Roman Holiday

by Phyllis A. Humphrey

  We ate in silence for a few moments. My thoughts flew in sequence to what he’d just told me, and I decided to share my own experiences with him.

  Everyone has issues of some kind. Sometimes it helps to talk to someone.

  Who do you talk to?

  Well, I have wonderful parents, and now we live close enough to visit often. My sister lives in Texas, not California, but we keep in touch regularly. She’s older than I am, married with two children.

  He didn’t say anything, and I felt awkward, rattling on, but I couldn’t seem to stop. Plus I have an older brother. Again he didn’t comment. And I had wonderful friends in college and now a good job that I like.

  This condensed story of my life apparently didn’t mean anything to him, and I felt foolish for having said so much. Like I’d once again put my mouth in gear before engaging my brain. Didn’t Miss Manners say the secret to being a good conversationalist is letting the other person talk? So I said, Tell me about your family. Do they live in Arizona too?

  Just then, the waiter removed our plates and brought the next course, and the music began, provided by six formally-dressed men, effectively making conversation difficult if not impossible. I listened in silence, wondering why Todd had opened the subject of his minister and then dropped it so suddenly.

  Three singers—two men in tuxedos and an attractive blonde wearing a long flowered dress—appeared next and performed in a twenty-minute set and, as Todd had predicted, were very good. Besides some opera arias I recognized, I enjoyed their versions of songs from The Sound of Music , The King and I , and My Fair Lady . They sang one chorus of each first in English and then in Italian.

  As soon as the performers took their bows, the waiter presented the bill. Todd tried to pay the entire amount, but I reminded him of our agreement and put my share on the tray.

  Todd shrugged then brightened. The best gelato in Rome isn’t too far from here.

  I was grateful for the return of his bright mood. Lead me to it. I adore gelato.

  Then you’ve had it before?

  It’s Italian ice cream, isn’t it? Los Angeles can provide almost anything if you know where to go.

  Good. He got up and pulled my chair back. Then we can walk back to the hotel to burn off the calories.

  Outside once more, Todd put my sweater over my shoulders, and we passed little shops that occupied the first floors of what seemed to be more apartment buildings, turned several corners, and finally came to the gelato shop. I ordered chocolate.

  The perfect choice. Todd ordered the same.

  I want to pay for mine.

  But this time he wouldn’t budge. He pulled out some euros and paid for both. You’re being rather picky about this Dutch treat business.

  I didn’t answer, accepted my cone from the server, and left the shop. As we walked, I ate the gelato, delicious as Todd had promised, rich, fudgy, and scarily addictive.

  It’s probably just as well that I don’t know my way around Rome, I said. If I did, I’d come here for gelato every day and gain at least ten pounds before I left town.

  Even if you did, you’d lose it again with all the walking we’ll be doing.

  I glanced up at him. How do you know we’ll do a lot of walking? I thought we go places in a van.

  That’s just between cities, according to Enza. In town, we’ll walk a lot, and, since I read the itinerary and I’ve been here before, I know the distances between the various sights.

  Well, then, I might as well enjoy the gelato.

  When we returned to the hotel, Todd insisted on going up in the elevator with me and seeing me to my door before he went to his own room. He took the key from my hand, inserted it in the lock, and returned it. But, when he placed the key in my open palm, he held onto my hand for a long moment.

  Its warm pressure felt comfortable, but finally I pulled free, at the same time hoping not to seem rude.

  He frowned. Sorry. I guess I’m trying too hard again.

  Trying how?

  To be more—you know—

  My earlier curiosity returned. Did you have no brothers or sisters? Is that why you said you’re a loner?

  I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said— He cleared his throat and backed away. Good night.

  I entered my room and closed the door. What was that all about? I wouldn’t have minded a little flirtation as part of my itinerary. He had come to my rescue on the street and had a great personality. Most women would jump at the chance to become at least a little involved. But he seemed ambivalent.

  I didn’t want him to pretend we were a couple, at least not yet, but Todd’s behavior puzzled me. One moment, he spoke openly, like an old friend; and the next, he seemed secretive and silent. I remembered that, on at least two occasions in the restaurant, he had failed to answer questions about his family. Why? My weird imagination took off. Were they midgets? In the witness-protection program? CIA spies?

  Why did he seem to regret having called himself a loner, not want to talk about his past? Why frown and back away like that? What was he hiding?

  Roman Holiday

  Chapter 5

  I didn’t fall asleep right away that night, still thinking about Todd, and woke up the next day with him on my mind again. During our pleasant evening, I’d had feelings of elation that I’d finally met a man who not only went to church, but admitted it, like he’d time-traveled from an earlier century. Most guys I meet are about as spiritual as a Pet Rock. They think Sunday mornings are for sleeping late in order to be prepared to watch ten consecutive hours of football on television later in the day.

  If conversations ever get around to religion, they say things like, Oh, yeah, I believe in God, or I used to go to Sunday school, or I go to church once in a while. Probably not since they were dragged there by their mothers. Sometimes they go so far as to say they believe it’s important for families to attend church together. It always sounds suspiciously like a ploy to make me think that—although they might seem heathen right now—they’re trainable.

  But Todd was already there, and I felt as if God, not the French family who needed to sit together, had dropped him in that airplane seat next to me. Then he’d acted so strangely when I asked about his family. Perhaps he’d killed them all and confessed his crime to that minister. Weren’t priests and ministers supposed to keep confidences like that, even from the police?

  I told myself I’d been watching too many courtroom dramas on television and climbed out of bed.

  After showering and dressing, I went down to the restaurant, which I found open and bustling with customers. My itinerary said there would be a continental breakfast, and I approached the tables lined up along the walls. I nearly gasped at the array of food: cereal, bread, rolls and croissants, and bowls of mixed fresh fruit. Covered trays kept scrambled eggs, bacon, and sausages hot; large plates displayed cold meats and cheese. Pitchers of fruit juice and milk rested near urns of coffee and hot water. What a feast! In U.S. hotels, a continental breakfast sometimes meant only orange juice, coffee, and a sweet roll.

  Not one to pass up free food, even if my body didn’t need it, I filled a small bowl with fruit and a plate with eggs, a slice of ham, and a croissant. I used the carafe of hot water to make a cup of tea and then found a small vacant table in a corner. Having already noted the sunny and warm weather outside, I had hoped to sit near a window, but the restaurant’s only windows faced an atrium surrounded by the hotel lobby on three sides and a blank wall on the fourth. Yet the room seemed bright and cheerful, with paintings of Italian scenes on the cream-colored walls and fuchsia napkins at every place.

  Being a naturally curious person—trust me, this helps if you’re going to be a reporter—I glanced around at the other people in the dining room while I ate. I saw mostly couples of varying ages, plus two middle-aged women seated together, a family of four, and several gentlemen sitting alone, reading newspapers.

  A young man, dressed like a member of an ugly-clothing required society, came in and
headed immediately for the coffee, as if it were an antidote to poison someone had forced him to drink. Even from where I sat, I could tell his blood content was eighty percent Jim Beam, but fortunately, after drinking two cups of black coffee in rapid succession, he left the dining room, taking his breath with him.

  It occurred to me that some of the other people in the dining room might be on my tour, which would start in a few hours, but I had no way of knowing. Then I remembered that the tour guide, Enza, would be picking up some of them at the airport that morning, so they had probably not arrived yet.

  Since I’d enjoyed my simple breakfast, I debated returning to the buffet table and heaping my plate all over again. Then I decided that being able to button my pants was probably more important. But I did go back to pour more grapefruit juice, at which time I noticed an attractive, thirty-something woman and a teenaged girl discussing the bounty laid out before them. They were American, judging by the woman’s somewhat loud voice, and, whereas sometimes I eavesdrop on other people’s conversations deliberately, this time I had no choice but to hear it. The woman had much to say about the girl’s selections.

  No eggs or sausage, she told her. Just cereal and some fruit. She put a banana on her daughter’s plate. And a hard roll, but only one pat of butter.

  Oh, Mom, the girl protested.

  The mother was slender, with short, perfectly-coiffed blonde hair, and the daughter, also slender and slightly shorter than her mother, had long, straight blonde hair fastened behind her ears with twin blue barrettes. She flushed under her mother’s instructions but didn’t protest. I admired her attitude. To nobody’s surprise, teenagers reject everything their parents tell them and go out of their way to rebel. I mean, like, didn’t I do it myself at that age? Nowadays, however, the teen years seemed to start at nine.

  But this girl appeared to take instruction calmly. The pair took a table not far from my own, and I found myself watching them over the rim of my glass. The mother’s voice carried all over the room, and, finally having heard more than I cared to, I wished I had something to read. However, I couldn’t read the Italian newspapers and hadn’t brought my guidebook down with me.

  Still trapped into overhearing, I realized the mother gave many orders to her daughter, who kept her head down as she ate her breakfast and, if she replied at all, did so in a voice so low I didn’t hear it. The girl, her back to me, occasionally shifted uneasily in her chair, and once looked around before returning her gaze to her plate. She wore blue slacks, not jeans, a pink short-sleeved blouse and a multi-colored vest. On the other hand, her mother seemed overdressed in a gray knee-length skirt of a soft jersey fabric and a matching long-sleeved tunic top with a cowl neckline that dipped rather low in front, revealing more cleavage than seemed appropriate for eight in the morning.

  Something about the woman, aside from her loud voice and constant frown while speaking to her daughter, bothered me. I turned aside and looked at the plants in the atrium, reminding myself not to be judgmental.

  Good morning.

  I turned from the window to see Todd, filled plate in one hand and coffee cup in the other, standing next to my table. May I join you?

  Of course. I smiled, glad to take my mind off the other couple.

  Get a good night’s sleep? He placed his food on the table and sat down opposite me.

  Yes. You?

  Like the proverbial top. He dropped the napkin into his lap. You look very nice.

  Thank you. I tried not to let his compliment affect me. Unlike the woman I’d been watching for the last ten minutes, I wore a simple outfit: navy slacks, white blouse, and my go-everywhere cardigan sweater in case I needed it. I didn’t know about Italy, but in Los Angeles many places were air conditioned to a level cold enough to kill small birds.

  My thoughts returned to the night before, when Todd had behaved so strangely, but this morning he was jolly again, so I decided to enjoy his good mood rather than press him about the previous one.

  Thanks again for rescuing me last night, I told him. I enjoyed the dinner and the singers. And the gelato.

  I’m glad you liked them. He paused. I meant to ask you yesterday how it happens that you’re writing about this tour, but have no camera. Won’t you need pictures to go along with your article?

  Actually, I have a small camera for my own use, not to illustrate my article. The magazine doesn’t need pictures I might take, even if I had a fancy camera like yours.

  Is a photographer joining you then?

  No, the tour company owners have already provided marvelous photographs they want us to use. They sent some to the office and said if I need more to just ask.

  I see. He dug into his sausages, eggs, fruit, and cheese and changed the subject again. I love continental breakfasts, don’t you?

  This is a far cry from what they call a continental breakfast in some hotels back home.

  I guess Europeans like a hearty meal. But not all hotels in Italy offer this much.

  Since they were in my line of sight, I noticed the woman and her daughter get up to leave, the mother pushing the girl ahead. I had finished as well, so I reached over and started to pick up my purse.

  Oh, don’t go, Todd said. Have another cup of coffee and keep me company. He jumped up and reached for my cup. Black? Sugar? Cream?

  No coffee, I said, shaking my head. Thanks anyway. I remembered how much I hated eating alone and thought he might feel the same. But I’ll stay if you like.

  He sat down again. We have a couple of hours to kill before we meet Enza for the tour. What shall we do?

  There he went again, assuming we should spend all our time together. I enjoyed his company, and was tempted, but what about his occasional evasiveness?

  I hedged, saying the first thing that came into my mind. I thought I might go back up to my room for awhile, do the reading I was supposed to do.

  On a fine day like this? Besides, you’ll learn more by seeing the actual sights. Don’t you want to explore the city?

  I grinned. And get lost again?

  I’ll go with you and make sure you’re okay.

  He was right, and I knew I shouldn’t coop myself up in the hotel room. Besides, how often would I get to Rome? The tour probably couldn’t cover everything to see in the city in only three days. But should I go exploring with him?

  I don’t want to monopolize your time. Maybe you have things to do. You said on the plane that you expected to spend some time in Rome before going to Lake Como.

  I just planned to wander around the city, but it’s much more fun to do it with someone else.

  My, you stopped being a loner in a hurry. Or was that just a line to arouse my sympathy?

  Praise the Lord, I’m cured! Then he laughed. Seriously, I enjoyed showing you the Trevi Fountain last night. He paused, then added, I know this sounds like a line or at the very least a cliché, but I’d—well, like to know you better. I was a loner. I don’t know why you should show up in my life and make me different, but there it is. He shrugged.

  His words reminded me of my own thoughts, but I felt the need to be truthful. I don’t think I’m the one who made you want to be different. You said your minister is helping you.

  Well, then, maybe you’re the answer to his prayers.

  I couldn’t help smiling. I guess I can’t quarrel with that. I rose from my seat.

  He pushed his chair back and got up. Let’s start, shall we?

  The word start made me think of the start of something between us after all. In spite of the occasional niggling doubt, I began to think I liked that.

  Roman Holiday

  Chapter 6

  I looked at my watch. Actually, we don’t have much time. We meet the tour group in the lobby at eleven, and I don’t want to be late.

  We won’t be. He guided me through the lobby and out onto the street. The weather being very warm, I tied the sleeves of my sweater around my waist. We walked four blocks—past shops that, except for signs in Italian, looked very
much like those in any American city—to a square with a church at one end and a gurgling fountain in the center.

  Are we going inside the church? I asked.

  Not unless you really want to, although it’s much grander on the inside than it is on the outside. He paused. On the other hand, you’ll see lots of grand churches on the tour anyway.

  I’ll leave it up to you. If you’ve been here before, perhaps you don’t want to bother going through it again.

  He thought for a moment. How would you like to see the manger where Jesus lay?

  I stared, unspeaking, then said, Yeah. Right.

  Todd shrugged.

  I let a beat go by. Are you serious? The real manger is here? In this church?

  That’s what they claim. It’s behind glass, covered in silver, and doesn’t look like any manger that I ever saw, but then what do I know?

  I’m usually a bit gullible, but this time I felt a load of skepticism. Besides, there was something about the way Todd described it that made me hesitate.

  Well—

  He didn’t answer but took my hand and led me inside the church, heavily decorated with paintings and statues everywhere and arches containing small altars before stained glass windows. We passed confessionals that resembled tall dark wooden boxes lining one wall, with signs overhead indicating which language one could confess in. Or, I corrected myself, perhaps that meant the language the priest understood.

  Before I could study all the sights before my eyes, Todd led me to the front of the main altar and down a staircase that curved toward a sunken shrine. About four feet wide and three feet high, the glass-fronted box, just as he’d described, held a silver-covered object. It stood on a pedestal and was so decorated with filigree and curlicues that I found it hard to believe it might have been a small manger at one time. The mangers I’d seen in those little Christmas tableaus were made of sticks or slats of wood. And always had straw in them. Had they silvered that as well or was I being picky?