“I ordered us some clothes,” Denis said. “They were delivered this morning.”
“I could get used to this kind of service.”
Denis laughed. “Wait’ll you see the clothes.”
The two of us made quite the pair with our bright sunburned faces, matching Nike trainers, and Adidas running suits (in red and green like the Italian flag) with white T-shirts that said “Roma.”
“I hope nobody thinks we did this on purpose,” I said.
“Oh, but I specifically asked for matching outfits in the national colors,” Denis said. “You don’t like?”
“You did?” I said. “That’s so sweet. I—I love it.”
Denis burst out laughing.
I am so gullible.
“There’s a Prada boutique a block away, but it doesn’t open till ten thirty,” he said. “We can shop later.”
“If we have time,” I said. “These are fine.”
The hot sun made for lazy weather. We meandered down the Spanish Steps, which was flooded with tourists, locals, lovers, backpackers, and the like, to the Piazza di Spagna, where we found a quaint English teahouse called Babington’s. Outside a jeans-clad musician strummed a guitar, his case open and filled with coins. The place was buzzing (with tourists mostly), but we snagged a table in the back room where the air-conditioning was blowing the hardest. The place looked just like a quaint English cottage. I ordered a Blushing Bunny, which was grilled tomato, creamy Italian cheese, and mushrooms on toast. Denis had Canarino, a poached egg on rice pilaf with cheese sauce. Plus, we ordered tea. “Maybe we should go for Italian food tonight,” I suggested. “We are in Roma.”
Denis agreed, then pulled out a map, which he studied. “According to this, John’s family lives right off via Boncompagna, which doesn’t look like it’s too far from here. We can rent a Vespa at the hotel.”
“You just want to show up at his house? Unannounced?” I said. “Do you think that’s wise? Mmm, this Blushing Bunny is delicious.”
Denis reached over with his fork and took a bite, smacking his lips in approval. “If it’s his parents’ house and we tell them what their son did, maybe they can pressure him into doing the right thing,” Denis said. “Kids want their mother’s and father’s approval.”
“You mean like you,” I said. “The way you chose law school over baseball, the way you’re marrying Sydney? Can I try yours?”
Denis cut me a bite of his poached egg with rice and put it on my plate. “Here,” he said. “What can I say? Where I come from, duty trumps pleasure. Nothing was more important to my parents than seeing me run the family business, make the right marriage, that sort of thing.”
“Mmm, yummy,” I said, tasting his Canarino. “You are a good son. But a lowlife like John doesn’t care what his parents think. Haven’t you ever watched Law & Order: Criminal Intent?”
“And I disagree,” Denis said, standing, putting some cash down on the table. “That’s why we’re going to talk to his mother. No boy wants to disappoint his mother.”
To get to via Boncompagna, we hiked back up the Spanish Steps, beyond the throng of tourists, toward the Trinità dei Monti (the ancient church at the top of the Steps), and swung behind the hotel, where we rented a Vespa. Denis almost backed out when he found out the vendor didn’t have helmets. But I talked him into living on the wild side.
I had no idea how wild until we started driving on the uneven streets with all that crazy loud traffic. The city was chaotic, proud, and utterly beguiling. We drove off, weaving through tourists as we sped down narrow cobbled roads. There were crumbling buildings, ancient walls, choppy brick streets, charming boutiques, greengrocers, fish markets, and baroque fountains on every block. Cars were honking, taxi drivers were shouting, Vespas were shooting in and out of traffic—the pace was more frenetic than New York City when the president was in town.
“Hold on,” Denis yelled as we careened around a sharp corner.
I grabbed his waist for dear life. We hit a bump and I squeezed him even tighter to stay on the Vespa.
As we traversed a crooked side street, an old lady snoozed on a park bench with a basket of daisies by her head, a black cat sunned himself on a stone wall, a hunched-over man begged for change, a fruit vendor gave an apple to a little boy who was holding hands with his young, stylish mother. Each living tableau we passed made me feel like I was watching a movie about a place I’d been to a thousand times, yet had never seen at all.
Denis kept pulling over so I could take pictures. This was a trip I never wanted to forget. Plus, I was stalling. What if John became violent when we showed up at his house? I’ve never known a butler to be violent before, but there’s always a first time. Come to think of it, John was my first butler ever. How sad that my impression of butlers would forever be marred because my first one turned out to be a criminal.
We whizzed around the corner of via Boncompagna to via Piave and finally came to a stop at an ochre-stained home bearing the name Villa Savoy.
“That’s it,” I said. “John’s last name is Savoy. He told me.”
Denis checked the paper. “Yep. It must be his family’s home.”
We parked the Vespa in front, opened the creaking gate latch, and entered a courtyard. The little square was dotted with cherry trees. Vines of sweet-smelling honeysuckle climbed along the stone walls. A chipped mosaic floor surrounded a once-elegant (but now crumbling) fountain. The water bubbled out of a carved fish’s mouth in the center, sounding just like the brook from Alessandro’s sleep machine. There were coins on the bottom of the fountain.
“Wait,” I said, lollygagging. “Do you have any more change?”
Denis reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. I closed my eyes and thought real hard before wishing that I’d get the guy, but not the
