Just South of Rome (8 page)

‘Do you have a bathing costume in here?’

‘Yes, but –’

He threw open the top of the suitcase. ‘I’ll get some towels.’

He disappeared into the bathroom and, automatically, I dug out my bathers from the bottom of the case.

‘Have you eaten?’ he asked, reappearing with two bath towels, which he stuffed into the canvas bag slung over his shoulder.

‘No.’

‘Nor have I and I’m starving. My friend is going to cook for us.’ He took my hand and marched me to the door, pausing briefly to glance back at the suitcase. ‘You’ll be glad you stayed.’ He smiled, and it was only when we were walking through the hotel foyer that I realised I’d left both my room key and handbag upstairs.

‘Wait.’ I stopped. ‘My handbag.’

‘You won’t need it.’

‘My room key.’

‘Leave it.’

‘No, really Stefano –’

‘I will lock your room for you.’ It was Annita, smiling indulgently from behind her desk. ‘The key will be waiting for you here at reception when you return. Have a nice day.’

‘Thank you, Annita,’ Stefano said, and the two of them exchanged conspiratorial smiles. Before I could ponder the sense of collusion, I found myself astride the pillion seat of the Lambretta, clutching on to Stefano for dear life as he revved the engine, churned up the gravel driveway and tore through the gates down the street towards Genzano.

It was a hair-raising ride. Along the main street, across the piazza, up the hill, a sharp right turn at the church, then into the depths of the town’s old quarter. I clung like a
limpet, feeling Stefano’s ribs through his light denim jacket and shirt as the Lambretta sped down the steep hill, darting in and out the narrow laneways, a collision imminent around every blind corner.

When, at the bottom of the hill, we finally slowed down and pulled into a small stone courtyard not far from the water’s edge, I realised I’d spent much of the journey with my eyes tightly shut.

‘Sal! Gaby! We’re here,’ Stefano called up to the little iron-railed balcony above. His eyes were sparkling and his grin excited; he’d obviously found the ride exhilarating.

As I tried to get my breath back, calm my pounding pulse and tidy the windblown mess of my hair, I looked around. From the courtyard, stone steps led down amongst the bushes to the edge of the vast lake that shimmered silver in the sun. Above, heaped one upon the other like ill-stacked playing blocks, the tangle of houses wound its way up the hill. A colourful mixture of white and yellow and ochre, some with arched entrances, some with terraces or courtyards or balconies, they were a hive of activity. Washing flapped in the breeze, children played, people sunned themselves. Viewed from this aspect, Genzano di Roma was anything but listless.

A middle-aged couple stepped out onto the iron-railed balcony, and the man called out to Stefano in Italian.

‘This is Jane,’ Stefano yelled back. ‘She is from Australia.’

‘
Buongiorno
, Jane from Australia,’ the man called. ‘Come up, come up.’

We climbed the steep steps from the courtyard to the door, which was opened by a matronly woman with abundant white hair tied up in an unruly bun.

‘This is Gaby,’ Stefano introduced us. ‘My friend Jane.’

‘
Buongiorno
, Jane.’ She shook my hand warmly and we were joined in the small hallway by the cheerful, barrel-chested man from the balcony.

‘And this is Sal,’ Stefano said.

‘He drive like a maniac, yes?’

‘Yes,’ I answered, still desperately trying to sort out my hair.

Gaby and Sal were older than I had presumed from my glimpse of them at the balcony. Mid-sixties I guessed, but a vital, energetic couple and clearly very fond of Stefano. Gaby spoke little English but, recognising my hair problem, she brought me a comb, for which I was grateful. Sal, who obviously relished his command of the English language, chattered on.

‘One day he kill himself, Stefano. But more important, he kill my Lambretta, for that I not forgive him.’ Sal punched Stefano on the arm and hooted with laughter, his forgiveness a forgone conclusion.

‘It’s your Lambretta?’ I asked.

‘
Si.
Whenever Stefano visit us he take the Lambretta.’

Gaby smiled and nodded, and she and Sal exchanged a fond look. As they did, I felt the same sense of collusion that I’d felt between Stefano and Annita. Did Stefano make a habit of borrowing the Lambretta and bringing women to their house? Gaby and Sal were not in the least surprised by my presence, and I recalled that when Stefano and I had walked through reception, Annita had nodded and smiled and said, ‘Have a nice day,’ as if Stefano regularly escorted women out the main doors and onto the pillion seat of his Lambretta.

Again, I was left little time to ponder the situation. Gaby and Sal were far too generous with their hospitality.

‘Thank you.’ I returned Gaby’s comb.

‘You keep, you keep.’ She thrust it back at me.

‘Oh. Thank you, Gaby. Thank you very much.’ I thrust the comb into the bulging
pocket of my tracksuit pants alongside my scrunched-up Speedo bathers.

‘We eat, we eat.’ Sal ushered us into the main room with its doors to the balcony and splendid views of the lake.

The room reflected an innate style that seemed at odds with Gaby’s and Sal’s homely physical appearance. Several small rooms had been gutted to form an open-plan, all-purpose living area, but none of the originality had been sacrificed. If anything it had been enhanced, the light bouncing off the ageless stone walls, giving them new life.

A huge wooden dining table, scarred, much-loved and laden with food, dominated the room. From its central position, it stood in the path of the welcome breeze from the open balcony doors and yet was within easy access of the kitchen area, complete with a wood-fuelled oven carved into the solid rock wall. Cooking and eating was obviously the focal point in this house, the aroma of freshly baking bread and garlic and lemon and olive oil attesting to the fact.

As it transpired, Sal and Gaby were highly successful, now retired, restaurateurs and close friends of Stefano’s parents.

‘It was on their advice that Mother and Papa bought the restaurant in Castel Gandalfo,’ Stefano explained. ‘I have known them all my life.’

Within minutes, large glasses of red wine had been poured from the two jugs on the table, and I was being plied with bowls of olives and salads, platters of salamis and cheeses, and a basket of slim bread rolls, which Sal had shovelled, piping hot, out of the stone oven.

‘This you open,’ he said, expertly breaking the crisp outer crust of one of the rolls, ‘and you eat with the anchovy. Is excellent.’

With his fingers, he lifted one of the long brown fillets from the plate in the centre of the table, dumped it into the steaming bread roll, and handed it to me.

I’d been wondering what the dark, unidentifiable objects were, swimming in olive oil in the dish that held pride of place on the table. I’d presumed they were slices of eggplant. Anchovies. I loathed anchovies. To me they were the leathery strips of salty fish that I discarded from a caesar salad or, worse still, those gritty, inedible little circular things that came in flat tins impossible to open. I had always loathed anchovies.

‘Thank you.’ I put the roll onto my plate. Perhaps if I let it sit there long enough I could avoid it without their noticing. But all three of them were waiting expectantly. “I’ll just let it to cool down,’ I said.

‘No, no,’ Stefano insisted. ‘The idea is to eat while the oil is warmed by the hot bread.’ He was smiling. I had a feeling he knew I was avoiding the anchovy.

Realising there was no getting out of it, I bit into the damn thing, hoping I wouldn’t gag.

To date in my life there have been four or five unforgettable taste sensations (of course I am hoping there will be more to come), but my anchovy at Gaby’s and Sal’s is, without doubt, the highlight of them all. Within the soft, doughy heart of the roll, the tangy taste of the sea mingled with the earthy warmth of olive oil and the bite of lemon juice and garlic.

‘
Molto benne, si
?’ Gaby said whilst Stefano applauded.

‘
Molto benne
,’ I agreed.

We ate and drank and dunked the bread in our glasses of wine.

‘Pizza dough,’ Sal explained, ‘is good with red wine.’

Two hours later, Gaby and Sal left to do their shopping, and we waved goodbye in the courtyard as they took off on the Lambretta. They were a portly pair on the little motor scooter as it was but, with the large shopping basket attached to the handlebars and the
backpack strapped to Gaby, they made a ludicrous sight.

‘What a great couple,’ I said as they chugged up the hill and out of sight. But Stefano’s mind was elsewhere – he was already halfway down the steps to the foreshore of the lake.

‘Come on,’ he called. ‘I promised we would go rowing.’

It was a wonderful afternoon. We rowed about the lake in the little dinghy, and we swam and laughed and dunked each other. I told myself that it didn’t matter if Stefano had done all these things with other women. Like the anchovy, the day was unforgettable and I revelled in every moment.

It was dusk as we wandered up the hill and into town, and I was weary – the delicious weariness born of exhilaration.

We sat at an outdoor table in the piazza drinking coffee. A young man was playing a piano accordion, and the lights of the cafes and streetlamps glowed magic and festive. Families were dining in the open air, youths were lounging against lampposts, groups of elderly were gathered at park benches discussing their day. Good, honest people like Gaby and Sal, young people inventing their own excitement like Rosella and Natale. What a beautiful place, I thought.

‘Thank you for the most wonderful day of my life, Stefano,’ I said.

He leaned across the little table and kissed me. ‘The best is yet to come,’ he murmured, and I returned his kiss wholeheartedly. Perhaps he was a womaniser, and perhaps I was a tourist and fair game, but what did it matter? We were lovers and he was right. The best was yet to come.

We walked in the park and kissed and caressed and teased each other’s growing desire, and it was late when we returned to the Hotel Visconti. I was glad. I wanted to avoid the querying looks of the Americans.

The reception area was deserted and there was no sound from the dining room, but as we passed the bar I heard the buzz of voices and paused to glance through the open doors.

Sarina was behind the bar. Umberto, Rosella and Natale were seated in their customary places and with them Annita, who, like Rosella, was leaning on the table, eyes glowing, gazing in rapture at the man seated opposite in the well-cut suit with the healthy head of silver-grey hair, which reminded me rather of Roland’s. Umberto was chatting away full steam, the normally silent Natale offering agreement wherever possible. Annita and Rosella were giggling like schoolgirls (yes, Annita!). They were obviously thrilled by the presence of this mystery man whose face I couldn’t see, as his back was towards me. From the elegant right hand that rested on the table, however, its fragile fourth finger impressively be-ringed, I could tell he was elderly.

Umberto and Natale wore dinner jackets, Rosella was in shocking pink silk with feathers in her hair, and Annita wore a tasteful black cocktail dress with diamante clips at the shoulder straps. Perhaps they had dressed for the Americans, I thought. After all, it had been the Americans’ last night at the Hotel Visconti. Or perhaps they had dressed for their guest. Whatever the reason, the bar was redolent with a sense of occasion and Umberto was beaming with a pride fit to burst.

Then the elegant hand rose from the table and everything stopped. No sound, no movement. Umberto halted mid-sentence, the others froze, and a moment’s breathless silence ensued.

‘Excuse me, Sarina, I wonder would you mind …’ The man’s voice was silky. His English too well-spoken to be his mother-tongue. It was a voice strangely seductive and vaguely familiar. Then, as he turned and raised his brandy balloon in a gesture to Sarina, I saw him quite clearly in profile. The skeletal face of an old man certainly, but impressive
nonetheless, and again eerily familiar. ‘A little more cognac, if you would be so kind.’

My God, I thought, it’s Omar Sharif. But is it? He sounds like Omar Sharif, or rather he sounds the way I assume Omar Sharif might sound. He certainly looks like Omar Sharif. Indeed, I might have been looking at an aged Dr Zhivago. But is he the real thing or is he an imitator? I wondered. Is anything real in the Hotel Visconti? I turned to Stefano, who was standing beside me. ‘Is that …?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Umberto’s great friend, Omar the actor. Do you want to meet him?’

I sensed reluctance in Stefano. Was it because upstairs was beckoning, or was it because he didn’t want me to discover the man was a fake? I glanced back at the bar. The scene was surreal, like one of those old ‘art’ films that Roland so thrilled to,
La Dolce Vita
or
Last Year at Marienbad
.

‘I will introduce you,’ Stefano said. ‘That is, if you really wish to meet him.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘no I don’t wish to meet him.’

We went upstairs instead.

I woke early the next morning. Beside me, Stefano was still sleeping. I studied his face on the pillow, boyishly beautiful. I touched his naked shoulder, silken smooth. And I wondered how to say goodbye, how to thank someone for an unforgettable experience, an experience that might possibly have changed my self-perception. Had it? I wondered as I studied the perfect curve of his eyelashes (any woman would kill for eyelashes like that). I was realistic. I knew that this had been what they call a ‘holiday romance’, an ‘adventure’, and that I must not make the mistake of believing I was in love with Stefano. But I had changed. Something inside me felt different, liberated, freed from some sort of constraint that I had always placed upon myself. I felt womanly, that was it. And possibly for the first time in my life I felt beautiful. For that I would always be grateful.

I crept out of bed, dressed quietly, and as I stole out of the room he was still sleeping.

Of one thing I was certain. I would not stand by while Stefano haggled with Umberto over ‘tour prices’. Whatever the bill came to at the Hotel Visconti, I would pay it. I’d probably have to skip Rome and go directly to London, but I didn’t care.

After I had settled my account I would return to the room and say my goodbye as briefly and with as much dignity as possible. But already I was self-conscious about how I should phrase it. ‘Thank you for a lovely time, Stefano?’ ‘It’s been wonderful, Stefano, thank you?’ Every which way sounded glib and inadequate.

The reception area was deserted. Damn. Annita must be somewhere about, I thought. They’d be preparing for breakfast shortly. I gave the bell on the desk a quick tinkle.

Behind the counter, at the far end, was a cupboard, which I’d not noticed before. I noticed it now as the door slowly opened.

Staring out at me from amongst the mops and brooms stood Annita. Without moving a muscle she continued to stare at me balefully for several moments. Then, suddenly, she stepped from the cupboard, closed the door behind her and walked smartly up to the counter.

‘You wish to book out?’

I looked at the cupboard door, baffled.

‘I like small places,’ she said, ‘small places are safe.’ Then, aware that I was still nonplussed, she continued, spelling it out to me patiently, as if I was a little dim. ‘There is no-one behind you in small places. You understand?’

‘Oh. Yes, of course.’

‘You wish to book out?’

‘Thank you.’

As Annita turned to her filing cabinet (I had noticed from the outset the distinct absence of computers in the Hotel Visconti) a voice whispered in my ear.

‘Did you think you would escape me?’ Stefano laughed as I gave a startled gasp. ‘It is not as easy as that.’ And he kissed me, oblivious to the fact that Annita had turned back and was watching us.

As I broke away a little embarrassed, Stefano gabbled something to Annita in Italian.

‘Of course,’ she said and tinkled the bell sharply twice. From nowhere, Sarina appeared. ‘
Caffe per favore
, Sarina.’ Then to me. ‘Sarina will bring you coffee in the bar.’

‘But …’

Stefano put his arm around me, shepherded me firmly to the bar, refusing to listen to my protestations.

‘Leave this to me, Jane,’ he insisted. ‘Please. Annita will have your bill ready in ten
minutes. Now sit there and be a good girl.’

There was nothing I could do but obey. He deposited me in a chair, left, and several minutes later Sarina arrived with my coffee.

‘Thank you, Sarina.’ She was wearing a little sleeveless cotton dress, and I thought she was possibly the most beautiful young woman I had ever seen. ‘Your
amico
,’ I said, struggling to make conversation. I very much wanted to talk to the girl. ‘He is …’ Damn, I knew the word for ‘handsome man’, what the hell was it? Yes, of course, that was it. ‘
Un bell’uomo.
’

She smiled gloriously, then darted a quick glance back at the door to make sure we were alone. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Verry ‘andsomm.’

Had I heard correctly? ‘Sarina,’ I said, amazed. ‘You’re speaking English.’

‘I spik much English.’ Her smile was secretive and her eyes, normally downcast, met mine directly. ‘When is my wish.’

I laughed. Her knowledge of English was obviously Sarina’s form of rebellion, and it delighted me. ‘Good for you,’ I said. Did the girl also pretend to be ‘simple’? There was nothing about her that appeared simple to me.

‘I spik much English when is people I like,’ she continued. ‘I like you, Jane.’

I stood and embraced her. ‘I like you too, Sarina.’

‘Everything is sorted out.’ Stefano was at the door. ‘Annita has your bill ready.’

I looked at Sarina, expecting her eyes to be once more focussed on the floor and her shy demeanour back in place. But she was smiling broadly. ‘I like also Stefano,’ she said, and she kissed him on the cheek before sailing out the door.

Stefano watched me as I stared after her. ‘Sarina is nobody’s fool,’ he said, and I didn’t know what to say by way of reply. It was time I left the Hotel Visconti. I felt like Alice at the Mad Hatter’s tea party – nothing was what it seemed.

I settled my paltry bill with Annita. ‘What on earth did you say to Umberto?’ I asked Stefano.

He laughed. ‘We must look after our struggling actress from Sydney, Australia.’

I went up to the room and quickly packed while Stefano waited for me downstairs. I wanted to leave before the chaos of the Americans descended upon us.

The three of them had lined up to say farewell when I returned to the foyer: Sarina, Annita and Umberto. I was sorry not to be able to say goodbye to Rosella and Natale but, as Stefano explained, ‘They only come to the Hotel Visconti at night.’ I knew Rosella would like to be remembered in all her finery, so I told Annita to give her a message from me.

‘There is a bird in Australia called a rosella,’ I said. ‘It is bright red and green and yellow, and it is very beautiful. Tell her it will always remind me of her.’

‘I will tell her. She will be very proud,’ Annita replied. ‘I have a present for you.’ From behind her back she produced a small wooden punnet. ‘Straw berries. From Nemi.’

‘How lovely. Thank you, Annita.’ I kissed her on both cheeks and turned to Sarina, who was standing to attention staring fixedly at her feet. ‘Goodbye, Sarina.’

As I kissed her, Sarina whispered, ‘Goodbye Jane. I like spik with you.’ We shared a quick and wicked smile before her eyes returned to her feet.

Then it was Umberto’s turn. ‘I too have present for my very good friend,
signorina
Jane from Australia,’ he said, drawing from his breast pocket a worn and tattered newspaper cutting. ‘You see? Is article I write for
II Globo
. You remember I tell you about
II Globo?
Is newspaper in Melbourne. My cousin, he work for
II Globo
and I write article about the festival of the flowers, you remember I tell you.’

‘Yes, I remember, Umberto.’ I looked at the newspaper cutting, with its faded picture of the church and the floral display. ‘But is this your only copy? I couldn’t possibly take your only copy.’

‘I have more, I have more. You take, you take. Then you always remember Genzano di Roma.’

‘Oh, I’ll always remember Genzano di Roma, I promise you.’ I couldn’t resist sharing a smile with Stefano, who was standing, patiently waiting. ‘I must be going,’ I said, ‘the Americans will be arriving for breakfast soon and you’ll all be very busy.’ Stefano picked up my suitcase and we walked to the main doors.

‘And you always remember the Hotel Visconti.’ Umberto bustled along beside us whilst Annita and Sarina returned to their work. ‘You tell everyone in Australia Hotel Visconti is most magnificent hotel in all of Italy.’

He kissed his fingers and the air as he pranced about me like a show pony. ‘You tell them most magnificent food, most magnificent wine, most magnificent host.’ Then he doffed an imaginary hat, twitched his moustache and wriggled his eyebrows, Chaplin-style, and I laughed.

‘You tell them this, you promise me,’ he insisted. He had stopped prancing now and I realised he was serious.

‘Yes, Umberto. I promise.’

Umberto remained standing on the steps, watching as Stefano accompanied me to the car and put my suitcase in the boot.

‘Do you have an address?’ he asked. ‘I can write to you when I am next coming to London.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t know where I’ll be. I could write to your parents’ restaurant when I know.’

‘Good, that’s excellent.’ He took a notebook from his pocket and wrote down the name. ‘Ristorante Guillietta,’ he said, ‘this is the way to spell it.’ He smiled as he tore out the page. ‘Papa wouldn’t let my mother call it “Ristorante Jill”.’

He slammed the boot shut and we stood together for a moment while I wondered what to say.

‘Goodbye, Jane.’ He kissed me gently. ‘You are very beautiful.’

‘Thank you.’ It needed no more than that, I realised.

I got into the driver’s seat, turned the key in the ignition, revved the engine and did a U-turn.

When I looked back through the open window, Stefano had joined Umberto on the steps of the hotel. Together they stood and waved. I waved back, and as I drove through the gates of the Hotel Visconti I could see them in the rear-vision mirror, each with his right arm raised in salute. They looked cocky, confident. Alike even. Were they conmen? I wondered. Were they tricksters and opportunists? Would I ever know? Did it matter?