The terrace ended about half way round the great ellipse. An iron railing barred my way. To the right lay the outer wall and its splendid arched fenestrations showing the city of Rome slugging out of her kip. To the left, the central cavity of the arena. If I hadn't been in such a state I'd have found time to marvel at the construction.
As it was, I barely had the inclination to glance ahead and down to where the buttressing was being restored. The new giant blocks of stone were symmetrically arranged on the sand to either side of… of Marcello.
He lay in the ungainliest attitude twenty feet below, one arm folded behind his back and his head turned at an impossible angle as if he were listening hard. Blood from his nostrils and mouth spattered the pale fawn dust. Pathetically, an ankle was exposed where the fall had rucked up his trouser leg. A moist stain was still gradually extending down his trousers. His bladder had voided under the impact when his body had struck.
There was no question of life. An early fly was already at his lips.
I looked about, frightened out of my wits. Dithering like a nerk, I put my satchel down with some daft idea of climbing down, but finally thought better of things. Near by a cat licked its paw with complete disdain. The vast terraces were still empty. Nobody was yet photographing Pope Pius IX's wooden crucifix across the other side. No talk, no other sounds. I whipped round nervously, but was still alone.
The Colosseum was fast becoming no place to be. People would be here soon, and that meant the police. I looked over the edge of the terracing into the recess. My instincts were right—get the hell out. I was sweating and prickling. If Marcello had only just fallen—the sound of that thud came back to mind—his pushers were still here.
The sun was warming the vast bowl as I flitted from pillar to pillar in a feeble attempt to leave undetected. I was disgusted with myself. Some people would be sensible, brave it out. It's called being responsible. Others, like me, chicken out. I bulleted into the main thoroughfare.'
The two little lads were still hunched over their game. Neither looked up. The ice-cream-seller had successfully manoeuvred his van into position a good fifty yards away and was smoking over his morning paper. I was mainly interested in the police car, though, which had gone. I had a vague idea I just glimpsed it leaving down the San Gregorio but wasn't going to press the issue.
The streets looked a bit more built up towards St John Lateran so I strolled that way, my heart in my mouth. A couple of cars took turns trying to get me, hooting noisily as they screeched round the Colosseum. Somehow nearly losing my life crossing the road made be feel better, even when I realized I'd no longer got my satchel. I thought, oh Gawd, and half-started to go back for it, but cowardice won out.
Rome was almost fully wakened now. I was still shaking, but improving. At least I had a great living city to be broke in, and a whole living day before me. Better still, I was alive in it. Marcello wasn't.
* * *
I watched Anna. Grudgingly I had to admit she was bloody good.
By ten past eight I'd picked Anna up in the market on the Andrea Doria. She first worked a crowd of tourists from a coach in the Conciliazione, the long broad avenue between the River Tiber and St Peter's. At first I was a bit slow guessing what was going on. She bumped into people and tripped up, always getting in everybody's way.
Her profuse apologies were so sincere. She picked two tourists' pockets, and following her down the little intersecting street towards the Borgo San Spirito I was almost certain I saw her discard an extra handbag in the box of a passing pick-up truck, slick as you please. If you've ever seen the traffic hurtle down the narrow Borgo you'll understand my admiration. There is hardly an inch of pavement.
Poor old decrepit Anna was obviously fit as a flea despite the pronounced limp which returned when she was back in the growing crowd. In fact it was all I could do to keep up with the crummy old devil. I had seen enough to have no worries when an hour later she was spectacularly run down by a tourist coach at the corner of the Mascherino. She lay moaning and twitching with her few pieces of fruit scattered in all directions. I waited patiently while she gradually recovered and the sympathetic tourists had a whip-round for her, then followed her back towards St Peter's.
For the next couple of hours she worked the crowds brilliantly, leaving no scam unturned. It was as good a sustained lurk as anything I'd ever seen and I was glad—
she was my one possible helper. For her age she was beyond belief. All in one dazzling hour-long spell she did three phoney fetches (you nick something, then 'find' and return it, absolutely brimming with honesty). She even did the fetch gig with a kid and got away with it. You can imagine the father's demented relief. She was unbelievably fast, smoother than any I'd seen for years. The old bag even managed to get on a coach as everybody else was getting off, to emerge carrying two cameras and a lady's handbag through the coach's emergency exit and zoom down a side street. I never did see how she got rid of them, but by the time I headed her off she was tottering and being helped by some sympathetic Americans near the Angelica. I decided the young nerk who'd started following me was no more than a stray pickpocket and could be safely discounted for the moment.
By one o'clock the pace hotted up. A pattern was becoming evident. Anna kept strictly to one area, roughly bounded by St Peter's Square, the Borgo and the river, and she only did a fixed number of scams. The dip seemed to be her thing, that and a careful selection of cons of which the spectacular 'accident', the faint and the phoney fetch were her favourites. I followed, marvelling, and stuck to her like glue.
It was about two o'clock when it happened. I was reeling bewilderedly after her hunched, limping, amorphous form when I realized the old bag was pausing. She was by Bernini's fountain in St Peter's Square, with me thankfully trying to get my breath and her sprightly as ever. She did something extraordinary. Quite openly, she deliberately placed a postcard in the water of the fountain. Just layered it with great precision so it floated. I stared as she moved off at a sedate limp towards the great Colonnade pillars among the tourists.
Fascinated, I approached the fountain. There it was, a postcard, still floating. I glanced about. People were clicking cameras, gazing at the great architecture, chatting and strolling or simply staring up at the Holy Father's narrow window in hopes he might show. Nobody noticed the old lady's odd action.
It was barely soggy. I got it and turned the picture over. Her writing was large, decisive and brisk.
Enrico,
The Ponte Sant' Angelo, about six-thirty. Wait if I'm late. Love, Anna.
I thought blankly, Enrico? Who the hell—? Then I remembered. Enrico was me, her
'nephew'.
