by C.J Duggan
‘Our parents died when we were very young.’
Marcello looked at me, but unusually he didn’t hold my stare. I could feel my cheeks burn and my throat tighten.
‘I’m so sorry.’
Marcello smiled, but it was small, and sad. ‘You didn’t honestly think that a struggling artist would be able to live in a place like this?’
It was almost as if I could hear the penny dropping in my brain, spinning and falling and clattering, painfully loud. Marcello had been such a mystery to me—I had never even questioned how he came to be living in the heart of the city, just he and Rosalia and possibly a wayward sister. Now it all made sense.
Inheritance.
Sensing my unease, Marcello moved to stand, in part distracting me with a glass he retrieved from a top cupboard. He filled it with water from the fridge and held it out to me.
‘And don’t be too concerned by Maria’s tears: she will channel her embarrassment into determination. You heard her, she is going to get to the bottom of this and will bring back your passport.’
I had no doubt she would; even if she had to hold Jodie’s head under water in a Venetian canal, she would get to the bottom of this.
‘So, just allow her to make amends: bringing the passport and refunding you your money will make her feel a little better about what has happened.’
I knew all these things, but I still felt bad. My intention wasn’t to make Maria feel like she had failed, I just wanted … well, I wasn’t so sure anymore. I was beyond exhausted. I ran my hands through my hair, breathing out a long, weary breath.
‘Why don’t you go lie down—I’ll wake you when dinner is ready.’ Marcello rubbed the back of my neck and it was like he flicked a switch: my eyes closed briefly and I felt instantly fatigued.
‘To be honest, I don’t think I will be able to eat for days. I think I’ll just slip into a food coma, if that’s alright?’
‘Rosalia’s cooking has taken down full-grown men, I understand.’ He shifted his hand to squeeze my knee before moving from the table to refill my glass.
‘Grazie mille,’ I said, holding the cool glass next to my burning cheeks.
‘Listen to you—you sound like a local. You’d fit in well here.’
‘Ha! Sure, just as long as you could guide me around so I don’t get lost.’
‘I could do that,’ he said, unfazed.
‘Yeah, well.’ I pushed my chair out and stood, feeling the fatigue of a stressful day seeping into my bones. ‘You’d soon get sick of me.’
Marcello grinned cheekily. ‘Probably.’
I punched him playfully in the arm. ‘Well, the sooner Maria gets back with my passport, the better,’ I said, swaggering out of the kitchen; it was only when I was well down the hall that my smile slipped away, thinking about that very reality. As I turned into my room, I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t notice Rosalia until she coughed, making me jump.
‘Jesus, Rosalia, you scared me.’
She looked rather pleased about it; it was an unnerving thing, having a little old lady laying in wait for me, surveying me with distrust. She was clearly no fan of mine. I wondered if she was here to yell at me again, until I realised the real reason for her visit.
Rosalia had turned down my sheets and placed fresh towels and a bar of soap on the end of my bed. My life had done a complete one-eighty, going from bed bugs to five-star service in less than a day. I could feel my eyes getting a little misty.
‘Aww, grazie, Rosalia,’ I said, my hand on my heart, watching her waddle slowly from the bed towards the door. She paused next to me, looking up at me with her soulful eyes, assessing. I realised then that Rosalia didn’t hate me—she was just taking my measure. She was a smart lady.
I smiled, nodding my head in appreciation.
Only then did a little smile form and I felt mildly victorious, until she spoke, pointing a crooked finger up at me. ‘You hurt him, I hurt you.’
My brows rose, and I felt both shocked and terrified. I simply nodded my head, and she shuffled out of my room without a backward glance. It was perhaps the quickest lesson I had learned since being in Rome: whatever you do, don’t mess with Rosalia.
Chapter Thirty-Six
I thought the sun might have woken me up—a foreign concept of late—but it was the voices that did it. The laughter and the slide of furniture across floorboards had me sitting up and looking around, trying to get my bearings. I could have stayed in bed all day. The mattress was like a giant sedative, so insanely plush and cosy; it took an immense amount of willpower to peel back the sheets and pad my way to the wardrobe.
It wasn’t until I opened it that I realised all my things had been unpacked, either hanging or folded neatly and placed in drawers. Oh, God, I even had my own little knicker drawer. I cringed. Rosalia had seen all my unmentionables, including the French knickers I had packed ‘in case’. Having climbed straight into bed after my pow-wow with her, I hadn’t realised her turndown service had gone to the next level. Even my toiletries in the bathroom were lined up like perfect little soldiers; it would have been a little disturbing if it wasn’t so sweet.
Showering with no thought for time, and free from the paranoia of being barged in on by a hungover backpacker needing to take a leak, I savoured every droplet, lathering myself into a frenzy and filling the entire room with steam.
As I got dressed I could still hear the voices, and I wondered if I should venture out of my room. Though Marcello had told me to treat his place like a home away from home, it was still strange and new. With only the sun for reference, I knew that it was day, but not what time, and the timelessness combined with the restorative effects of sleep and a shower had me feeling reborn.
Without thinking too much about why, I put particular effort into making myself look nice, but not too nice; something told me that Rosalia would be watching me like a hawk in her attempt to safeguard her adoptive grandson’s heart. So I kept well away from the red dress, opting for the casual, sun-kissed tourist look, with shorts, sandals and my tan leather shoulder bag. Dabbing on some berry lip gloss and the last dribble of Calvin Klein perfume, I was ready to venture out for the day, wherever it might take me.
I opened my door just enough to peer through, and to better hear the conversation happening below. The laughter settled and I could only make out Marcello’s unmistakable voice. I opened the door and slowly stepped along the hall, seeing the light spill through the opened doors to Marcello’s studio, where the voices were coming from. I had no way of walking to the kitchen without being seen, and I paused for a moment, torn between walking past without making eye contact, pretending I was unaware of the room’s occupants, or doubling back to my room and waiting until the guests had left, however long that took. I chose the former, taking in a breath, lifting my chin and walking as lightly as I could, trying to channel the ghostlike presence of Rosalia.
I’m not here, I’m not here, I’m not here …
‘Sammi!’ Marcello’s voice sounded from behind me.
Crap!
I turned on my heel, feigning surprise. ‘Morning,’ I said, turning to face Marcello at the door of his studio, and seeing we had a captive audience.
‘Sleep well?’ he asked, drying one of his brushes with a paint-speckled towel slung over his shoulder.
‘Amazing.’
‘Magnifico.’ He beamed. ‘Come, I want you to meet some people.’
‘Oh, I don’t want to intrude …’ I protested, but it was no use. Marcello took me by the hand and dragged me into the studio. Suddenly seven sets of eyes were upon me.
‘Everyone, this is Sammi from Australia.’ I waved, wanting nothing more than to slink away.
‘Well, ain’t she a doll; hey, Marcello, do you think we can paint your friend?’ a big-bellied man with a Texan drawl chuckled.
The woman to his side, who I assumed was his wife, gave him a playful tap. ‘Eddie, shush. Look, you’ve turned her all red now.’
‘Oh, no,
don’t mind me, I am perpetually sunburnt.’
Everyone laughed, tilting their heads like I was simply adorable. What an easy crowd to please.
A man from the back slid from his stool and came over to me. ‘Giovanni,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘It is nice to meet you, Sammi.’
‘Oh, Giovanni, you’re the tour guide?’
‘Si, someone has to keep the rabble in check.’
‘He’s the worst of us all,’ interjected another lady, wearing a pink sun visor paired interestingly with a pearl necklace.
Once again the laughter that had pierced through my sleep sounded again; they were most definitely a different kind of clientele than Maria would have brought along. You could just tell that Marcello would have them eating out of the palm of his hand. A group of, mostly, women in their twilight years, and one lone husband who had no doubt tagged along to humour his wife, they all sported matching white T-shirts that read ‘Golden Slumbers Tours’, and had the image of a sun setting over the ocean. It sounded more like a retirement home, but the matching T-shirts was a nice touch, and probably prevented them from getting lost in one of the world’s busiest cities. Giovanni was sure to have his hands full.
Marcello turned to me, lowering his voice. ‘Are you doing anything today?’
‘Um, I don’t have anything planned.’ I felt my heart rate increase a little, hoping that he might have something in mind.
‘Well, do you want to stick around? There’s something I want to give you, but I won’t be finished here for about an hour—is that okay?’
Give me something?
‘Sure, I can wait.’
Marcello smiled. ‘Good.’
‘Hey, lover boy, we’re on the clock, you know.’
Marcello turned. ‘Shall we all head up?’
Excitement rippled through the group as they moved into motion, grabbing their packs and canvasses. Marcello walked with me out of the studio, reading the question on my face.
Marcello smiled. ‘Si, I am taking them to the roof terrace.’
I wanted to throw my arms around him, glad he was listening to my suggestion, but instead stepped to the side to let the group of laughing Americans through.
‘Come on, son, give her a kiss and tell her you’ll see her later.’ The Texan whacked Marcello on the shoulder, and I could have sworn I saw him blush, but he didn’t move; instead, he stood there looking more intent.
‘See you in a bit,’ I said, wishing the minutes away so I could see what it was he had to give me.
Marcello nodded before turning from me to catch up to the group. Glancing quickly back to me, his eyes made a silent promise. It made the butterflies in my stomach dance, or it could have been hunger. I wandered into the kitchen, amazed that I could eat again after yesterday. On the table sat a basket of breads and pastries, and a bowl of fresh fruit. My mouth watered in anticipation. Alongside the spread sat a note:
Sammi, use the phone and call home if you want; let your family know you’re okay.
M
P.S. Juice is in the fridge.
I shook my head—he really had thought of everything. As far as my family knew, I was heading for a gondola ride in Venice today. Although I had never been there, and I was sure it would have been lovely, there was something seriously lovely about sitting in Marcello’s kitchen, eating baked goods and drinking freshly squeezed orange juice. I might have been missing out on being serenaded while cruising along the canals, but I didn’t feel too bad at all. In fact, as I plucked a grape from the basket and popped it into my mouth, I realised I had never felt so bloody content.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
It was rather comical speaking to my mum, knowing that we were both hiding the truth from each other. I had no doubt that my sister was sitting in the background, miming questions to her; I could tell from the uneasy, wooden conversation.
‘And is the weather nice?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, you already asked me that, Mum—it’s lovely.’
‘Oh, right. So what’s been your favourite part of the tour so far?’
My mind flashed to an image of Marcello’s head between my legs. I cleared my throat and pushed that out of my mind.
‘Oh, um, the, ah, Pantheon was pretty amazing,’ I stammered. I could only hope that I wasn’t on loudspeaker; Claire would be picking up on my weirdness with her older sister’s intuition.
‘Ah, anyway, Mum, I better go. We’ve got another jam-packed day planned.’
‘Oh, yes, of course, you best hurry. Don’t want to get left behind.’
I bit my lip trying to contain myself.
If only she knew.
‘Okay, well, give my love to Dad.’
And Claire and Louis.
‘I will—love you, be safe.’
‘Love you too.’
By the time our call ended I think it was safe to say we were both equally relieved; living a lie was exhausting. Though I wanted to be honest, to tell her I had been abandoned in Rome and was now stranded in a gorgeous Italian man’s apartment with no passport, I knew that no matter how much I assured her I was safe, she wouldn’t believe it. The important thing was that I knew I was safe; I mean, there was a nonna keeping an eye on me, for God’s sake. Could there be a better bodyguard? I think not.
I wasn’t sure where Rosalia was at this point—possibly restocking the cavernous pantry for lunch—but she could be lurking around the corner at any given moment. So I stayed in the sunny kitchen, flipping through a newspaper, looking at the pictures instead of trying to decipher the words; it was something to pass the time, and I sorely needed distraction as Marcello’s class was taking forever. Finally, I heard the approach of cackling laughter once more, and I straightened from my slumped position at the table.
I leapt out of my seat and made my way towards the voices. I walked out into the hall, and out from the elevator stepped a group of smiling, flushed faces sporting rather windswept hairdos; it was enough to tell me the roof-terrace session had been a success.
‘Simply stunning. I’m telling you, young man, hit me up with some more of that local wine and I’ll be back again and again,’ said a tall lady with dyed black hair and thick plum lipliner that didn’t quite blend with her lipstick.
‘Now, our canvasses will be ready to pick up when?’ asked a delicate little lady with hot-pink nail polish who had her arm linked with Marcello’s.
‘Tomorrow. I will have them all wrapped for you,’ he assured her.
‘And we won’t have any trouble at Customs, will we?’ asked big Tex.
‘Not at all; there are no materials used that will pose any problems for Customs.’
‘Oh, super! I am going to hang my Roman masterpiece above the fireplace,’ announced his wife.
‘Very well,’ Giovanni called. ‘Best we get a move on.’
It was then that Marcello’s eyes landed on me, hovering near the kitchen doorway.
‘Hold up, Giovanni!’ he said, moving to skim through the group and come directly towards me.
‘Looks like you got some happy customers there,’ I said.
Marcello’s face was lit up in a way I had never seen before; he looked energised and impassioned, and it was contagious. He pulled a sheet of folded paper from his back pocket and handed it to me.
‘Here.’
I looked at his outstretched hand rather sceptically. ‘What’s this?’
I took it from him, but before I had a chance to unfold it, Marcello, like an excited child, started telling me, ‘It’s a ticket to the Colosseum—Giovanni will take you. It’s a “Skip the Line” pass so you don’t have to wait all day.’
I laughed. ‘Skip the line?’
A woman squeezed in between us. ‘Oh, honey, at our stage in life we don’t have time to waste on lining up! Some of us would be dead by the time we got to the front of the queue,’ she said, breaking away and moving to be ushered out by Giovanni, who appeared to have the patience of a saint.
I turned back to M
arcello, who was still looking at me. ‘I know you didn’t get to see it last time so …’ He shrugged.
Grinning like a mad thing didn’t really convey what I was feeling in that moment, and although we had an audience—a loud, boisterous one at that—I did the only thing that could truly express my gratitude. I stepped forward, cupping the sides of his face and kissing him so passionately that the entire apartment was drowned out with wolf whistles and cheers. I thought Marcello might have pulled away, embarrassed, but he kissed me back, circling his arms around me and tilting me backwards like in the movies, putting on a real show. He lifted me up and we laughed like teenagers at the commotion.
One of the ladies was fanning herself with a booklet. ‘Does everyone get a goodbye like that?’
Marcello jokingly went to step towards Giovanni, his hands outstretched, but Giovanni quickly bolted to the stairs. ‘Let’s go! Avanti! Avanti!’
The cackles rolled down the stairs, delighting at Giovanni’s embarrassment. We lingered at the top. ‘You don’t want to come?’
‘I’ve got to clean up, organise their paintings.’
The kiss had turned more slapstick than I intended, so I stepped forward again, kissing him gently on the lips, wanting him to know I meant it when I said, ‘Thank you for this.’
Marcello smiled. ‘Thank me when you survive the Golden Slumbers experience.’
‘Good point.’ I giggled, heading down the stairs to where Giovanni held the door open.
‘Are you ready for this?’ Giovanni asked.
‘As ready as I will ever be.’
I was on a rickety bus with a driver who continually ground the gears. After each crunch of the gear box, without fail, big Tex said ‘Excuse me’ as if suffering from a severe case of flatulence, to a chorus of giggles. I, too, found myself laughing, even when the joke got really, really old. I was clearly in a jolly mood, indeed. It was an unexpected delight to be heading back to see the Colosseum, a place so old yet so alive, which in retrospect summed up my newfound travel companions rather perfectly. On this tour, the pace was slower, the laughs were louder and my spirit had completely changed as we lined up with our elitist ‘Skip the Line’ passes. I was even presented with a Golden Slumbers T-shirt, which I wore with pride, even if it was three sizes too large. I tucked it into the front of my shorts; wow, if only the other group could see me now.
