is all too human in her despair, captured in a moment when she has been utterly defeated by her loss. It is William Story’s last work. After he completed this tribute to his wife, he died, too. It may not be one of Rome’s greatest works of art, but it is a great work of love.

  “It’s not lists,” said Alice, drawing in the dirt with a stick.

  “What?”

  “Love isn’t lists,” she said. Her face crumpled for a second, but instead of succumbing to tears, she gathered herself and looked up at him. “Sorry.”

  “Hey.”

  “I should get going. I’ve got a train to catch.”

  Alice got to her feet and bounded down the hill. August stood there massaging his temple as if she had elbowed him in the head as she passed. He felt sick, bad sick, spew-all-over-everything sick. So that was it. She had delivered her verdict. She was going back to what’s-his-face. Daniel. He wanted to run after her and shout, or shake her.