'Excuse me, signor,' I asked a man nearby. 'What is this place?'
He did not understand and anyway saw his guide raise her folded multicoloured umbrella—the signal of the Roman guide—and was off with the rest. A hand tugged my elbow.
'You never heard of the Vatican, son?'
My drab old lady who had ribbed me so mercilessly at the kiosk, her hat still with its ludicrous black cherries.
'That's the Vatican?' I said weakly. 'What's the wall for?“
'To keep bad people out.' She chuckled at my face. 'We Romans have this joke—it's to keep the good people in.'
'What are those men doing?'
'In the gateway? They're the Swiss Guard.'
I looked again, this time harder. Young, tough, vigilant and very fleet of foot should it come to a sprint. My heart sank. That bastard Arcellano.
'How many of them are there?'
A slyness had crept into her voice. She tilted her head up at me, birdlike, her spectacles glinting. 'Enough. You want to go in? There's a museum, but the entrance—'
Irritably I shook her off and walked dejectedly along the wall pavement. People were drifting like a football crowd. Ahead were the pillars of the Colonnade rimming St Peter's square. A toffee-maker and a trinket-seller were doing a roaring business, blocking one of the arches leading into the square with tourists mobbing the stalls. The squares itself was crammed. A pop group was singing somewhere on the Colonnade steps. There was a caravan shop selling Vatican City stamps, obviously an improvised post office. Ahead, between the fountains, rose the great basilica of St Peter's. It was a real ball, everybody agog and full of good cheer, but I drifted into the throng feeling a right yeti.
Until then I had really felt quite confident. Idiot that I was, I had assumed the Vatican to be a church—okay, a big one, but still a church, with perhaps one or two elderly vergers pottering among the churchyard flowers. Now I was sure Arcellano had bitten off more than I could chew. It was like a frigging castle. Those calm diligent guards…
The mob of us moved like a slow tide, across the great circle and up the steps. The sheer scale of everything was awesome, doors a mile high and the basilica unbelievable in size and splendour. The last thing I expected was to find the place used, but there it was with people praying and milling and a Mass being said. I joined the crowd round Michelangelo's exquisite Pieta, now behind protective glass, then wandered down to the main altar. The little birdlike lady happened to be standing near the great Bernini cupola, so I ducked in to see the Papal treasures, a mind-blowing session of rococo exotics. An hour later I reeled out exhausted in a state of unrequited greed. For somebody else to own all that wealth was criminal. And no sign of anything resembling Arcellano's piece of furniture.
That familiar little figure was now flitting among some Japanese tourists. She seemed everywhere, I thought irritably. Anyway I was getting peckish. No good could possibly come of hunger when I had to suss out the Vatican, so I left St Peter's in search of a nosh bar.
That bloody great wall was beginning to get me down. For one thing, it seemed formidably intact. For another, it emitted those chiming vibes which an antiques- sensitive soul like mine hears louder than any foghorn. This wall, I thought uneasily, is not only massive and intact. It is old. A couple of corners and a few hundred yards and the wall turned left up the Viale Vaticano.
Half way along there was a grand doorway complete with police-like guards and ice-cream-sellers and tourists trailing in and out of a few coaches. A notice announced that this was the Vatican Museum. I sussed it out for a few minutes, dithering and generally getting in everybody's way until one of the guards started to notice. I found a pizzeria, a neat clean little place near the market. You choose a hunk of different pizzas cooked on trays, have your particular slice weighed and pay up. It's everything grub should be—fast, satisfying and cheap— but I was coming to recognize that, like all things Italian, this famous type of nosh has style, even a kind of grace. So there I stood, oozing tomato sauce and miserable as sin.
What little I'd seen told me the worst. The Vatican was no peaceful East Anglian church, as I had fondly imagined. I had so far done it all properly. Exactly according to the old antiques thieves' adage: suss the outside, and the inside will take care of itself.
Only, the outside of this particular rip was a real downer.
Irritably I noticed I was being observed. My old woman was peering in at the window.
Her face was sad, her gaze fixed wistfully on the hot food through the glass, a right Orphan of the Storm. This pest was getting on my nerves. I fidgeted and ate determinedly, but her stare bored into my shoulders. I finally surrendered and gave her a jerk of my head. She came in like Jesse Owens.
I asked grudgingly, 'Which?'
'Con funghi,' she said, really quivering with delight.
Wise in the ways of the world, the pretty serving lass gave her a chunk big enough to feed a regiment. Blissfully the old lady tore into it, while I paid up and left. I was narked to find the irksome old biddy trotting beside me, gnawing her pizza plank.
'Grazie,' she burbled. 'The Vatican now?'
I started to cut across the Andrea Doria among the market stalls. 'Mind your own business.' We risked life and limb reaching the other side unscathed. That vast dark brown wall was in clear view down the side streets.
'The Vatican makes you so sad.'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
She cackled a laugh. The market was already showing signs of winding up for the day.
Stallholders were beginning to box up their unsold stuff for loading. It was all so pleasant and good-humoured I almost forgot how bitter I felt. I took no notice and tried to shake her off by walking quicker. The old biddy simply trotted faster.
I'll say this for her, she was a spry old bird. She seemed to know a lot of the market people and sprayed greetings right and left as we hurried through to the flight of steps where the street ended. I sat for breath. She sat
