I spoke my thoughts out loud. It looks like an ornate soup tureen.
Todd squelched a guffaw then, grabbing my hand, said, Why don’t we just look at the outside? and almost dragged me back up the stairs and out of doors into the warm sunshine. I had embarrassed myself again.
I’m sorry—
He laughed out loud. Don’t give it another thought.
I didn’t mean to—
It’s okay. Actually, I think you described it perfectly. We both laughed so hard that I think he wiped tears from his eyes.
After awhile, he cleared his throat. In case you’re interested, this church is one of three, besides St. Peter’s, that’s under the care of the Pope.
You’re not Catholic, and you told me you’ve done your traveling alone, with no tour guide, so how come you know so much about the church?
I read about it, of course. Books are a great resource, you know. He said it with a grin, not condescendingly, so I grinned back, but I felt the need to defend myself anyway.
I do have a guidebook, I told him, and if I’d known more than three days beforehand that I was coming here, I’d have certainly read it.
I wasn’t being critical, he said. In fact, I enjoy sharing what little information I’ve picked up.
As I walked across the plaza, I wished I had brought my notebook along. Although this church wasn’t on the official tour I’d been sent to write about, it never hurt to have plenty of backup information.
I turned to look at the church. It seems to have two steeples instead of just one.
I expected Todd to tell me why that was so, but he didn’t, and we stood silently in the square looking up at the steeples for a few moments.
Then he suddenly said, We could feed the pigeons.
I laughed at his abrupt change of subject, and he approached a small, wizened old man in a too-large black coat and bought a bag of seeds. We threw the seeds onto the ground, and a flock of pigeons appeared immediately and surrounded us.
When the seeds were gone, we sat on a stone bench and watched an old woman come up to the fountain and fill two plastic jars with water from a spigot.
Is the water safe to drink? I asked Todd.
Oh, yes, all the water in Italy is okay.
The woman hobbled off with her jars, and a middle-aged man who had been sitting on another bench nearby also got up and walked away. He left behind a newspaper, so Todd retrieved it and read the headline aloud.
Election to be held Sunday.
I remembered seeing colorful signs that looked like election posters at every corner we passed on the way to the church. I thought you were just beginning to learn Italian.
I pick up a little more every time I come. And, anyway, my translation may not be exactly right, but it’s close enough.
What else does it say?
He cleared his throat and, in sonorous tones, began to read. Signore Giuseppe Stallone, a distant cousin of the American actor Sylvester Stallone, is running for dogcatcher of Rome...
You’re joking.
Todd ignored me and pretended to keep on translating. Signore Stallone says he is admirably suited to this position as he has been an animal-hater for many years. His niece, Alissa, the famous fashion model, often wears a bikini swimsuit made of dog fur...
I slapped him playfully on the arm. Stop!
Todd put down the paper. Well, if you don’t want to know what’s going on in the world, don’t blame me. He looked at his watch. I guess it’s time to go back to the hotel anyway.
Still grinning, I fell in step beside him. I could be very happy, I realized, spending a lot of time at his side. What a lucky break that Todd had been next to me on the flight and would now be on my tour.
Ten minutes later, after a shortcut through the lobby area of what appeared to be a commuter train station, we entered the hotel lobby, which overflowed with people.
I noticed a tall, handsome woman in her early forties, with thick black hair pulled back from her face, a Roman nose, and sparkling brown eyes, who seemed to be scanning everyone who came through the lobby doors. She wore a tailored suit and stout shoes, which didn’t strike me as tourist clothes, and I looked questioningly at Todd while nodding in the woman’s direction.
I think you’re right. That must be Enza. He pulled me along, stopped in front of the woman, and introduced us. I’m Todd Matthews, and this is Darcy Gibson. You must be Enza.
Welcome. Yes, I am Enza, and we are all here now. Her voice, clear and pleasant, carried only a faint Italian accent. I will introduce you to the others. She repeated our names then waved an arm toward a gray-haired couple who appeared to be in their sixties or seventies. Signore John and Signora Mary Perkins. They come from Louisiana.
Todd and I moved forward and shook hands with the older man and his wife.
And, Enza went on, may I present Signora Robin and Signore Lance Waxman. They are from Chicago, and they are on their honeymoon.
By the way Lance’s arm circled his bride’s waist, I could have guessed they were newlyweds. Everyone in the little group applauded, and then Todd and I shook hands with them.
Signora Karen Vale and Signorina Kimberly.
I did a double-take. Karen Vale was the woman I had seen in the restaurant that morning, and Kimberly was the daughter. And they were on my tour.
Do call me Karen, the woman said. She moved straight to Todd, took his hand, and smiled up at him. I’m so glad to meet you. She pushed her daughter forward. This is Kim, thirteen going on thirty. She laughed as she said it, but I could tell Kimberly didn’t care for her mother’s comment.
I stood quietly, thoughts swirling in my brain—unkind thoughts I must admit—until I realized that Karen Vale had never acknowledged me and continued to clutch Todd’s hand. Then, instead of retreating, the unkind thoughts grew and expanded like science fiction movie fungus.
Can you blame me? Just when I thought I’d met a great guy, along came competition.
Roman Holiday
Chapter 7
I told myself not to think like that. Anyway, why should I get upset because Karen Vale was clinging like Krazy Glue to Todd or that she and her daughter were on my tour? Six other people would be there too. As my Sunday school lessons reminded me, perhaps I’d judged the woman too hastily. Just because she seemed a bit bossy toward her daughter didn’t mean she’d be an unpleasant companion on the tour. As for her apparent impulsive interest in Todd, I had no right to be concerned about that either. Todd was not my boyfriend.
Of course not. So why was my stomach feeling like I’d swallowed a live frog? I had a sudden realization that, in just two days, I’d begun to consider Todd more than a mere acquaintance. And everyone over the age of twenty-one knows that when romance rears its head, logic flies out the window.
Before I could think more about it, Enza announced that we would begin immediately and herded us all from the hotel and into a white van parked at the curb. Since I’d been standing closest to the door and approached the van before the others, I boarded first and took a seat on the left side, directly behind the driver. He was a forty-something dark-haired man with a thick mustache, wearing rimmed glasses and a bright yellow sweater.
Although the van held seats for at least twelve people, the couples sat together, and Todd claimed the seat next to me, which did a lot to calm down my imaginary frog. Enza sat alone across the aisle, close enough to the driver so she could inform him, in rapid Italian, where she wanted him to go.
She also spoke to the rest of us, explaining that we would go to the Piazza Navona and the Trevi Fountain before stopping for lunch. She described what we were about to see, leaving no time for conversation of our own. That was fine with me. I hadn’t a clue what to say to Todd. My mind seemed concentrated on the way Karen Vale had held his hand, and I longed to know what he thought about her, but I didn’t want to bring it up.
When the van stopped and we got off in a narrow street, Enza waved us on, walking as she talked, saying that our van—
like all other vehicles—was not allowed in the piazza.
No vehicles, true, but the enormous plaza was ringed with beautiful buildings five and six stories high. Tourists like ourselves crowded the area, vendors sold paintings or colorful scarves and postcards, and tables were set up in front of restaurants. Fountains and statues dotted the plaza’s center, and there was even a tall obelisk which Enza said the ancient Romans had brought back from Egypt at the time of Cleopatra.
Todd had wandered off, but I stayed close to Enza so I could learn as much as possible about the statues and the architect Bernini, who designed the Fountain of the Four Rivers in the 17th century. Then I pulled out my notebook and jotted down my thoughts about it. I wanted my article to have a human touch, to share my feelings about the experience, not just describe structures which could be learned from any book about Italy.
Enza suggested we take our time wandering around the piazza, and she would wait for us at the south entrance, so I took the opportunity to observe the artwork for sale by, presumably, the artists themselves. I hoped to find a souvenir to take back with me, but none of the paintings captured the exact scene I wanted. Probably just as well, since my only suitcase was already quite full, and I didn’t want to go through the hassle of shipping something home, assuming I could even afford it.
Mary Perkins, a pashmina shawl that matched her gray hair around her shoulders, strolled up to my side and seemed to be doing the same thing. We collect paintings from all our trips, she said. I have a pen and ink drawing from London and a watercolor from Paris.
This is your first trip to Italy, then?
Yes. Maybe our last trip to Europe. We’re getting too old to keep up with all you young people.
No, you’re not, I said. You don’t seem to have trouble walking. As long as you can do that—
That’s one reason I chose this tour over some others. This one leaves most afternoons free, and I can rest in the hotel room with my feet up.
Not this afternoon, though.
No, but there’s so much to see in Rome. She paused. Where’s your young man?
I beg your pardon? Oh, you mean Mr. Matthews.
Yes. You’re traveling together, aren’t you?
No, not really. I hesitated, not wanting to go into the long story of my meeting with Todd. We met because we both happened to get to Rome a day early.
I see. She paused. I didn’t mean to offend you. Young people nowadays—well, you know what I mean. They don’t seem to find it necessary to be married, but they act like married people, even travel together.
Yes, I guess some do. I knew several couples who lived together without benefit of marriage, but I could never do that. Even if my religion had condoned it, my practical nature would prevent my following this seemingly ever-growing phenomenon.
My own mother grew up during the so-called sexual revolution of the ‘60s and ‘70s, but she got married and—although she and I often disagreed on other things—I planned to do the same. I mean, what’s the point of striving for equal pay for equal work (and, forty years later, there’s still a lot to be done in that department) and having control of our own destiny if we’re going to just live with a man and then have nothing to show for it in the end? Not that financial security was my main reason, but, laws being what they are, you have to be married to inherit the property you both worked for.
Mrs. Perkins looked away, as if embarrassed to have talked about unmarried couples when, for all she knew, I might have a live-in lover of my own back home.
Well, she said, I think I’ll join Enza now. I’ve walked around this plaza quite enough. She smiled and moved off.
In spite of my thoughts, as I walked to the south end of the piazza, I found myself looking for Todd. I spotted him flanked by Karen Vale on one side and Kimberly on the other. His height, between the two shorter women, made the trio look like a sandwich cookie with the filling coming out. I smiled at the thought, although I wondered unhappily if the three of them linking arms that way would become a habit.
When they, along with the Waxmans and Perkinses, reached Enza, we all headed off down a narrow street leading away from the plaza and soon found ourselves at the Trevi Fountain. I enjoyed its look by day but didn’t go down the steps this time and throw in a coin.
We have to stop meeting this way. People will talk.
Even before I saw him, I recognized Todd’s voice and turned around. The frog in my middle woke up. Oh? What will they say?
That I enjoy your company and want to be with you.
I doubt they’ll say that about us. You and the Vales, perhaps. As soon as I said the words, I regretted them. All too often, I speak without thinking and wish later I could take back what I’d said. Todd would think I was jealous, and I wasn’t; at least I wasn’t supposed to be. I told myself again that I had come there to do a job, not start a romance.
Todd didn’t seem to notice, or care about, my comment. Mrs. Vale is one of those women who feels incomplete without a male to take care of her, explain things, make her feel secure. He paused. Since I seem to be the only otherwise unattached male—
She seems a very—er, charming person. I hoped the compliment sounded sincere. I’d had unflattering thoughts about her so far, but I knew I shouldn’t judge people so quickly, if ever. And, inasmuch as we were all on the same tour, we’d have to get along.
Kimberly is a sweet child, Todd said. And I’ve been here before, so I don’t mind sharing what little I know with her. It’s the least I can do.
As if summoned by our conversation, Kimberly rushed toward us, her mother inevitably close behind. I threw a coin in the fountain, the girl said, her voice high and excited. That means I’ll come back to Rome again some day, doesn’t it?
So they say. Todd smiled at her, and she put her hand in his, almost, I thought, as if he were her father.
Karen Vale acknowledged me with a look that was almost a sneer. As if she thought I was in desperate need of a hygiene product. Then she turned her attention back to Todd. You must tell us all about this magnificent fountain.
I think you should ask Enza. She’s the expert.
Undeterred, Karen Vale went on. What is it supposed to represent? How old is it? Did the ancient Romans build it?
No, I think it’s more like the 18th century.
So recent? She sounded disappointed.
You’ll see plenty of ancient sights everywhere we go in Italy.
Karen asked Todd about the statue above the water, turning toward it, her back to me and effectively excluding me from their little group, so I walked back toward the others.
We next walked to the Pantheon, and I listened both to Enza’s explanations and Todd answering Karen’s and Kimberly’s myriad questions.
The Pantheon, Enza said, was built in the year 27 B.C. by Agrippa. Using a mathematical formula, he designed the dome, an architectural first at the time.
I was an engineer, John Perkins said, and learned about this remarkable achievement when I was a student in college. It’s one of the reasons I always wanted to come here.
He seemed in awe of the structure, and I marveled at the intricate mosaic floor as well as the dome.
The thirty-foot hole in the top of the dome, Enza explained, was designed to allow smoke to escape. She told us that animals were regularly sacrificed as burnt offerings to the many gods the people once worshipped.
Kimberly sounded shocked. They killed animals in here? How gross.
Now, of course, Enza said, they do not kill animals and it is a Christian church, although they do not hold services.
Enza took us to lunch at an outdoor café in the plaza in front of the Pantheon, and our entire group clustered around two round tables to eat pizza and fruit. I found myself sitting next to Kimberly at one table, while her mother sat next to Todd at the other.
I decided to strike up a conversation with the girl. I had no knowledge of Italy to share, but the tour included no one else her age, and I wanted to make her feel a part of
it. As for what to talk about, there’s always food.
I love pizza, don’t you?
Oh, yes, Kimberly said. Of course, this is different from what we get at home. They don’t put as much different stuff on it here.
I suppose you could say we’ve Americanized it. I like it plain like this myself.
Oh, I do too. She took a large gulp of her Coca-Cola. I think it’s funny though.
What’s funny?
My mother doesn’t like me to eat fast food, but here it’s eaten all the time. While we were riding in the van, I saw dozens of signs for pizza shops. She grinned and took another bite.
Your mother probably wants you to eat a balanced diet, including fruits and vegetables. Whether she did or not, it seemed the politically correct thing to say.
I guess. She paused for another sip of Coke. I know it’s good for me, but when I’m with my friends, well, you know.
You want to be able to do the same things they do.
Yeah. But it’ll get better. I’ll be fourteen next month and maybe get to go more places and do more stuff.
I remembered the conversation I’d overheard in the dining room that morning, and I stuck with my decision to give the woman the benefit of the doubt. Mothers always want what’s best for their children.
It’s like, ‘Do as I say, not as I do,’ isn’t it?
What do you mean?
Well, like after I go to bed at night, she drinks vodka and stuff like that. That’s not exactly health food.
I paused before answering, not wanting to take sides. Grown-ups can do things that children shouldn’t. When you’re older—
Yeah, I hear that all the time.
I grinned. You’ll have lots more years as a grown-up than as a child. How old is your grandfather?
Pretty old, I guess, and I have a great-grandmother who’s ninety-two. She said it with pride.
Well, then, if you live that long, you’ll have over seventy years to do whatever you like.
But it’ll be seven more years before I’m even twenty-one.
Roman Holiday Page 5
