Mr. Field held his wife’s hand and they took in the representations of the saint’s life. Rick stood back with Carmella.
“You ever been here, Carmella?”
“On a school field trip in the third grade. This was my favorite part. So what else?”
“I met Ludovico, the middle generation of the Stampatelli clan.”
“The one who is fooling around with Pina.”
“I didn’t ask him that directly. He was less than cooperative, and I didn’t get much out of him other than that he didn’t really warm to the count, nor think much of his history research.”
“Can’t blame him for that, but was it enough to murder the guy? That’s the question.”
“Something else. I got the sense that his son was almost trying to cover for Ludovico. Like the kid knew there was something going on that the police, we police, shouldn’t find out.”
“That is interesting. Was it his father spending too much time with Pina, or something more sinister?”
“Hard to tell. Maybe it’s nothing, along with the count’s comments on history repeating itself.”
The Fields returned.
“Mr. Montoya,” said Mrs. Field, “this is so different from the church above but equally fascinating. To think that people worshiped here that long ago, it shows how the faith has grown over the years. Shall we return to the main church?”
“There’s more,” Rick said.
“Another church below this one?” said Mr. Field, laughing. He had momentarily forgotten about his baseball scores.
“You could say that.”
“Lead the way.”
They went down more steps, but these were narrow and dark, cut into the earth below the upper church. At the bottom they found themselves in a long passage with openings on both sides, and lit by lights set into the walls and ground. If going from the main to the lower church had taken them centuries back in time, this final descent carried them even more into the past.
“We have several things at this level,” said Rick in a low voice appropriate for the atmosphere. “That includes fifth-century tombs, catacombs, if you will. Most fascinating to me is that centuries earlier, this space contained a room used for ritual banquets by the pagan cult of Mithras. If you peer in there you can see an altar used by the cult, carved with an image of Mithras himself slaying the bull.”
“A church built atop the ruins of a pagan temple. There’s a message there.”
“The Romans loved such symbolism back then, Mr. Field. They still do.”
Two hours and three churches later, Carmella pulled up at the door to the Hotel Hassler. The Fields thanked Carmella and asked Rick to come inside, since Mrs. Field had left her money at the front desk, not wanting to go out into the city with much cash. She bustled over to reception.
“That was a very interesting tour,” said Mr. Field. “As this entire trip has been. Unfortunately, it fell just at a week when my team is playing a key home series, but there was nothing to be done about it. The important thing is that Mrs. Field is happy.”
At that moment she appeared, holding an envelope. “Mr. Montoya, I trust this will cover you and Ms. Lamponi. It has been a delightful afternoon and we are most appreciative. I have the card you gave me and will certainly recommend you to any of my friends coming to Rome.”
Rick hoped that he’d be doing interpreting, not guiding tours, but thanked her just the same. “It has been a pleasure, and I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay.”
“We’re here until the end of the week,” said Mr. Field with a touch of sadness.
They shook hands and Rick walked out to where Carmella was waiting. He opened the envelope, took out the four notes, and handed two to her.
“Half to you, half to me, Sergeant.”
“Accidenti, I usually have to drive for three days to get this much.”
“Americans are generous people, Carmella. And now I will not feel constrained about what I can order on my dinner date tonight.”
“Are you going out with the one whose name you can’t remember?”
“No, that was Teresa, the one who got this job for us today. Dinner is with someone else.”
“Well, please thank Teresa next time you see her.” She stuffed the money into her pocket. “Can I drop you somewhere?”
Rick thought for a moment, and realized that it was all downhill from there to his apartment. “No thanks, this is a nice time to walk. I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Whatever the commissario says. He’ll probably want to go over what we’ve found regarding the case since our last meeting. He’s very meticulous, but you must know that since he’s your uncle.”
“That reminds me, I forgot to tell you that I met again with Syms-Mulford. I wanted to ask him where he was the night of the murder.” It was of course Syms-Mulford who wanted to tell Rick, but she didn’t need to know that, nor the fact that Syms-Mulford thought Rick was a spy.
“And I forgot to tell you that I went back and talked to the harp teacher to ask her the same thing,” said Carmella. “It appears that we both neglected to ask that key question.”
“What did she say?”
“That she was with Syms-Mulford.”
Chapter Ten
Rick worked his way down through the clumps of foreign tourists milling all along the Spanish Steps, enjoying their Italian experience while surrounded by non-Italians. At the bottom he opted to avoid Via Condotti, turning instead to the left and walking to Piazza Mignanelli, where a giant column was topped by a statue of the Virgin Mary. At the corners of the base sat four Biblical patriarchs who, if concerned about the shorts and tank tops walking by, didn’t show it. Rick looked up at Moses before turning into Via Frattina. While it did not boast any of the big names of Italian fashion found two streets over, its shops were just as elegant and almost as expensive. Rick only glanced at the windows, not because he couldn’t afford what was behind the glass, but because he was still thinking about what Carmella had told him. If Signora Angelini was telling the truth, it threw out his theory that Syms-Mulford and the count were arguing because Syms-Mulford was paying too much attention to the countess. Were both men fooling around with the tattooed harp teacher? Could it be that the crafty Brit was in relationships with both her and the countess? Rick tried to wash that image from his mind as he crossed Via del Corso and entered Piazza San Lorenzo in Lucina, with the church of the same name. He recalled going there as a kid and being shown the gridiron on which Saint Lawrence was martyred. It had made an impression. As he came to the end of the square his phone rang. He recognized the number.
“Ciao, Giulia.”
“Ciao, Rick.”
“I’m looking forward to dinner. I have reservations at a place on Via dei Coronari. I made sure we have a table outside, and the weather looks perfect for it.”
“Rick, that’s why I’m calling. I’m so sorry, but something has come up and I won’t be able to make it. I feel terrible about this.”
“Business?”
“Yes, of course, and you know how it is when you’re running your own operation.”
He didn’t, at least not yet. “Of course, Giulia, I understand. We’ll do it another night.”
“Thanks, Rick. I’ll call you.”
They said their goodbyes and Rick slipped the phone back in his pocket and started along Via Campo Marzio, named for the fields where the Roman legions trained back in the old days. Now it was another shopping street, with a few stores where he could almost afford to shop. But even those would be out of his price range until he got some meaningful work. He stopped and looked at himself in the glass of a shoe store window. What is happening with you, Montoya? On the murder case, nothing was happening. In his love life, the same: nothing. His former sweetheart was a nun, and Giulia was too busy to give him the time of day. Worst of all was his interpret
ing business. Not much there either, and he’d been in Rome for almost a week. The only aspect of his life that was moving along briskly was time, and with it, his savings. He took a deep breath and it came to him that there was something that could get him out of his funk. It had never failed him when he’d lived in Italy as a kid, and it would work now. He was sure of it.
Gelato.
Fortunately, one of his favorite gelaterie was just ahead. When he walked in and pre-paid at the cash register, he found he was the only customer there. Too close to dinner for the Italians, and the tourists had started to abandon the historic center for the day. The man behind the counter looked down at Rick’s cowboy boots, took him for a tourist, and checked his watch. Rick began to study the metal pans of gelato behind the glass, moving his eyes along under the gaze of the server. Life was full of decisions, as Rick was well aware. He’d learned once in a college class that the more difficult it was to make a choice between options, the less difference it would make when the choice was finally made. The statement always seemed nuts to him, which is the way he recalled the professor of that course. It was a psychology class.
He stared at the glass, and, wracked with indecision, tried to weigh the advantages and disadvantages of each option. It was not easy, but it never was in La Palma. He moved to the left, and more choices came into view, which certainly didn’t help. The man staring at him, small cup in hand, was the embodiment of patience. Since Rick was the only one in the place at the moment, the guy could afford to be patient.
“I think I know which three I want,” Rick said, his eyes still scanning the shining stainless steel pans of gelato, “I just need to decide which order to put them in the cup.”
The man behind the counter nodded, silently confirming that the sequence was important. He also realized, both from the fluent Italian and the statement itself, that this was no cowboy tourist, boots or no boots. The sign of a true connoisseur, he knew, was choosing not only the right flavors, ones that complemented each other without being overpowering, but also placing them in the correct order inside the cup. A fruit flavor on top of a chocolate, could ruin the enjoyment of both. A disaster.
“Start with the gianduja,” said Rick. “Then riso, and finally pesca.” It was a combination he’d not had before, but would work well. The peach on top would be consumed first, a light palate cleaner, followed by the rice with its crunchy pieces, and ending with the hazelnut and chocolate flavor of the gianduja, like Nutella, but with a more subtle bouquet. The man behind the counter followed Rick’s instructions to the letter, inserted a plastic spoon, and passed it across the glass with an approving nod. Rick took it, dropped a coin in the dish, and headed for the door. Italians were not known for eating on the hoof—food was meant to be consumed in a civilized way—but gelato was the exception to the rule.
It helped his mood, but only marginally. After considering and rejecting the idea of swinging by the elephant statue, he dropped his empty cup and spoon into a trash bin on Piazza Rondanini and walked toward Piazza Navona. It was getting late now, the time when Romans were leaving work and squeezing onto buses to get home, or if they were fortunate, walking there. Soon they would be sitting in front of their TVs complaining about what was on the newscast, while the pasta water was put on to boil. Which reminded him that he would be eating alone that evening, and the cupboard was bare. Fortunately, the salumaio would still be open, so he pointed himself in its direction.
The woman who had helped him the last time was behind the counter taking care of a customer, and once again he tried to recall where he had met her, if indeed he had. Wait a minute: could she have been the one behind him on the passport line when he was arriving at Fiumicino? He tried to remember the face, but all he could think of was how groggy he’d been that morning, and the embarrassing rebuke for being in the wrong line. But it had to be her; why else would he be so sure he’d met her? How could he subtly ask? From a side door on the right an older woman wearing an apron appeared, bearing a resemblance to her coworker. Mother and daughter? Rick remembered the guessing game he’d played with his uncle at dinner and decided his instincts on this one would be flawed as well. They were probably sisters. The older woman said something to the younger, picked up an empty tray from behind the glass, and exited stage left. The younger woman took the customer’s money, bagged up what she’d bought, and handed over the purchases. She looked up and saw Rick waiting. The pleasant smile returned and Rick smiled back.
“You finished your sandwiches,” she said.
“And they were so good I am back.”
“Another sandwich?”
“No, this will be dinner, so something more substantive. And I need some other basics as well, so let’s start with them. Prosciutto, about three etti.” He watched as she heaved a ham leg onto the slicer and went to work. When it was sliced and wrapped she placed it on the counter in front of her and looked at him, awaiting the next order.
“Do you travel much?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Sorry, I thought I might have seen you recently. In the airport.” It had sounded like a clumsy pickup line. He might as well have asked her if she came here often.
“The last time I was in the airport was to pick up my mother, and that was a year ago. I never travel anywhere.”
“It wasn’t you then. Anyway, a box of spaghetti and one of those jars of sauce.” He pointed to some tomato sauce on a shelf. She picked up both and put them next to the prosciutto.
“A piece of grana?” He formed a triangle with his fingers.
She held up a chunk of the cheese, and when he nodded she wrapped it up.
“Olive oil, good but not expensive.”
She took a bottle off the shelf. “It’s what I use.” She put it next to the other items and flashed the smile again. “What else? Wine? Did you finish that bottle of bianco?”
“No, but I should get a bottle of red. Again—”
“Good but not expensive. How about this one?” She pulled one from the row of bottles and showed him the label.
She was finishing his sentences. That had to be a good sign. “It’s what you drink?”
“I’ve tried it and liked it. What else?”
“Just dinner. I was admiring that platter of lasagna. Could you slice me one portion, per favore?”
She produced an aluminum dish and cut a square of the lasagna to fit in it. “This is excellent. My mother made it this morning and it’s what we’ll probably have ourselves tonight if nobody takes the rest.”
So she lives with her mother, Rick thought. And she knows I live alone since I asked for only one portion. “I think that will do it.”
She started adding up the items on a small machine, pushing them aside one by one.
“Wait, there’s something else I almost forgot. I need a can of tuna.”
She finished with the last item but before hitting the total button walked to a shelf where various cans were stacked. She reached up but then stopped and turned back to Rick. “Water pack or oil pack?”
It was either the words, or the way she said them, but it finally registered.
“Which does Fellini prefer?”
First she frowned. Then her mouth dropped open, revealing a perfect row of teeth. Finally she laughed, which Rick thought was even better than her smile, but she tried to stifle it with her hand.
“It’s you, the one who called me.”
“Since I came in here the first time I was trying to remember where we’d met, since you seemed so familiar. When you said water pack or oil pack, I finally got it. Do you have a name, or do your friends just call you Fellini’s Mom?”
She giggled. “Gina.”
“I’m Riccardo.” They shook hands after she wiped hers on her apron.
“I wasn’t very nice when you called, Riccardo. It was especially hectic here that day.”
“And you’ve felt guilty ever since and wished there were a way you could make up for it.”
“Well—”
“Then how about this, Gina? I’ll put my lasagna in the refrigerator for tomorrow and you’ll let me take you out to dinner.”
“I would enjoy that.”
“Your mother won’t mind eating alone?”
“She’ll watch TV. And Fellini will keep her company.”
Gina had insisted that Rick cancel the reservation at the other restaurant so they could go to a place close by. You must get to know your neighborhood, she’d said, and he had to agree. This trattoria was not someplace he would have stumbled upon himself, hidden as it was among the back streets off Piazza Navona, but apparently enough people knew the way.
The first waiter they saw knew Gina, and he pointed them with his chin to an empty table as he balanced several steaming plates. They got the last two chairs at what seemed like one long table, but was really several pushed close together. The seating provided a good way to meet people, even if you didn’t want to, but from the noisy conversations, that didn’t appear to be a problem. One narrow aisle ran the length of the room, barely big enough for the waiters to get past one another as they carried food and wine out from the kitchen and empty plates back. Rick and Gina squeezed past chairs and took their places facing each other. A waiter reached across the table, dropped menus in front of them, and asked for their drink order. She asked for mineral water and a liter of red, turning to Rick for agreement. He nodded approval, and the waiter rushed off.
“This is exactly the kind of place I envisioned coming to when I was planning my return to Rome.”
“There are no restaurants like this in—what was the city again?”
“Albuquerque. We have local places that serve New Mexican food, and are somewhat noisy and friendly, but they’re different.”
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