Roman Count Down

by David P. Wagner

  Rick couldn’t be sure if the man was trying to be humorous, given the flat delivery of the lines.

  “You have to cater to national tastes to a certain extent, I suppose.”

  “You got it. The Americans always want peanut butter available, though it’s something I could never understand.” He glanced at Rick’s cowboy boots. “Not that there’s anything wrong with it, of course. We have a few vegetarians, but we can work around that by always having a side dish of macaroni and cheese. The sisters make it from scratch. The Holy Father, though, he’s not a vegetarian, not by a long shot.”

  Rick shifted on his box, which was starting to get hard. Where was Juan Alberto? “The Argentinians love their red meat. Do you have to import it for the pope?”

  “No, the local beef is good enough. But we do have to bring in chimichuri sauce. He puts it on everything. I’d never heard of the stuff until he became pope. Can I get you some water? I’ve got cases of it in the walk-in refrigerator.”

  “Thank you, Father, I’m fine.”

  “The last pope, he was a different story, and of course he brought a bunch of Germans with him who had the same tastes.” He jerked his thumb toward the refrigerator. “I had half the cooler filled with bratwurst and sauerkraut, and the other half with beer.” He looked at his watch with no subtlety.

  “Juan Alberto should be here momentarily,” Rick said. “The traffic is pretty bad today.”

  “I hope he gets here soon. I’ve got a shipment of vegetables coming in from the south that I’ll have to give my full attention. These Neapolitans are amazing, what they try to get away with. You’d think they’d be on their best behavior, this being the Vatican, but no.” He shook his head, either in disgust or wonderment.

  “Let me give Juan Alberto a call.” Rick reached for his cell phone but at that moment a taxi stopped in front and out stepped the Argentine holding a bottle of wine. After what appeared to be a small argument with the driver, Juan Alberto paid his fare and walked to the doorway where Rick met him.

  “Hola, Reek,” he said, as if he had arrived on schedule.

  Rick switched into Spanish. “Your lateness is not going to help you make a sale, Juan Alberto.”

  “Late? In my country this would be considered early. Are we in Italy or America?”

  “We can discuss that later. Come meet Father Galeazzo.”

  Juan Alberto shook hands with the priest and put the bottle on the desk. “Mucho gusto, Padre.”

  After the greetings, Rick went into his interpreter’s routine.

  “Just tell him, Reek, that the pope should have wine from his homeland.”

  Rick turned to the priest. “Signor Sanguinetti thinks the wine will make an excellent addition to the Vatican’s wine cellars.”

  “There’s a lot of wine around, what makes his so special?”

  “Father Galeazzo would like to know what makes your wine so special.”

  “It’s from Argentina, Reek. Doesn’t he know the pope’s from Argentina?”

  “He says it is one of the finest wines in the country, Padre.”

  “Well, Signor Montoya, let’s give it a try.” He opened a drawer and rooted among hammers, screwdrivers and other tools before coming upon a corkscrew and pocketknife. Rick swallowed hard as Galeazzo cut off the plastic stop with the knife and carefully inserted the corkscrew. He turned it several times, until the screw was deep into the cork, then stood and pulled. It opened with a pop. Another drawer was rifled and out came three plastic cups. “Will you join me?” said the priest, holding up the bottle.

  “None for me, thank you,” answered Rick.

  “Si, claro,” was Juan Alberto’s reply.

  Two cups were filled halfway, one passed to Juan Alberto.

  “Salute,” said the priest before taking a sip.

  Rick held his breath. The stuff was probably plonk.

  Galeazzo took another taste. “Non ćè male.”

  “What did he say, Reek?”

  “He says it’s not bad.”

  “Just not bad? What does he know?”

  They were interrupted by Padre Galeazzo. “What about the grapes?”

  Rick translated into Spanish.

  “Grapes?” said Juan Alberto. “They come from Argentina and they grow on Argentine vines in Mendoza which is in western Argentina. I don’t bother with such details, Reek, I’m here to be sure that our pope has a good glass of wine with his meals, wine from his homeland. Did I mention that the pope is from Argentina?”

  Rick rubbed his eyes and tried to gather his thoughts. Juan Alberto was not making this easy. He looked up and saw the bottle sitting on the desk where the priest had placed it after pouring the two cups. The rear label was facing him. He leaned forward slightly, hoping Galeazzo wouldn’t notice.

  “Signor Sanguinetti says that it is a premium blend of Malbec with other specialties of the Mendoza region, where high altitude and low soil salinity create a smooth red with a hint of fruit that combines perfectly with cheese, meats, or pasta, but can simply be enjoyed by itself, sitting by a fire with your closest friends.” He leaned back from the bottle.

  The priest took another taste. “Va bene, tell him we’ll take twenty cases.”

  Fifteen minutes later the bottle was empty, Father Galezzo was overseeing the delivery of Neapolitan vegetables, and Rick and Juan Alberto were walking down the street looking for a cab.

  “I knew that would be easy, Reek. I hope you learned something about salesmanship, it might come in handy for you some time.”

  Rick spotted a taxi and waved. “You’re really good at it, Juan Alberto.”

  “What can I say? It’s a gift.”

  It would be sandwiches two days in a row, Rick thought as he came up the elevator to his floor, but even sandwiches might soon be out of his price range if he didn’t get some work. He had calculated that his savings would last him two to three months, but every time he walked past a store window he noticed the prices, and they weren’t like Albuquerque. The money from the countess for the translations would help, and taking these Americans around today should pay well too. Perhaps he should take up Giulia’s offer to do some guided tours. He might ask her more about it tonight at dinner, if the subject came up. No, that would be tacky.

  He dropped his phone and keys on the table, and had the eerie feeling that he wasn’t alone. Glancing up at the window, he saw Fellini’s gray figure sitting patiently on the ledge. Rick debated whether to let him in or not, a difficult decision since once again he had nothing for him. And he certainly did not plan on sharing his luncheon meat with a cat. He heaved a sigh and opened the window.

  “Sorry, Fellini, I have let you down once again. But I must say you don’t appear to have missed many meals. Strong body, shiny coat; I think you’re doing all right. But I promise to have a treat for you on your next visit.”

  He turned on his laptop computer, logged in, and went into the kitchen to make his sandwich. The wine was now chilled, and he decided that a glass with lunch would not be a luxury. It was Rome, after all. When he returned to the table with his sandwich and wine, Fellini was sitting on the chair staring at the computer where the screensaver had kicked in, bouncing balls off the sides. Rick picked him up and placed him on the windowsill.

  “I’d let you sit on the table, Fellini, but if my mother ever found out, she would give me a tongue-lashing.”

  The word tongue prompted Fellini to begin giving himself a bath, leaving Rick to scroll through his e-mails as he ate. Most were from Albuquerque, friends asking for news on how the move had gone and if he was missing them terribly. Eventually he got to one he wanted to see, a request to do a translation for a university professor in Trieste. The paper was attached to the e-mail, and she needed it in two weeks, a reasonable deadline. The thought of some income made the sandwich taste better.

  When
he finished eating and put his plate and glass in the kitchen sink, he walked back through the living-dining space to his bedroom. It was better to err on the side of being too formal for his afternoon guide duties, so he put on a blue dress shirt and a tie, and pulled his blazer off the hanger. When he returned to the other room, Fellini was nowhere to be seen. Rick looked in the kitchen and the few corners of the apartment and assumed that the cat had gone back out to the roof and off to parts unknown. When he turned around after closing the window, he noticed that the mouse from his computer was dangling from the edge of the table. Rick shook his head, put it back next to the laptop, and left the apartment.

  On the bus ride he thought about the day that Carmella had picked him up and realized with horror that she would be dressed the same. The jeans and red sneakers would not make a great impression on the wealthy church donors, and it might get back to Lidia’s—that is, Sister Teresa’s—boss, and she could be in trouble. Why hadn’t he thought to say something to Carmella? He was still stewing when he got off the bus near Piazza di Spagna and walked toward the Spanish Steps. As he got closer, the horde of tourists thickened, almost hiding the sunken ship fountain. Starting up the steps, he carefully picked his way through the foreigners, their numbers enhanced by young Romans trying out their English on the American girls. Halfway up he stopped and looked back down Via dei Condotti, site of the city’s most elegant stores, its pavement obscured by shoppers.

  At the top the facade of the Hotel Hassler appeared. Black cars, their grilles pointed outward, were lined up on either side of the entrance. One was Carmella’s shiny Alfa Romeo, with her leaning against it on the passenger side. She wore a dark blue suit over a white shirt, with black flats, and her hair was brushed into place. Picking up a groggy Rick at Fiumicino was one thing, driving for someone staying at a five-star hotel was clearly another. He had worried himself sick for nothing.

  “Ciao, Carmella. You’re looking quite, uh, professional.”

  “Ciao, Riccardo. What did you expect? I assume this job will be lucrative, if they can afford to stay here. How did you get in on this?”

  “A friend of mine from school.”

  “The one whose name you can’t get straight?”

  “Yes, that one. I’d better go in and find these people.”

  “You do that.”

  Rick walked past the doorman, up the steps, and into the plush lobby. He located the reception desk, behind which stood a man wearing a blue suit with the hotel name embroidered into his jacket. He was checking the screen of a computer.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Field?”

  The desk clerk answered Rick in English. “Let me see if they’re in.” He turned to the rows of boxes behind him and checked one. “Their key is here, so—oh, there they are. They must have been expecting you.” He pointed his chin toward an elderly couple sitting in one corner of the lobby. The man was reading the International Herald Tribune and the woman a small paperback. She wore a print dress and her gray hair looked like it had been done that morning. Her husband was more casual, a burgundy blazer over a white golf shirt, slacks, and tasseled loafers. Rick crossed the lobby to where they sat.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Field? I’m Rick Montoya. Shall we be on our way?”

  Mrs. Field looked up over her half glasses. “Oh, my. Sister Teresa said you would be a handsome young man, and she was right.”

  “A complete waste,” grumbled Mr. Field.

  “Don’t mind my husband, Mr. Montoya, he’s talking about the sister. He thinks all nuns should be homely. Come along, Lambert, you can check your baseball scores when we get back.”

  He heaved a sigh, folded the newspaper, and rose to his feet. “The Eternal City awaits,” he announced, with an air of resignation.

  Outside Rick introduced them to Carmella, got them into the backseat, and took his place in the front passenger seat. He turned his head. “Sister Teresa told me you have already decided what you’d like to see?”

  Mrs. Field took out a piece of paper from a small purse. “That’s right. I’ve heard so much about San Clemente church, if we could go there first, please.”

  “Basilica di San Clemente,” he said to Carmella, switching to Italian.

  Carmella turned on the engine and pulled into the street. “Anything new on the case?”

  “I thought you were on your day off and didn’t want to talk police business.”

  “I was curious.”

  “I’ll bring you up-to-date later. Let me try to earn my pay.” He turned toward the backseat. “We are on Via Sistina, named for Pope Sixtus the fifth, who had it built.”

  “Like the Sistine Chapel,” said Mrs. Field.

  “Actually, that was Sixtus the Fourth.”

  “Was there a Sixtus the Sixth?” Mr. Field asked.

  “I don’t know, let me ask our driver. Carmella, c’era un papa Sisto Sesto?

  “Are you kidding? What pope would want to take that name? It sounds like something out of a tongue twister.”

  “No, Sir. The fifth was the last.”

  The Alfa Romeo dropped down to Piazza Barberini, where Triton blew a jet of water into the air through a conch shell, before the car started climbing another hill. There were more ups and downs before they came up behind the Santa Maria Maggiore Church and drove along its side into the busy square in front. That put them on the tree-lined Via Merulana going in the direction of San Giovanni in Laterano. After a sharp right and a few more blocks, Carmella wove her way through a series of one-way streets to the curb next to the doors of San Clemente. The doorway was ornate, but set in a long wall with no decoration, and judging from the look on Mr. Field’s face, he was unimpressed. In contrast, Mrs. Field was glowing with anticipation.

  Fortunately, Rick had been to the church many times when he was growing up. When someone from the States came through Rome and had time to see only a few sights, Rick’s father usually brought them to San Clemente. It was the perfect place to demonstrate the layers that made up the city, and after so many visits, Rick hoped he would still remember much of his father’s monologue.

  “In the seventeenths century, Irish priests took over the care of the church, and they remain here to this day,” he said as they got out of the car and walked to the door. He pushed it open and stood aside while the Fields entered, then followed behind. All three crossed themselves a few steps in.

  “This is magnificent,” said Mrs. Field.

  “Here at street level is the twelfth-century church, with additions and improvements made over the years, but always keeping the original layout, including the schola cantorum, and of course the cosmatesque floor designs. The tile decoration above the apse is especially beautiful.” He felt like a tour guide, and realized that this afternoon that was exactly what he was. He also found he was enjoying it. The Fields walked toward the apse and Rick was about to follow them when he felt a tug on his elbow.

  “What’s new in the case?” said Carmella.

  The Fields appeared to be happy walking by themselves and gazing at the church decoration, but he stayed a few steps behind. “I went back to the street and talked to some of the people again. I asked Avellone why he didn’t tell us that his mother was the harp teacher, and he shrugged it off. He said the count had noticed a harp he was restoring, and that’s how he’d recommended his mother for the lessons.”

  “So nothing to go on there. What else?”

  “I went back to the count’s bar and found out he was there the night he was killed.” He told her about the bus ticket.

  Her eyebrow raised. “So who gave him the ticket, and when?”

  “Also, why? Those are the questions.”

  They were interrupted by the voice of Mrs. Field. “Mr. Montoya.”

  Rick walked quickly to her side. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Lambert was wondering about these columns. They don’t all match and they look
Roman.”

  “It was very common when constructing churches to recycle materials from ancient buildings, and especially columns. You can find Roman columns holding up ceilings in churches all over Italy.”

  “Fascinating.” They continued walking toward the altar.

  “What did she ask?” said Carmella.

  “They wanted to know if the columns were Roman.”

  “This is Rome, everything here is Roman. Did they think they’d be Neapolitan?”

  “Carmella, when Americans say Roman, they think—oh, never mind. Do you want to know what else I heard on Via Anacleto?”

  “Fire away.”

  “Pina, the salumaio lady, said something I found very intriguing. On that last day he was there, the count told her that we can learn from history, and history can repeat itself. I think there could be something significant in those words.”

  “Significant would be if he’d told her that Avellone had threatened him with a knife. You’re grasping at straws, kid. That was just babble from somebody who wanted to make people think that his little hobby was important, when it was really just a waste of everyone’s time.”

  Rick tried not to show his disappointment. “Maybe you’re right.” He moved up and walked around the church with the Fields, pointing out details he remembered, until they had made a complete loop. Carmella stood near the door.

  “This has been wonderful, Mr. Montoya. I have a couple more churches that had been recommended to us to see.”

  “But Mrs. Field, we’re not finished here.” He took them to a ticket window at the opposite side of the church from the door, and after Mr. Field got passes for all of them, including Carmella, they descended a long stairway and found themselves in a dark, musty space with a low ceiling. Lights on the ground lit their path through stone and dirt.

  “The church above was built on top of the original fourth-century church we are in now. Over there on those pillars you can see frescoes on the life of Saint Clement, but even after careful restoration they’re pretty faint. Still, when you consider that you’re looking at artwork done fifteen hundred years ago, it’s quite striking. Be careful walking, the path can be very uneven.”