The Body in the Piazza (5 page)

He stood up, tucking his notebook in his jacket pocket. “
Andiamo!
Before you both turn into pumpkins. I shouldn't be keeping you up so late, but I'm a very selfish man. Ask my ex-wife. I can say that now, since you know all.”

Faith was quite sure they did not even come close to knowing all about Freddy.

“Could you ask the waiter for the check?” Tom said.

“Done. Remember I said it was
my
party. Now I very much want some
nocciola
gelato. I suggest we indulge in that delightful Italian ritual known as
La Passeggiata,
a leisurely evening stroll.”

How long had they been eating? Hours, Faith knew, but the time was stretching out even further, and despite the meal she had just consumed, she realized there was still space for gelato, even a
doppio,
two scoops and yes, one would definitely be
nocciola
—hazelnut.

They strolled out into the night. The street was starting to get crowded, and Faith was reminded that Italians ate late. Freddy led them to the commemorative plaque, and they stood quietly in front of it for some minutes before he linked an arm through each of theirs, moving them back the way they'd come. He pointed out a small stone arch leading to an alley to the right of the restaurant that he told them would take them on the kind of pleasant wandering he espoused—“where way leads on to way.” Faith thought again of all the footsteps they were following in Rome.

“But,” Freddy added, “not tomorrow. Having forbidden you the more conventional tools of travel, I've made arrangements for you to go to the Borghese, where you will gaze upon Berninis, Caravaggios, and all manner of gorgeous things. Paolo has the information. It was too late for me to get you to the Sistine Chapel with a small group, and I forbid you to go any other way. In any case, you will love the Borghese. Mostly I go to be thrilled by the sublime Pauline herself, so erotic, that lusciously smooth marble.”

Faith had seen pictures of the statue of Pauline Borghese, Napoleon's sister. She was reclining seductively, half nude on her Empire marble chaise longue. Tickets to the Galleria Borghese had to be purchased at least several days in advance, and she wondered how Freddy had managed it.

“You strike me as good walkers, but not fanatics—no jolly hockey girl thick ankles on you, Faith my love. So you might have a leisurely breakfast—the hotel lays on quite a nice spread—and walk to the museum and gardens. You'll bump into a number of famous sights unless you're careful. Afterward you can have lunch at 'Gusto—very chic, but very good, it's near the Ara Pacis—then make your way to the Forum. I know you want to see the Colosseum, my little Daisy, and thankfully that kind of Roman fever—malaria—is not the kind of danger it once was. Not to say there aren't others . . .”

Before he could elaborate, if he was, they were at the Pantheon, dramatic, impressive in the long floodlight beams, all Freddy had promised. They stood for a while in the center of the square by the fountain, gazing at the front before walking completely around the exterior, the massive dome looming over them, omnipresent. Afterward, he led the way to the
gelateria,
which had a long line of customers whose happy chatter in several languages sounded like flocks of various kinds of birds, among them the passionate couple at the table next to them in the restaurant.

As they reached the Corso Vittoria Emanuele, Faith thought she would always remember this moment, like those “store of memories” Freddy had mentioned. She had a store of them as well. She assumed most people did. Flashes of intense, perfect happiness that existed in one's mind as if they were being relived that instant. This flash was the three of them standing perfectly still, waiting for the pedestrian sign to change while the traffic whizzed by in front of them. Their gelatos were gone, but the flavor lingered, and above, the Roman night hung suspended, a canopy of light and dark.

When they got to the Campo de' Fiori, she remembered to ask Freddy about the large bronze statue, even more forbidding at night.

“Ah, Bruno. Reduced now to a convenient meeting place. We say, ‘Meet me at Bruno' and everyone knows where to go. You must be familiar with the Dominican supposed heretic Giordano Bruno, Tom.”

Tom nodded. “Was this where they burned him, then?”

“I'm afraid so. Rather a popular spot for public executions, those highly popular precursors to the horrid reality shows on the telly, or melees at soccer games, that captivate audiences now. The market didn't move here until the mid-nineteenth century. Before then it was in the Piazza Navona. Bruno was put to death in 1600. Poor man. He'd spent most of his adult life outside Italy, where his ideas about an infinite universe and other things such as the solar system met with more favor than here. Anyway, he thought the madness of the Inquisition had subsided and came back. Homesick, I imagine. Italians usually are when they leave for any length of time. His bad luck that the embers were still smoldering. Rather literally.”

“Who put the statue up? Surely not the church,” Faith said.

Freddy shook his head. “It was erected at the time of Italy's unification, late 1800s, by the Freemasons, primarily. It's still a symbol for all stripes of independent thinkers, or those who imagine they are. They have a kind of fair every year, but you'd have more fun at the Befana Toy Fair in the Navona, especially at its end during Epiphany in January. La Befana would never bring coal to you good children,” Freddy said. “And even if she did, it's made of chocolate nowadays.”

They walked into the Piazza Farnese, which was completely empty, in contrast to the somewhat rowdy crowd that had spilled out from the many restaurants and bars lining the Campo de' Fiori market. The change was so abrupt that Faith found it unsettling. Not so much as the shadow of one of Rome's numerous cats flitted across the cobblestones.

“These must have been baths originally, yes?” Tom asked. “Only a modern contemporary artist would design fountains with tubs like these.”

“Indubitably. And not just any fountains, but ones from Caracalla. Aaah, the thought. I would not have liked to live in that time—pestilence and no single-malt Scotch—but I would like to have indulged in the baths. Just look at those tubs.” Freddy flung out his arm toward the one near the street to the hotel. “Solid granite, excellent for holding the heat and lovely nubiles pouring ewers of scented water for me to splash about in. In point of fact, they were not baths, but fountains from the start, extremely decorative conversation pieces in the Baths' vast gardens, but I imagine them otherwise, functional objets d'art. I'm glad they didn't end up as landfill. The Farneses moved quite a number of bits out of the Baths luckily. So much of Rome has been someplace else at one time or another. And speaking of time, I must bid you good night and farewell. I will be leaving early in the morning. Do ask Paolo to show you my room, by the way. I always have the same one. Such an old fuddy-duddy, but it is the hotel's largest and has what was once a tiny chapel at one end, perfect for me to contemplate more venal things. There are lovely frescos on the ceiling above it and also the bed.” He put out his hand toward Tom's, shaking it firmly.

“You're not going back now?” Faith said. She wasn't ready for the night to end. She'd pictured them sitting on the rooftop terrace together for a while.

“I must, my pet.” He kissed her on both cheeks. He smelled ever so faintly of lime. “But we will keep in touch. Maybe I will come to that Aleford place of yours and eat some Indian pudding. I see you are shuddering. I forgot, not a native New Englander. And here am I such a lover of all things Transcendental. We'll have lobster instead. Surely you will allow that. My card.” He drew one from inside his jacket pocket.

Faith took it. The address was a post office box in London and there was no phone number. “Frederick L. Ives,” she read aloud. It sounded like “Frederick Lives” and she smiled. “Surely you know us well enough now to divulge your middle name.”

Freddy bowed. “I must confess it to be ‘Lancelot.' Mater was an ardent Tennyson fan. She did not consider the effect of the consonant before the vowel.”

And he was gone.

F
aith was hungry. It was long past breakfast time in Aleford. Much to her husband's surprise, she was up and dressed well before 7
A.M
., the time the hotel started serving their
colazione
. The fact that Tom was not just a morning person, but an extremely
early
morning person, had been one of the few major differences between them. That and the entire Fairchild family's penchant for games of all sorts—active outdoor ones and the indoor type involving boards, game pieces, and cards. Faith knew at an early age that someone else was going to have to play Candy Land with any kids she would have. What she didn't know was that someone else was going to have to play its grown-up equivalent with her spouse. Scrabble, Boggle, Othello, even Clue—she resisted them all.

“Something smells heavenly and I need coffee,” Faith said as they walked into the pleasant breakfast room. The buffet that extended the length of the room on one wall boded well.

“I don't think I've made myself clear,” said a voice to their right. It belonged to a woman, and although she spoke with an English accent, it sounded like the kind Freddy had been imitating, not using. “I can see that you have an egg thingy out, so that means you must have eggs in the kitchen. Why then is it apparently impossible for one to order two of them poached?”

Dressed in a starched white jacket, the young man who had brought the Prosecco up to the terrace the night before bent down toward her and answered. His voice was too soft for Faith to catch much apart from many uses of the word “
signora
.”

The
signora
flushed and stood up, speaking even more loudly to the man next to her. “I will be making sure that none of our friends come here, Roderick, and filing an immediate complaint to the management, although I sorely doubt that will do anything in
this
sort of place.”

Faith almost started to giggle. The woman made it sound like a bordello. “I suppose I'll have to make do with some of their dry toast,” she said. “The fruit looks spoiled.”

She was tall and had an extremely long oval face some might unkindly associate with winners of the Derby. Her chin and nose completed the picture. All that was missing was a feed bag. Faith assumed Roderick was the woman's husband, but they looked enough alike to be mistaken for fraternal twins. They were cut from the same cloth—and the cloth was tweed. His took the form of a jacket, and hers a skirt, both bagging—the elbows and the seat, in her case. Good tweed lasted forever, and judging from the rings on her fingers and her earrings, at some point money had not been spared on any of their attire. But tweed! In Rome in the spring! Faith made her way to a small table for two in the corner where she could continue her observations as other guests arrived. At the moment it was just the four of them, unless the English lady had a Corgi tucked under her chair.

“Yum,” Tom said, clutching his plate. “Did you see what's on the buffet? Cake and cookies for breakfast! What a sensible idea.”

There were two kinds of cake. One looked like a lemon sponge and the other was layered with custard and topped with chocolate. In between, cookies were arrayed in tempting rows on a large tray. The egg “thingy” referred to a kind of frittata with small, whole sausages—kind of Italian mini-franks, Faith thought—baked into the puffy omelet. Then there were plates of cured meats and cheeses, including fresh mozzarella. Plus slices of luscious-looking tomatoes, mounds of fresh fruit that was not in the least spoiled, yogurts, muesli, a huge jar of Nutella—Tom's preferred spread—several kinds of juice, crackers, breads, and warm
cornetti,
the Italian equivalent of a croissant. Jams of all kinds, more pastries. A large bowl of creamy ricotta stood next to jars of three kinds of honey for drizzling. In short, it was the breakfast that Faith had dreamed about with a hotel so near a market like the one at the Camp de' Fiori. It was not, however, in the least like a typical Italian breakfast, most often eaten standing up or on the run and consisting of a sweet roll dunked in cappuccino or a
caffè latte
.

Now, what should she have?

But coffee first.

By the time the Fairchilds finished, each table was occupied. The picky Englishwoman was still tucking in with a large slice of cake and, despite her voiced objection, enough fruit for a family of four on her plate. The only other traveler who had attracted Faith's attention was a young woman sitting alone who looked as if she'd be more at home in a hostel. Her visible piercings were on her earlobes and nose. She was dressed all in black, and her spiked hair was cut short. Beneath the violet and chartreuse streaks, it looked blond. But hard to tell. She'd gone straight for the coffee and quickly drunk three cups before turning to the buffet.

“H
appy?” Tom asked. They had stopped for a moment in the Piazza Farnese, which was as empty as it had been the night before.

It was very late Saturday, or rather early Sunday. They had lingered over dinner well past midnight. Faith felt as if she were looking through some sort of View-Master, those funny contraptions she'd had as a kid with reels of Disney's
Snow White
plus things like the pyramids and shots of the Amazon that had been in a drawer at her grandparents' house. She'd been astonished to discover they were still made when Ben had received a SpongeBob one some years ago.

But it was the perfect image, she thought. Click, and it was the walk to the Borghese, window-shopping on the Via Condotti, elegance she could never afford even with a stronger dollar, then click and they were stopping to climb the Spanish Steps. Click, the small Keats-Shelley Memorial House museum that clung to one side. They stood in the tiny room where Keats had died so young and looked out the window as he had, gazing at the boat-shaped fountain in the Piazza di Spagna he was said to admire for its lion heads at the prow and stern. Since the train to Tuscany didn't leave until after lunch the next day, they had decided to go to the English cemetery in the morning to see both Keats's and Shelley's graves—Keats with the sole identification: “Here lies one whose name was writ in water.”