with him. His hands, clasped negligently on his knee, were as well tended as a woman’s. He had long, thin fingers – musicians’ fingers, people say, though most of the musicians I have known have hands like truck drivers.
I started to babble, explaining that I wanted a present for my fiance, who loved old things. The man’s cool blue eyes narrowed with amusement as I went on. He waved one of his beautiful, manicured hands.
‘Browse, then, love. Take your time. If you see anything you like, fetch it over and I’ll tell you about it.’
‘Thanks. Don’t get up,’ I said.
‘I hadn’t intended to.’
I didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. I was wondering what to do next when an outrageous explosion of noise erupted in the back of the shop. The Colosseum was only a few blocks away; I was irresistibly reminded of the Christians and the lions. Crashes, screams, growls . . .
Growls. That was all the warning I had before the dog burst through the curtains at the back of the shop and launched himself at me. I hadn’t forgotten him, but I had assumed he would be tied up or removed to more rural surroundings during the day. I certainly had not counted on his memory, or his hearing, being so good.
Some obscure impulse made me grab the Baroque lamp as I fell. It was a heavy thing, but it went over with a satisfying crash. The manager leaped to his feet with a profane remark. Flat on my back, with the dog rapturously licking my face, I writhed and shrieked.
‘Help, help, get him off, he’s gnawing at my jugular!’
The Englishman came trotting towards me. He didn’t trot fast, and I was infuriated to observe that instead of flying to my rescue he stopped to pick up the lamp and examine it, scowling, before he twisted his hand in the dog’s collar and yanked him off me. He did it effortlessly, although the animal must have weighed almost 100 pounds.
‘Jugular indeed,’ he said contemptuously. ‘Get up, young woman, and wipe your face. You have damaged a very valuable lamp. Bruno!’
I thought he was talking to the dog, for the poor creature immediately lay down at his feet, cringing. But Bruno was a man – a swarthy, heavy-set, villainous-looking fellow who came rushing in from the back of the shop brandishing a heavy stick. The Englishman caught this weapon as Bruno was about to bring it down on the dog’s back.
‘Stop it, you fool,’ he said in Italian.
‘But he is a killer,’ snarled Bruno. ‘See, he has attacked me, ripped my shirt – ’
‘Intelligent dog. Good taste – sartorial and otherwise . . . Leave the animal alone, cretin. Americans are foolish about animals; she’ll have the police on us if you aren’t careful.’
The word
‘Come, Caesar.’
The dog followed him, belly down on the floor. It made me sick to watch. The Englishman’s face was quite impassive throughout this exchange – which, naturally, I pretended not to understand – and my initial dislike for him took a great leap forwards. Usually the English are fond of dogs. Obviously this one was a degenerate specimen. It confirmed my conviction that he was a crook.
I scrambled to my feet, unaided by any gentleman, and brushed my dusty skirt.
‘The lamp,’ said the Englishman, eyeing me coldly.
‘My ribs,’ I said, just as coldly. ‘Now don’t give me any nonsense about paying for the lamp. You’re lucky I don’t sue you. What do you mean, keeping a dangerous animal like that around?’
He didn’t speak for a moment, he just stood there with his hands in the pockets of his beautifully tailored jacket. His face was superbly controlled, but as the seconds ticked away I had an uncomfortable impression that all sorts of ideas were burgeoning behind the bland facade.
‘You are quite right,’ he said finally. ‘I must apologize. In fact, we owe you more than an apology. Perhaps you had better consult a doctor, to make sure you are not injured.’
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ I said. ‘I’m not hurt, just shaken.’
‘But your dress.’ He was all charm now, smiling, showing even white teeth. ‘At the very least it will need to be cleaned. You must let us pay for it. Do give me your name and the name of your hotel, so we can make good the damage.’
I wanted to swear. There was a good mind behind that handsome face of his, and now he had me neatly boxed in. He knew enough about animals to draw the proper conclusion from the dog’s behaviour. He couldn’t be positive that I was the midnight intruder, but he was damned suspicious, and if I refused to give him my name, his suspicions would be strengthened. Furthermore, he was quite capable of having me followed – that’s what I would have done if I had been in his shoes. So whether I refused to answer, or gave him a false name, he could check up on me. I wasn’t a professional, there was no way I could hope to shake off an anonymous follower who would probably look exactly like half a million other Roman men. The only possible course now was to tell the truth and hope that my candour would disarm his suspicion.
So I told him who I was and where I was staying, and fluttered my eyelashes and wriggled my hips at him, as if I hoped there was a more personal motive behind his interest. He responded, in an outrageous parody of male ego that would have been funny if I had not lost my sense of humour. If he had had a moustache he would have twirled it.
My vanity was somewhat wilted as I retraced my steps towards the Piazza Navona but as I walked on I began to hope that perhaps the incident hadn’t been so disastrous after all. I was at an impasse in my investigations; now the gang might be forced to make the next move.
How right I was! I was only wrong about one thing. I expected it would take them a day or two to check up on me, so I didn’t anticipate trouble right away. Certainly not before nightfall. Instead they snatched me out of the Roman Forum, right under the noses of a thousand tourists.
I DREAMED ABOUT SPAGHETTI. When I woke up I could still taste the garlic. I soon discovered that the taste came from the cloth that was wound over my mouth. I was blindfolded, too, and my wrists and ankles were tied. I was lying on a flat, fairly soft surface. That was the extent of my knowledge. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t see, and breathing wasn’t awfully easy either. I like garlic, but not on rough cotton cloth.
I had a beast of a headache and a funny feeling in my stomach, which was mostly terror, but might also have been a reaction to the drug I had been given.
It was the blindfold that made me panic. Once, when I was about twelve, I ran away from home and crept into a cave in the hills when night fell. I woke up in total darkness, and for a minute I couldn’t remember where I was. It was horrible. I still have nightmares about it. This was even worse – this time I
Though I had no doubt what had happened to me, I couldn’t imagine how they had managed it. The last thing I remembered was the sunlight on the weathered white columns of the Forum – the single column of Phocas, near the Rostrum, and the magnificent triad of the Temple of the Dioscuri. The dark pines and cypresses of the Palatine Hill made a fitting backdrop for that ruined splendour. The Palatine . . . Yes, I had been on the hill. Later, I had climbed the paved slope towards the ruins of the imperial palaces. After that it was a complete blank. I forced myself to go back to the events I did remember.
After leaving the antique shop I had had lunch at one of the open-air restaurants on the Piazza Navona. I could have sworn no one followed me there. The people at the nearby tables were all tourists: a young French couple, arguing angrily about money; a German family; a group of American Midwesterners gobbling down spaghetti as if they were all underweight, which they weren’t. The piazza was crowded, as it always is. Bernini’s great sculptured figures of the rivers poured out the flowing water, and some ragged little Roman urchins splashed in it, giggling, till a policeman came and chased them away. Across the piazza the facade of St Agnese in Agone raised
