towers of Trinita dei Monti, atop the Spanish Steps.
We came into the city by way of the Porta Pia, between the old walls of the Empire, and went roaring along the Via Venti Settembre at a speed that seemed excessive even for that early hour. There was not a great deal of traffic, and the one policeman we passed simply waved. I guess the boys were a familiar sight, covering the same route six mornings a week.
When we crossed the Piazza Venezia, I began to wonder where we were going. We were in the heart of the city now; Mussolini had addressed the Romans from the balcony on the Palazzo Venezia, and the square was dominated by the huge white marble structure of the Victor Emmanuel Monument. I would have exchanged all this guidebook knowledge for a quick trip to the prefecture of police. I didn’t dare ask the boys from Tivoli to take us there; people are leery about picking up strangers who demand the cops.
When we passed the basilica of San Andrea delle Valle, I began to get premonitions. I shook John. He opened one eye.
‘Wake up, we’re almost there,’ I said.
The narrow street where the truck finally stopped was only a couple of blocks from the Via delle Cinque Lune. With a discouraged feeling that I was right back where I started from, I climbed over the vegetables and jumped down.
It couldn’t have been later than 6 a.m., but the vendors had already set up their stalls. These booths ran along both sides of the street, which was one of the medieval alleyways with no sidewalks or yards, only tall dark fronts of stores and houses walling in the narrow pavement. The stalls were rickety affairs of rough wood; some were brightened by striped canopies, but artificial adornment was unnecessary. The wares on sale made marvellous compositions of shape and colour, brighter than any bunting. Soft, crumpled chartreuse leaves of lettuce, symmetrical heaps of oranges and tangerines, tomatoes red as sunrise, bins of green beans, black-red cherries, peaches and strawberries in little wooden boxes. All these and more were being unloaded from the trucks that blocked the street. The noise was deafening – engines were roaring, crates and boxes clattering, people yelling. A good deal of argument seemed to be going on, most of it more or less good-natured bickering over the quality of the goods and the prices.
Our driver jumped down from the cab and came towards me, smiling pleasantly. He was young and rather good-looking, and he knew it; his shirt was open to the waist and a gold crucifix shone against his brown chest.
‘
‘
‘
Yes, indeed, where was he? I looked up. All I could see of John was a foot sticking out from among the cabbages. I shook it gently, out of deference for his status as wounded hero. I was worried about him. He had kept up the pace without complaint or visible faltering, but I meant to find a doctor for him first thing.
‘John, wake up. We’re here.’
The driver lowered the tailgate and began unloading, assisted by his sober-faced companion. The proprietress of the nearest stall, a short, fat woman with three gold teeth, came stumping over, ostensibly to ask the price of the carrots. She let out a howl of pretended outrage when my friend told her how much he was asking. I could see that her eyes were on me, though, and after the first feint she gave up all pretence of being interested in anything else.
‘Who’s this?’ she demanded, jerking a calloused thumb at me. ‘Another of the foreign tarts you pick up, Battista?’
Battista, who knew I spoke Italian, made deprecatory noises. I smiled sweetly at the old busybody and handed her the sack of carrots.
‘They are very cheap, signora, good, sweet carrots. A bargain. My friend is there in the truck. He fell and hurt himself yesterday, when we were hiking in the hills. Signor Battista was kind enough to give us a ride.’
I thought I had better mention that John was hurt in case he had passed out again. It was just as well I had done so. He came crawling out from among the cabbages and he looked awful. He must have scraped the scab off the cut on his head, because there was blood running down his cheek.
The old lady gave a cry of distress and sympathy. Women of all ages and all nationalities are suckers for a boyish face and a little blood.
‘Ah,
Squatting on the tailgate, John gave her a long look out of his melting baby-blue eyes, and smiled wanly.
‘I fell, signora. Thank you . . . you are very kind . . .’
She put out a plump arm to steady him as he slid down. He had gone a sickly grey under his tan, and he looked as if he would have fallen but for her support. If it had been anybody but John, I would have melted with sympathy too. Seeing as it was John, I reserved judgment.
‘I will take him to a doctor,’ I said.
‘No, I’m all right. Just need to rest awhile.’
‘Where?’ I demanded. ‘We can’t go to a hotel looking the way we do. Especially when we haven’t any money.’
The old lady must have picked up some English from the tourists.
‘My daughter has rooms for rent,’ she said. ‘Just around the corner is her apartment.’
She didn’t finish the offer; it was clear from her expression that her native caution was at war with her maternal instinct.
John looked like Saint Sebastian minus the arrows – all noble suffering.
‘We have money, signora,’ he murmured. ‘Not much, but we could not accept charity. Take this, please – I think I can walk a little . . .’
He held out a handful of crumpled hundred-lira notes.
Everything I owned was in my purse and my suitcases back at the villa. Fool that I was, I had forgotten men carry their junk in their pockets. Not that I had planned to go to a hotel anyway. I intended to head straight for the police station. When I had mentioned this during our wanderings the night before, John had not been overly enthusiastic, but he hadn’t objected. Now I began to suspect he had something else in mind.
There was nothing I could do about it. We had attracted quite a crowd by this time. Romans are cynical, big-city types, but in any city – yes, even in New York – you will collect a certain number of willing helpers if you are young and beautiful and in trouble. Helpful arms gathered John up and propelled his tottering footsteps in the direction the old lady had indicated. I could only trail along, thinking nasty suspicious thoughts.
The apartment was old and poorly furnished, but it was reasonably clean. The room had an iron bed, a pine dresser, two straight chairs, a washbasin, and a picture of Saint Catherine accepting a ring from the baby Jesus. Once again I mentioned a doctor, and was shouted down by my assistants, who now felt that we were all one big happy, family. They wouldn’t call the doctor until the patient was just about ready for the last rites. A little wine, a little soup, a little pasta, and the poor young man would be just fine. The bump on the head had hurt him, but there was nothing serious wrong. A little wine, a little soup, a little pasta . . .
Finally I got rid of them and closed the door. Then I turned on John, who was lying on the bed staring blandly at the cracked ceiling.
‘I’ll send a doctor,’ I said. ‘On my way to the prefecture.’
‘Wait.’ He sat up with an alacrity that confirmed my worst suspicions, and caught at my arm. ‘Let’s discuss this first.’
‘There is nothing to discuss. I told you what I meant to do. The longer we wait, the more opportunity Pietro will have to clear out that workshop.’
‘Sit down.’ He gave my arm a shrewd twist. I sat down.
‘Did I hurt you?’
‘Didn’t you mean to?’
‘No. I’m sorry. But you are so damned impetuous . . .’ He swung his legs off the bed, so that we were sitting side by side. The sudden movement made him go a shade greyer. He might have been putting on some of his weakness, but not all of it was pretence.
‘Are you really going to turn me in?’ he asked, with a faint sideways smile. ‘After all we’ve been through
