Roman Holiday
Page 6
You may not think so now, but the time will fly by. Besides, you may not want to drink alcohol then. Many grown-ups don’t drink at all. Me, for instance.
Kimberly stared at me for a moment, as if thinking seriously about the subject. After awhile, she spoke again. I didn’t mean to put down my mom. I really love her, and I know it’s not easy being a single mother.
So, your father—?
They’re divorced. Just as well too. She says they did nothing but scream at each other all the time.
You don’t see him? You don’t remember him?
I remember him. He moved away, got married again and has another family. I get birthday and Christmas presents.
That’s—uh, good anyway. I felt my comment to be inadequate, if not inane, but the girl seemed to have accepted her situation with good grace.
Everybody’s divorced. I have only one friend at school who lives with her real mother and father. She pushed her empty plate aside and drank the last of her Coke before looking up at me. What about you? Are you married or divorced or—
Single. Never married and I have no children.
That’s too bad. Like she thought I was over the hill and would never get the chance. After a long moment, she put her hand in mine. But you’re still very pretty. If you want, you can call me Kim.
Roman Holiday
Chapter 8
When we left the outdoor café, Kim stayed at my side. From a desire to offer comfort in my presumably lonely state or to let her mother have time alone with Todd, I wondered.
When we reached the Spanish Steps, I relished the sight of the well-known landmark, with its masses of flowers and the inevitable church at the top of the long staircase. Enza told us that the site was originally a square housing the Spanish Embassy—hence the name—and the stairs weren’t even built until the 18th century. Meanwhile, artists flocked there and artist-model wannabes posed in hopes of getting jobs. But, as a writer myself, I was most intrigued to learn that Keats, Shelley, and other English poets had visited or lived in the neighborhood.
Suddenly, a downpour of rain pelted us. Vendors, who had been offering postcards only a moment before, sprouted umbrellas for sale, and I couldn’t help admiring their versatility.
Enza in the lead, our little group scurried down a narrow street, trying to stay under awnings and other overhangs until we reached the spot where the van picked us up for the ride back to the hotel. Laughing and shaking water off our clothes, we boarded the van, and Todd claimed the seat next to me again. We didn’t speak much, however, for the trip back was quite short and our driver sped even more than usual.
Once in my room, I hustled out of my wet clothes and showered then pulled out my notebook and jotted down things I’d seen and heard that I wanted to remember. Later, I lay across the bed to rest, while I listened to the raindrops outside my windows.
The rain stopped falling by early evening, and we all had dinner together that night at a restaurant only fifteen minutes away, according to Enza. It is not raining, so we will walk, no?
We walked, yes. I thought I heard a groan go up from Mary Perkins, but the older couple followed along behind and arrived only a minute after the rest of us. Actually, our number grew to twelve, as Enza’s husband joined us and so did the owner of the tour company and his wife, who happened to be in Rome on business. They sat at the opposite end of the table from me, and, except for introductions, I didn’t get to speak to them.
Once more, Kim sat next to me and told me about her school and her friends. She also seemed to be trying to emphasize how close she and her mother were, perhaps making up for her negative comments earlier that day. Eventually, I tried to turn the conversation to food. The dinner, lemon chicken and pasta, was excellent, but every time Karen refilled her glass from the many bottles of wine on the table, Kim frowned and returned to the subject of her mother’s good qualities.
I think my mother is pretty, don’t you?
Yes, very.
Do you think Mr. Matthews likes her?
I swallowed hard. Apparently, Karen’s interest in Todd hadn’t gone unnoticed by her daughter. I managed to answer in a noncommittal tone. I couldn’t say.
I think he does. She needs someone, you know, and he seems nice. He’s awfully smart too.
It’s only the first day, a little early, I hedged. Perhaps she won’t like him when she knows him better.
Why had I said that? Wishful thinking? But what did it matter if Todd and Karen not only hit it off but fell in love? That didn’t concern me, and I hated that the thought bothered me.
Tell me more about your school, I said, grasping for anything to change the subject.
I like school. It’s cool. She laughed. I made a rhyme.
Do you like poetry?
I like some stuff, like ‘The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere.’
Oh, I used to like that one too.
It’s like a story, you know. Some of the other poetry we have to study is awfully hard to understand.
So you like stories. You must like to read.
I’ve read all the Harry Potter books, and my great-grandmother gave me a set of Nancy Drew mysteries. I’m not allowed to watch television after seven o’clock, so that’s all there is to do before I go to bed. That and homework.
Even though in a way I hated to think anything good about the woman, I couldn’t help feeling that Karen Vale was a wise mother to restrict Kimberly’s television watching. Someone had called it the official Gross National Product.
She sends me to my room to read or do homework, so she can be with her friends downstairs and not be interrupted. She looked down at her plate and frowned. Of course, she doesn’t have friends over every night. Mostly on weekends. Sometimes one of them will stay over. She doesn’t think I know that, but I do.
So, to my continuing discomfort, the subject had returned to her mother after all. Maybe the friend who stayed over was a woman, but somehow I didn’t think so. I saw a sad look in Kimberly’s eyes and patted her hand.
Regardless of what Karen was like at home, she was here in Rome now, sitting next to Todd in the restaurant, leaning close to him, touching him, occasionally whispering something in his ear.
As I watched the two of them across the long table, I couldn’t help wishing he were talking to me, explaining something about Rome to me, making me laugh at his funny stories.
But I hadn’t long to wait. As we started our trek back to the hotel, Todd caught up with me and took my hand. Hi.
Hi, yourself. The jealousy I’d been feeling melted, but I didn’t know what to say.
Enjoy the dinner?
Yes, very much. You?
It was great. Especially those little shrimp appetizers.
What shrimp appetizers?
You know, those little brown things they served first.
I didn’t know they were shrimp. I remember they were crispy.
Well, maybe not shrimp. Some kind of baby seafood they fried with the legs, antennae, and shell still on.
I stopped walking and faced him. Are you telling me I ate something with antennas?
He looked unhappy that he’d told me. Well, maybe not, but they were good, whatever they were.
I swallowed. I’m glad I didn’t know all that at the time.
He laughed. What do they say, ‘When in Rome...’
He squeezed my hand, and I noticed we’d fallen quite a bit behind the rest of the group.
Should we catch up to them? I asked. I don’t want to get lost again.
You won’t. Remember, I know my way around.
That’s right. I relaxed and slowed my steps even more. I really had no desire to get closer to Karen Vale and let her monopolize Todd again as she had at dinner. If anyone was going to monopolize him, I decided, it would be yours truly.
How about some gelato? he said suddenly.
But you just had dessert.
But you didn’t. I noticed you refused it when the waiter brought it to the table.
Oh. Nevertheless, you didn’t have dessert, so I think we need a gelato fix.
You ate the strawberries. Are you sure you want gelato?
Absolutely. He grinned and led me to a nearby corner, and we went down a narrow street until we once again stood in front of a gelato shop. This time I had the peach flavor.
We ate our gelato slowly, walked even more slowly, and talked about our food preferences. Like many men, he enjoyed most foods and was willing to try anything new.
Is there anything you don’t like? I asked.
I’m not crazy about cooked carrots and some kinds of cheese.
He reminded me of one of my frequent faux pas. I know what you mean. Once, at a fancy buffet given by a big insurance company executive, I took a large bite of what I thought was a little cream puff stuffed with cheese, and it turned out to be hotter than Jalapeno peppers.
What did you do?
I wanted to spit it out, but just then the wife of the host came up to talk to me, so I couldn’t.
Then what?
Well, I thought the thing would dissolve in my mouth and I’d just have to live with the taste, but it didn’t. So there I was trying to smile at the woman with this thing filling my mouth—
Todd started to chuckle, like he thought this was terribly funny.
So, I finally had to spit it out in my napkin, but there were no waste containers anywhere in the room. And I had to put it on one of those little plates where it looked really gross.
I think you probably did the right thing.
I mean, it wasn’t my fault they had no wastebaskets.
Probably didn’t want people putting their good china and silverware in them.
The wife of the host gave me dirty looks the rest of the night.
Is that all?
And I didn’t get invited back the next year.
Who needs to go to cocktail parties anyway? You stand around holding a cold glass until your fingers get numb and drop cracker crumbs all over your tie.
You’re just saying that to make me feel better.
He shrugged. Well, a lot of business gets conducted at cocktail parties. They have their uses.
You’re right. But in my case, I tend to eat what’s not on anyone’s healthy diet and gain two pounds that I can’t lose after a month of broiled chicken and skim milk.
He laughed again and swung my free hand like we were a couple of children.
When we finally got to my hotel room door, I confess I was hoping he’d kiss me, but he didn’t. Which made me wonder what was going on. Was he more interested in Karen and just spending a little time with me to keep people from figuring it out? Or vice versa? Or did he not really like women at all?
By this time, he should have tried to hit on me unless—Regardless of the reason, my ego was suffering. I thought of all the other times he seemed to be hiding something, and suddenly I didn’t want to know what it might be.
I said, Good night, and Todd backed away and bowed like a Musketeer in the old films, sweeping his hand across his body, as if wielding a plumed hat. As you wish, milady.
I couldn’t help smiling at that and did a not-very-good imitation of a curtsy.
Until the morrow. He bowed again and backed all the way down the hall to the elevator.
As I closed my door, I realized that—no matter what his preference: Karen, me, or the van driver—I liked having Todd on the tour.
Roman Holiday
Chapter 9
I awoke the next morning with immediate thoughts of Todd. Our walk and conversation after dinner meant a lot to me. I felt valued, a person he wanted to spend some time with, to get to know. I certainly wanted to know more about him. In spite of my doubts the night before, I especially wanted to know what secret he seemed to be concealing.
After breakfast, I joined Enza and the others in the hotel lobby to wait for the van to take us to San Clemente church. When nine-thirty came and went and the van still hadn’t arrived, Enza used her cell phone to contact the driver. After she finished her conversation with him, she turned to us.
Our driver is delayed. How do you say it, stuck in traffic. There is a marathon, and many streets are blocked off. We will have to go by taxi.
After another delay, two taxis arrived at the curb.
Karen Vale stayed close to Todd, but after he helped her and Kimberly into the first taxi, he stepped aside and insisted that the Perkinses get in with them. As they pulled away, I couldn’t help noticing Karen’s expression. She’d been outfoxed.
I got into the next taxi, along with the Waxmans, Enza, and Todd. I decided that, if Todd did that deliberately, he seemed to prefer my company to Karen’s, but I felt like a high school girl again, looking for signs that some boy liked me. I ought to stay above that sort of thing.
The taxi driver did his best to skirt the marathon runners—at least fifty slender young people dressed in colorful shorts and T-shirts with numbers on the back—and we made good time. When we arrived at last at the church, we met another tour guide. The sixtyish distinguished-looking gentleman sported a gray beard and was probably a retired professor hired to explain what we’d see that day.
San Clemente church was a Baroque basilica, but its prominence came from the fact that in the nineteenth century excavators discovered the remnants of earlier churches underneath.
Rome was built about 800 years B.C., the guide told us, and beneath this church is one which dates to the year 313. Beneath that is a temple of Athens from the time of Augustus.
As we navigated the narrow staircases and corridors leading down to the earlier excavated sites, I marveled at mosaics and frescoes still visible on floors and walls and wondered how those early Christians had kept their faith in spite of Rome’s efforts to eradicate them. Todd kept close to me and took my elbow from time to time to keep me from stumbling on the uneven stone floors.
Apparently, an even lower level still exists, he told me. An ancient cult of men, mostly soldiers, held rituals in the temples and altars.
I know they call Rome the Eternal City. I’m beginning to see what they mean.
Yes, Todd agreed, Italians live with structures from its founding, through the Middle Ages, the Renaissance, and right up to today. At home, we tear down some old buildings when we ought to consider them part of our history.
I think they call that progress.
He gave a little chuckle as if appreciating the irony.
Back outdoors once more, the guide instructed us to follow him, and we walked down narrow streets until the Colosseum loomed before us.
I stopped to stare. It’s right here.
What did you expect?
I imagined it off a ways from the city, on a hill, perhaps, surrounded by—well, open space. Instead it’s right downtown. The street goes around it, with cars, trucks, buses—
I told you the Romans live with their history all around them. He seemed about to say more, but just then Karen and Kimberly descended on us.
Kimberly clutched Todd’s sleeve. Can we go inside?
Of course. Why not?
I don’t know. I just thought—well, I’ve seen pictures and read about it in school...I mean, it’s so famous.
Karen pointed to a depressed area of grass and shrubs which partially concealed rows of broken stones. What’s that?
Todd answered. It’s where the gladiators lived and trained for the games. The buildings themselves are obviously gone now, but these remaining stones outline the various rooms.
The gladiators didn’t live inside the Colosseum?
No, that’s where they kept the animals.
Karen captured Todd’s arm. Once more relegated to Kimberly’s side, I followed them toward the entrance. As we walked, I stared up at the enormous outside circle with its familiar arched openings in the walls. They rose in some places to sixty feet or more, in others lower, where time, weather, and p
erhaps vandals had eroded them. Todd steered us closer to the guide so we could hear his explanations.
The Colosseum was built in about 72 B.C., the man said. It was called the Flavian Amphitheatre and was originally covered in marble, gold, and bronze.
What happened to all the marble and gold? Kimberly asked.
After the Colosseum was no longer used, people removed it to use on other buildings. The bronze went into statues.
I had no idea that recycling was practiced so long ago, Todd said. We all grinned at that.
The guide, however, gave him a look that indicated he didn’t find it particularly amusing. Probably, as a historian, he resented the later builders’ practice of removing the marble and gold, but the ancient Romans had no idea anyone would care two thousand years later. I tried to imagine what it must have looked like in its original form. Beautiful or merely gaudy?
As a tour group, we didn’t have to pay the admission price but proceeded inside the giant structure behind Enza and the guide. My first sight was of wooden flooring that partially covered an immense system of catacombs below the main level. The guide told us that what we saw below was the underground temporary home for the animals, slaves, and criminals who were sacrificed there.
This is not the original floor, he explained. This surface has been built for tourists to walk on. The word ‘arena’ is Latin for ‘sand,’ and the entire floor was covered in sand to soak up the blood from the thousands of animals that were killed here.
Ugh, how gross! Kimberly said.
Did they really send Christians to the lions here? Karen asked.
The early Christians were killed in other places as well, but some probably died here because, since they were criminals, they were expendable and provided entertainment to the spectators by fighting animals or gladiators. He paused and then made an attempt to be relevant. They didn’t have humane methods in those days: no guillotine, electric chair, or lethal injection.
Silent, my body suddenly cold, I thought of those martyrs facing the ultimate change of address. Were some of them offered leniency if they renounced Christ? If I had lived back then, would I have died for my beliefs?