Street of the Five Moons

They sell all sorts of drugs in Italy that you would need a prescription for back in the States. I told the clerk my boyfriend had fallen off his bike and hurt himself. He was very sympathetic.

I half expected John would be gone when I returned, but he was flat on his back, sleeping heavily. My first aid woke him with a vengeance. The bullet wound looked nasty in the bright light of day. He played the tight-lipped hero, stifling his groans, until I finished the bandaging and took out the hypodermic needle.

‘Oh, no,’ he said energetically. ‘Where the hell did you get that?’

‘They sell them over the counter,’ I explained, squinting professionally at the tip of the needle. ‘Roll over.’

‘Not on your life.’

‘I didn’t think you were so modest.’

‘Modest, hell. If you think I’m going to let an amateur jab that thing into my defenceless backside – ’

‘Look, you’ve probably got enough germs in your bloodstream to kill a whole village. You don’t want to get sick while you’re on the run, do you?’

John stuck out his lower lip and pressed his body firmly into the mattress.

‘Come on, don’t be such a baby. I know how to do it. The clerk at the farmacia showed me. It’s easy.’ I could see that my rational arguments weren’t having any effect, so I tried threats. ‘If you don’t, I am going straight out of here to the police.’

If I do say so, I made quite a neat job of it. But he carried on more about the needle than he had about being shot.

‘There, now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?’ I said soothingly.

‘I think I would prefer gangrene.’

‘Don’t be silly. There are some pills, too. You’re supposed to take one every four hours.’

With a martyred groan, John hoisted himself up off the bed.

‘It’s late. We had better get moving.’

We went to the bank first. I waited outside till John came out with a thick manila envelope.

‘You got the papers?’

‘Yes. Here you are. And I got some money.’

‘Give me some.’

‘The age-old feminine cry,’ John said disagreeably. ‘What do you need money for?’

‘Clothes. I had three propositions while I was standing here. This skirt is too tight.’

‘Too tight for what? All right, perhaps that’s a good idea. The honest householder whose clothesline we robbed may have reported his loss. Get something inconspicuous, please. And a hat. All that blonde hair is horribly noticeable.’

‘What about yours?’ We retreated into a corner behind one of the marble pillars of the bank. John peeled off some bills from a roll the size of a loaf of bread, and handed them to me.

‘I’ll buy a hat too. Or perhaps a cassock. How do you think I would look as a Franciscan friar?’

‘Unconvincing.’

John glanced at his wristwatch. It must have been a good one, because it had survived water, shock, and other destructive activities.

‘I’ll meet you in an hour by the Ponte Milvio, this side of the river. Then we’ll go have a spot of lunch.’

‘Good idea,’ I said gratefully.

‘I am not thinking of your appetite, my dear. Haven’t you put on a few pounds since I met you? I told you Pietro’s cuisine would be disastrous for your figure . . . My little place is in Trastevere, and there is a very inquisitive portiere on duty. He takes a nap after lunch, like all good Italians, so we can probably sneak in without being seen if we wait until then.’

Under most circumstances I would have hooted with laughter at the idea of taking only an hour to buy a whole new outfit. That morning I did it in fifteen minutes – a green cotton skirt, a white blouse, a scarf to tie over my hair, and a handbag large enough to hold John’s papers. The salesgirl gave me a paper bag for my old clothes, and I dropped them into the first rubbish bin, reminding myself that I owed a family in Tivoli a couple of new outfits as soon as I got the rest of my affairs straightened out.

I walked along the river towards the Ponte Milvio. The view was dazzling. I wondered how it could look so bright and picture-postcard pretty when I was so nervous. I was beginning to hate the dome of St Peter’s, hung up there in the sky like a swollen blimp. Upriver, the faded brownish-red cylinder of the Castel San Angelo no longer looked quaint and medieval; it reminded me of its original function – a tomb.

Now that I had time to think, away from the distracting influence of John’s silver tongue, the stupidity of what I was doing overwhelmed me. I should have gone straight to the police. At least I would feel safe in a nice dirty cell. However, I was not looking forward to talking to the cops. They would think I was nuts. I was accusing one of Rome’s most respected citizens of grand larceny; and although the papers John had given me were evidence of a sort, they would not appear convincing until the rest of the story I had to tell was accepted. And to explain how I had obtained possession of them, I would have to admit that I had let one of the gang make his escape. The more I thought about it, the more depressed I got.

When I reached the bridge I propped myself against the parapet, turned my back on St Peter’s, and tried to think what I ought to do. No, that isn’t accurate. I knew what I ought to do. I ought to go to the telegraph- telephone office and place a call to Munich. Schmidt would believe my wild story; he would believe anything I told him, bless his heart. If the Munich police contacted their counterparts in Rome, I would be received as a young woman of some professional standing, instead of having to talk my way through fourteen layers of bureaucratic disbelief. Yes, that was the sensible thing to do. So why didn’t I do it?

I didn’t recognize John at first. He was wearing a hideous print sport shirt and pants that bagged around his ankles, and his nose was buried in a guidebook. The guidebook was in German, and John was the very picture of an earnest student – thick glasses, a blank, solemn expression – except for his hat. It was a straw hat, the kind Sicilian farmers put on their mules, with holes cut in the crown for the ears. He stood next to me, peering nearsightedly at the guidebook.

‘If that is your idea of inconspicuous attire,’ I began.

‘Let us eschew sarcasm for the rest of the day, shall we?’ John shifted his shoulders uneasily. ‘I’m suffering from premonitions.’

‘What happened?’

‘Nothing. I don’t know why I’m so edgy. I have a delicate, sensitive nature, and this sort of thing is not good for me.’

‘Let’s go eat.’

‘All right.’ He closed the book and squinted at me through his glasses. ‘Fraulein, du hist sehr schon. Hast du auch Freundschaft fur eine arme Studenten?’

I took the arm he extended.

‘I don’t know which is more deplorable, your German or your technique.’

‘I do better in English.’

‘I’ve noticed that.’

Trastevere is a favourite tourist area. There are a lot of charming little trattorias and restaurants, most of them overpriced and crowded. I get hungry when I’m nervous, and I was very nervous, so I ate tagliatelli alia bolognese, and cotoletta alia milanese, and something alia romana, and a few other odds and ends, while John sat there poking at his food with his fork.

‘You had better eat,’ I said, through a mouthful of insalata verde. ‘Keep your strength up. Do you feel all right?’

‘No, I do not. Spare me the motherly concern, will you?’

We had had to wait for a table. By the time we finished eating, it was late enough to go to John’s apartment. It was on one of those quaint little side streets in Trastevere, with a fountain on the corner and a wall shrine just above. The garish statue of the Madonna had flowers at her feet. The entrance to the apartment was marked by an iron grille that opened into a courtyard. There weren’t many people on the street. It was siesta time, and the shops were closed.

The courtyard was empty except for a fat black cat sleeping in a patch of sunlight. On the left of the gateway